Still Star-Crossed (12 page)

“I’ve done as you have asked. She’ll come tonight.”

Escalus smiled. “Good. A thousand thanks for persuading her, Isabella.”

His sister threw him an irritated glance as she shook out the rough peasant cloak she’d reappeared in. Clods of dried
mud from the hem littered the floor of his study. Penlet would not be best pleased with him. Which, he suspected, was why she’d done it. Isabella was not best pleased herself. “She required little persuasion, once I granted her a small boon.”

“What boon was that?”

“None of your affair. She asked me not to tell you.” Isabella stared at him, hands on hips. “Just as you ordered me not to tell
her
that you’d sent me there. What is afoot, Escalus? Rosaline is frightened, properly frightened, and it seems to have something to do with you.”

“I answer not to you, foreign princess. My subjects are mine own affair.”

“Oh, that way goes the game, does it? Thou hast grown hard, brother. Rosaline adores thee, thou knowest. I used to hope—” She shook her head.

“Hope what?”

His sister shook her head again. “ ’Tis nothing.”

“Nay, speak. You’ve my leave to speak your mind.”

“Oh, have I?” She gave him a mocking curtsy. “Your lordship is all kindness to this poor foreign princess.”

“Isabella, please. I’ve much to do, so if you’ve something to say about the Capulet maid, pray do so.”

The look she gave him reminded him of their mother when he’d failed once again to use the correct fork at dinner. “Escalus! Have you truly never noticed how much that ‘Capulet maid’ occupies your thoughts?”

“What? I’ve scarce spoken to her since we were children.”

“And yet every letter you have ever sent me since mentions
her name.
‘I hear your young friend Rosaline has gone to live with the Duchess of Vitruvio.’ ‘They tell me your young friend Rosaline has several suitors, though she is betrothed to none.’ ‘Your young friend Rosaline was at the feast last night, and she looked very well.’
”

She was making him uneasy. He felt exposed, as though she’d caught him in a lie. “I never even spoke to her at that feast.”

“Which makes it all the more remarkable that your eyes, it seems, never left her.”

“You speak nonsense,” he said, and even to himself he sounded stiff, pompous, their father come to life again. “I wished merely to give you some news of those you’d left behind. Such I deemed my duty.”

“Duty? Is that all?”

“Of course. She’s but a lowly member of her family. I could have no other reason to notice her. She had no way to be of service to the Crown.”

“Then why do you notice her now? What service is she to do?”

He said nothing.

“Oh, Escalus.” Isabella sighed. “Just promise me thou wilt not hurt her.”

Escalus steepled his hands in front of his face, looking daggers at his sister over his fingertips.

She held up her hands. “I am sorry. Of course you’d never harm our oldest friend.”

Escalus swallowed. “Go and dress for the ball.”

Isabella nodded and took her leave before she could force him to make a promise he already knew he would not keep.

The palace walls pressed in on Rosaline.

Her heart raced as she waited outside the great hall. Her palms were sweating. She resisted the urge to wipe them on her red silk dress. It was far too plain for this season’s fashion; no need to stain it too.

Behind her, she could hear whispers and giggles from the other ladies in the receiving line. She was sure their titterings were aimed at her—Verona society did not know the truth behind her would-be betrothal, but their nose for gossip was keen enough to be sure
something
was behind the eldest Tirimo’s becoming a recluse. She stood straight and tall, Livia at her side, refusing to turn around and look. Instead she stared straight ahead at the immense oak doors that would bring her into the prince’s feast.

She had spent the morning packing. Not everything—she did not want to cause enough of a commotion to draw the attention of her great-aunt’s household—but just enough for her and Livia to make a new start. She would wait to tell Livia of her plan until after the ball, since her sister could not keep a secret. Luckily, Livia had been gone most of the day. Apparently, she really had gone to House Capulet to tend to their aunt. Why Livia would do such a thing Rosaline was not sure, but since it kept her out from underfoot, Rosaline chose
not to question it. And now all was in readiness. This would be their last glimpse of Verona society. The prince would not dare to make marriage demands of her before all Verona. And if Isabella had kept her word and not mentioned Rosaline’s plans to her brother, these candlelit hours would be the last she’d ever see of him. She was already free.

