Heartless(89)

Catherine squeezed the arm of her seat, her body still rotated to face Jest. Mary Ann watched from the corner, pretending to be invisible. “To be honest, it wasn’t my favorite of the letters you sent. After all, I’m a lady, not a dessert.”

Jest’s cheek twitched. Cath didn’t bother to look at the King.

“In fact,” she continued, “poetry and gifts may have their place, but I find I’m more keen on those acts of courtship that retain an element of foolishness, and hint at impossibilities.”

A silence descended over their private booth. Jest’s lips thinned. He stared back at her and squeezed his scepter. His eyes filled with quiet despair.

She’d said too much, and even if she’d said nothing at all, surely the truth of her emotions was scrawled across her face.

“My sweet,” the King whispered. She grimaced and braced herself for what must be the end of this night, this nonexistent romance. She dared to face him, ready to accept his decision to call off their courtship. But she did not see a crushed spirit or annoyance or even confusion. She saw only joy in the King’s eyes.

He took her hand. She jumped, her back stiffening.

“I feel the same way,” he said, and looked as if he would cry. Her hand was a limp fish in his grip, but he held it like a precious gem.

“Er—Your Majesty—”

Behind them, Jest yanked off his jester’s cap. The bells jingled. “I realize I haven’t yet offered my congratulations on your engagement,” he said, bowing. “You seem a most perfect match, and I wish you both the joy of a most contented heart.”

Catherine tried to shake her head, her emotions in tatters.

The chandeliers dimmed and Jest settled his hat back on his head. “Enjoy the show. Your Majesty. Lady Pinkerton.” He turned to the back row. “Miss Mary Ann.”

Cath squeezed the arm of her chair and tried to convey to him how much she wanted him to stay, how she would give anything to be at his side, not the King’s.

Jest tore his gaze away and swept from the theater box, Raven still perched on his scepter.

Miserable, she turned back to face the stage. Her hand was cold, but the King’s was hot and damp. He didn’t let go. She could catch glimpses of his pleased mug in the corner of her vision.

The curtain began to rise. An orchestra blared and the first act tumbled out onto the stage. The audience cheered, the King loudest of all.





CHAPTER 33

CATHERINE WAS WEARY, in her head, in her limbs, down to the toes pinched inside her finest boots. Her head was full of fantasies of going home and crawling beneath her covers and not coming out again until she’d achieved the longest sleep of her life. The wish was so powerful she wanted to weep from longing.

She could tell the performance was commendable, judging by the frequent gasps and cheers from the audience, but she could barely keep her stinging eyes open enough to enjoy the show, and the storyline muddled in her head by the second scene.

It was only when a fool appeared on the stage that she willed herself to pay attention. But it wasn’t Jest, only an actor, done up in familiar black motley, doing cartwheels across the stage and spouting bawdy jokes that left the audience in hysterics. He poked fun of the King, he peeked up the skirts of the passing actresses, he wagged his hat until the jingle of the bells was all Cath could hear inside her head.

As the crowd broke into another bout of laughter, Cath launched to her feet. “I need to use the powder room.”

The King took no notice as she inched past, too enthralled with the fake joker, but Mary Ann started to rise to come with her. Cath gestured for her to stay. “I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

The stairs into the lobby echoed with her footsteps as she rushed down to the main level, gripping the banister to keep from tripping on her skirt. Only once her feet had hit the final step and she’d spun around the rail did she hear Jest’s rumbling voice—followed by the higher-pitched, snooty tone of Margaret Mearle.

Catherine reeled back, ducking behind a pillar.

“—about as pigheaded as they come!” Margaret was saying.

“An apt description,” agreed Jest, though he sounded tired, “but stubbornness is not always a flaw, particularly in matters of love.”

Margaret guffawed. “Love?”

“Indeed, love, or so it seems from my perspective. You ought to see how his eyes follow you around a room. Small and beady they might be, but they overflow with affection, nevertheless.” Jest cleared his throat. “The moral of that, of course, is that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’”

“I’ve never heard such a moral, and as I’m sure you’re well aware, I am most knowledgeable in the matter of morals.”

“I think I read it in a book.”

“Well.” There was a long hesitation. “It is a decent sort of moral, I suppose.”

“There was another too. Something about the depth of skin … not as apropos, I fear.”

“He is both thick-skinned and thick-headed.”

“Two of the Duke’s finer qualities. I might also add that he’s an impeccable dresser.”

Margaret hummed, unconvinced.

“And brave,” Jest added, “as showcased when he stood between you and the Jabberwock at the ball. And also loyal and compassionate, even to his servants—I hear he refuses to let go of his cook, though I’m told she’s quite dreadful.”