Christian felt like he was just waking from a long sleep. Something strange was afoot, but no one would tell him what. Lady Margaret still snapped at everyone, but Marianne was in better spirits and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of her ball. Christian was quite pleased about this, and danced with her twice after Lady Ella left.
But Poppy and Roger were missing, and Marianne would only hint that they were “setting things to rights.” Christian just hoped that they weren’t planning on doing something to humiliate poor Lady Ella for copying Poppy’s and Marianne’s gowns. It was rude of her to do it, but she was a nice girl and he didn’t want to see her completely undone by her folly.
Especially if he was going to marry her.
The thought stopped him cold.
He was standing near the punch bowl, having a drink with Marianne and a few other friends, and he froze with his glass halfway to his lips. Now where had that sudden conviction come from? He didn’t want to get married!
But his head was suddenly filled with visions of Lady Ella meeting his parents, walking down the aisle of the family chapel in a white gown … He could picture it all: what he was wearing, what she was wearing, the music that was playing, his little sisters as bridesmaids. What a queer thing!
“Are you all right?” Dickon Thwaite nudged his arm, and Christian slopped punch over his wrist. “Oops, sorry!” Dickon passed him his handkerchief.
“I just had a sudden … vision? Daydream?” Christian shook his head. He’d thought the muzziness was leaving him, but here it was back again!
“About whom?” Dickon waggled his eyebrows. “Lady Ella? Of course it was, you sly dog!” He lowered his voice. “And don’t think we aren’t all having the same daydreams!”
Marianne was standing right next to Christian, talking to another young woman. But she turned at Dickon’s words, and Christian braced himself for her to start screaming at the younger Thwaite brother. She, and all the other ladies except Poppy, had been quite volatile about any mention of Lady Ella.
To his horror, however, Marianne’s eyes simply filled with tears. “I despise you,” she whispered, and ran off.
Christian looked at Dickon with wide eyes, but the other young man merely shrugged. “Can’t stand a bit of competition,” he said breezily, and poured himself more punch.
“Dickon!” Christian put his own glass down. “You and Marianne … I thought… everyone thinks …” He found himself struggling to speak past his astonishment. “You were all but betrothed!”
“I? To Marianne? Of course not!” Dickon snorted. Then his genial brown eyes hardened. “Of course, if you would step aside and let a fellow have a chance with Lady Ella …”
“Hear, hear!” Another young man stepped up, looking angrily at Christian. “Just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean you get to steal the prettiest lady in Breton!”
“Exactly.” Dickon had put down his glass now, and his fists were clenched.
Christian opened his mouth to ask what on earth had come over the normally light-minded Dickon. Or even perhaps to say diplomatically that there were many pretty Bretoner ladies, which was certainly the truth. But instead he said, “Lady Ella is going to be my wife, and the future queen of the Danelaw!”
He wasn’t sure who was more shocked by this statement: himself or his listeners. Dickon’s fist connecting with his jaw was almost less of a surprise than his own words.
Christian reeled back, his own fists rising instinctively, and it looked as if the other youth were about to join the fray as well. But there was a rustling of silk and a female voice rose in some foreign oath.
“Stop this at once!” Poppy stepped between Christian and the other two young men. “Or I’ll have you dunked into a horse trough to cool off—all three of you!”
Christian put his hand to his jaw, feeling it gingerly. He would have a bruise there, he knew, but didn’t think it would be too swollen. He gave Dickon a rueful look, hoping to at least share their humiliation, but Dickon was still looking at him with hate-filled eyes.
“Dickon Thwaite,” Poppy said in a low, dangerous voice. “You will go to Marianne this instant and tell her that she looked stunning, and wish her a happy birthday, and then you will take your leave. If you don’t, I will do something so horrible to you that I don’t even know the word for it in the Bretoner language.”
Dickon blanched and headed for the entrance hall. Poppy swept the room with her indignant gaze. The ball was over, the musicians packing up their instruments, and many of the guests had already left anyway. Under Poppy’s baleful eye, everyone cheerfully wished Marianne many happy returns, complimented her gown, and then left with as much haste as their dignity allowed.
Everyone except Christian.
“I think something … unnatural is going on,” he confided to Poppy as the last of the guests kissed Marianne’s hand and bowed to Lady Seadown.
“Of course it is,” Poppy said absently. She was already turning toward Lord Richard’s study. “But we’ll get it sorted out.”
“It has to do with Lady Ella, doesn’t it?”
She had taken several steps away, and so he raised his voice to ask. Marianne heard and just shook her head, still looking a bit tearful. Lady Margaret scowled and turned away.
“Yes,” Poppy said over her shoulder. “But really, it’s no good even telling you until it’s all over. Just make sure you keep the bracelet I gave you on all the time. It will protect you.” Her voice sounded oddly muffled.
“But do you have one for Lady Ella? I don’t want my future bride to be hurt!” Again, it was as though his mouth moved without his permission. A voice in the back of his head was screaming that this wasn’t right, but he couldn’t force himself to refute the statement.
Marianne gasped, and Poppy’s back stiffened. She moved her head so that she no longer looked over her shoulder at him, but straight ahead to the closed door of Lord Richard’s study.
“Lady Ella will be taken care of,” Poppy said calmly.
“Exactly as she deserves to be,” Marianne began with great vehemence. “The horrid little—”
But Poppy put out one hand and took hold of her friend’s arm. “Come along, Marianne. Good night, Christian.”
“But Poppy!” Christian took a step toward her. “If something’s going on, I want to help!”
“I don’t think you can,” Poppy said, so softly that he almost didn’t catch the words. “Good night.”