So why did the back of her neck still prickle with unease?

Beside her, Livia preened, oblivious to her distress. The duchess was waiting just in front of them, and turned to give them a glance.

“Hmph,” she said, before sweeping through the doors, which Rosaline took to be a grudging approval that her nieces’ appearance would not disgrace her. For the thousandth time Rosaline reluctantly blessed the absent tenant who so generously rented their house. His steward had just sent a pouch of gold for another year, so in a rare fit of extravagance, Rosaline had had a new dress made for Livia, and her sister was in heaven. The delicate blue and cream concoction was the latest fashion, from the embroidered collar to the beaded hem, and Livia looked like an angel in it. An effect that was rather spoiled once she opened her mouth.

“Look at Lady Millamet,” she whispered in Rosaline’s ear. “See how she stares daggers at me? Well, ’tis not my fault our dresses are the same color. Perhaps I shall push her into a wine barrel. Then we will have quite different hues.”

Rosaline smothered a smile. The ball had thrown Livia into a frenzy of excitement. Attending was worth it if only to see her sister so happy. “Lady Millamet is unlikely to fit in a wine barrel,” she whispered to Livia.

“True,” Livia reflected. “She is quite fat. Oh! It’s us.”

As they reached the doors, Rosaline took a deep breath. Too late to turn back now.

The Great Hall was a blaze of light. Every lamp was lit; every chandelier glowing. Livia and Rosaline were two of the last to arrive, and as the butler’s voice boomed, “Lady Rosaline of House Tirimo and her sister, Livia,” it seemed to Rosaline that the face of every noble in Verona was turned toward them. To her right, Rosaline saw her uncle Capulet give her a scowl and a “Hmph” as she passed by. A cluster of Montagues stood near the prince’s throne, Benvolio among them. Rosaline found her eyes locked on his cool dark ones as she wondered what he thought of her now. Was he relieved that she’d managed to break off their disastrous match? Or had her antics merely humiliated him?

A subtle tug at her elbow from Livia brought her attention back where it belonged. As they reached the end of the long red carpet, they came before the prince and his sister, enthroned side by side. Princess Isabella’s polite smile became warmer as Livia and Rosaline sank into deep curtsies before them. The prince looked on coolly. But as Rosaline rose to her feet, he too allowed them a smile. “Welcome, ladies,” he said. “We cannot tell you the joy we feel to have you in our house.”

Rosaline released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Perhaps this evening really would be all right.

Tomorrow it would be three weeks since Romeo’s and Juliet’s deaths. Tonight was the first major social event since the summer tragedies, and the relief of the city’s nobles at a
chance to take off their mourning clothes and be merry again was palpable. The evening soon dissolved into a whirl of dancing, wine, and gossip. Rosaline tried to stay clear of the latter, as she was sure she was the subject of much of it (she half overheard Lady Millamet whisper something nasty). She had no interest in satisfying Verona’s curiosity about the goings-on at House Tirimo.

Instead, she danced until she was out of breath, drank chilled white wine, stole a few minutes to speak with Isabella of their plans for the morning, and kept an eye on Livia—although, in fact, Livia seemed to be behaving herself. Normally she was a scandalous flirt, but tonight, though Rosaline watched her laugh and tease a succession of boys, she was no worse than the other young ladies. It seemed her heart was not in it. Odd.

So distracted was she by Livia’s unheard-of decorum that she failed to notice that Orlino was drawing near to her side until the steps of the dance had landed her in his clutches. She tried not to wince as the young Montague’s fingers dug into the fabric at her waist. His handsome face was still marred with an angry red cut.

“Good e’en,” Rosaline said coolly. “Your face is healing, I see.”

He smirked. “Ah yes. Your champion’s handiwork.” He leaned closer, his hot hideous breath brushing her face. “How did you repay him for his service after he left? I can think of but one way a Capulet wanton could turn a brave man of Montague against his own kin. Didst thou thank him upon thy knees atop his cousin’s grave?”

Rosaline gasped and tried to pull away, but his painful grip on her stayed firm as he whirled her about the dance floor. “Orlino, only you would think that bare courtesy needs to be bought so dear,” she hissed. “Now, let me go.”

“Ah, but the eyes of every Montague and Capulet are on us, dear kinswoman,” he said. “We must finish our dance so the world may see what a happy family we are now.” His fingernails, she was sure, were about to break the skin of her hand. But ’twas true, she could feel the hard stares from her cousins and his. She would simply have to wait till the dance was over to escape him. No matter what poison he poured in her ear.

“May I?”

Orlino stopped. In their path stood Benvolio.

“My apologies, dearest cousin,” he said to Orlino, loudly enough for the crowd to hear. “My friend Rosaline promised me a dance. I am sure you will not mind if I collect it now.” He extended a hand, and Rosaline, after extracting her fingers from Orlino’s talons, took it. “Thank you, lady. Orlino, our uncle Montague would speak with you.” He gestured with his head to where Lord Montague waited, arms crossed. Before Orlino could respond, Benvolio had swept her away in his arms.

Rosaline felt the tension at her neck ease slightly. Benvolio was a much better dancer than his cousin, his hand feather-light at her waist as he guided her gently through the steps. Of course, anyone who did not view dance as a sort of weapon would be better than Orlino.

“It seems I’ve rescued you again, lady,” he said, his dark
eyes locked on hers. Orlino’s cruelty might be absent from Benvolio’s face, but there was no kindness there either.

Rosaline gave him a mocking smile. “And for that you’ve my gratitude, as usual, my lord,” she said. “Of course, I’ve rescued you as well. Am I not owed thanks?”

His eyes narrowed. “Rescued me? From what?”

She raised an eyebrow.

Understanding appeared in his face. “You mean—” He leaned in closer so he could speak in her ear, below the hearing of the crowd. “You mean our betrothal?”

“Our attempted betrothal. The prince shall trouble us no more.”

He chuckled softly near her ear. “If you’ve managed to save me from the terrible spectre of yourself, you’ve my gratitude indeed, lady.” Rosaline resisted the unholy urge to tread on his foot. “Indeed, not having to marry you would be the greatest boon anyone has ever done me—”

To hell with resistance. She gave him a healthy stamp. He jumped. “But art thou so sure of your triumph, Rosaline?”

She pulled back to frown at him. “What do you mean? I’m here, am I not? Think you that I would show my face without my house were there any chance of this forced union going forward?”

“I am quite prepared to believe that a lady as curst as thee would happily stay within her walls until she died a withered crone. I meant merely that if you think our prince so easily defeated, you have underestimated him.”

The dance came to an end and Benvolio pulled away to
bow to her. As he did so, there came an attention-seeking little cough next to them.

“Pardon, Signor Benvolio,” Chancellor Penlet said. “Lady, the prince would speak to you.”

“Of course.” Benvolio lifted her hand to kiss it in farewell, and gave her an
I told you so
look over her knuckles.

Churl
. Rosaline retrieved her hand and followed Penlet across the hall to where the prince was surrounded by a knot of nobles and flatterers. When he spied her, he waved them off with a flip of his hand so she could make her way to his side. “Ah, Lady Rosaline,” he said. “Your beauty graces our house. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, my lady and I have matters to discuss.” With that, he took her arm and led her away.

A hush fell in their wake as the crowd saw the prince offer his arm to a shabby little half-Capulet. Rosaline’s nervousness grew as she realized he was drawing her not to some quiet corner of the ballroom, but out of the Great Hall altogether, toward his private study. “Your Grace?” she whispered. “Perhaps we ought not—”

Escalus merely drew her arm tighter around his. “Peace, Rosaline. We’ll not cause a scandal. I promise.”