Forced to Marry My Enemy: Now He Won't Leave My Bed

Lady Viola Fairchild had been accused of many things in King Rowan's palace, most of them accurately. She had climbed the west tower in evening slippers, released three kitchen boys from a locked pantry, and once interrupted a duchess's musical recital to announce that the accompanist's sleeve was on fire. She had never written a love letter to Lord Elias Hawke. Especially not one containing the sentence, I ache to be conquered by your merciless hands. Viola slipped behind a painted screen in the Hall of Moons and nearly trod on the train of her borrowed maid's dress. Beyond the silk panels, two hundred guests moved through King Rowan's winter masquerade under chandeliers bright enough to expose a lie at fifty paces. Masks hid cheekbones, not identities. A fox mask could not disguise Lord Pembroke's limp, and no amount of peacock feathers could make Lady Dorring's laugh belong to anyone else. The woman Viola followed wore a silver moth over her face and carried a fan painted with blue poppies. At noon, a flower girl had delivered the forged letter to Fairford House. At four, Viola had found blue paint beneath the girl's thumbnail and learned where she had bought it. At seven, a seller outside the palace had remembered supplying an identical fan to a lady whose maid wore the green-and-cream livery of the Rose & Ribbon Society. By eight, Viola had stolen a servant's dress from her best friend's wardrobe and entered the palace through the musicians' gate. Her father would have called that sequence reckless. Viola preferred efficient. The silver moth paused on the far side of the screen. “He has the original,” a woman whispered. “Then take it before he gives it to the king.” A man's reply came through the silk, low and impatient. “Hawke cannot be allowed to trace the paper.” Viola leaned closer. The painted screen showed moonlit shepherdesses who possessed far more sense than to press an ear against a panel balanced on narrow brass feet. “And the Fairchild girl?” “By tomorrow, everyone in Bellhaven will believe she begged the Crown's Hound to marry her.” Viola's fingers tightened around her tray. People already believed she was shameless. She had spent years enjoying the freedom of disappointing them. This was different. Somebody had taken her name, dressed it in purple prose, and offered it to the one man who would treasure her humiliation for the rest of his unnaturally disciplined life. The silver moth moved away. Viola rounded the screen too quickly and struck a wall of black wool and warm muscle. A hand closed around her waist before the tray hit the floor. Her other palm landed against a man's chest, directly over the silver chain of the Royal Court of Justice. She knew the coat before she raised her eyes. Elias Hawke owned six black coats, all cut with sufficient severity to make lesser men confess at the sight of a button. His mask covered only the upper half of his face. It did nothing to soften the straight nose, unsmiling mouth, or the small scar near his chin that Viola had given him with a wooden sword when they were thirteen. “Lady Viola,” he said. She kept her voice low. “You have mistaken me for a servant.” His gaze dropped to the Fairchild ruby hanging at her throat. Viola tucked it into her bodice. “A very well-paid servant.” “With terrible judgment.” “You recognized me by my judgment?” “By the fact that trouble entered the palace wearing your perfume.” The insulting part was that she had changed perfume six months ago. Elias had noticed. His hand remained at her waist. Even through the plain gray dress, Viola felt the spread of his fingers and the heat of his palm. Elias touched people only when arresting them, preventing injury, or being forced into a country dance by the queen. Viola had witnessed all three. None explained the pressure of his thumb against her side. “You may release me,” she said. “You may explain why you are dressed as palace staff.” “I asked first.” “No, you issued an instruction.” “And you ignored it. This must be why criminals find you so exhausting.” His attention shifted past her shoulder. Viola followed it and caught a flash of silver disappearing through the musicians' passage. “Move,” she said. Elias did not. “Who are you following?” “A woman who wrote you a love letter.” His mouth altered at one corner. Anyone who had not spent ten years provoking him would have missed it. “Jealous?” he asked. Viola drove her heel down toward his polished boot. He moved in time, because he always moved in time, and caught her wrist when she tried to pass. “The letter was signed with my name.” The amusement left his face. “How do you know about it?” “Because a copy was delivered to my father.” “You were supposed to remain at Fairford House.” “Yes, I often find that instructions improve when ignored.” “The original is evidence in a royal investigation.” “The original is my reputation in somebody else's pocket.” “Which is why I intend to find the person responsible.” “At your usual speed? I should be married with six children before you finish interviewing the paper merchant.” Elias's fingers tightened once around her wrist. “No.” The word came too quickly. Viola looked at him. “No children?” “No marriage.” “How reassuring. For a moment I feared the letter had awakened a secret hope.” “The letter compared my hands to the chains of sweet captivity.” “Clearly written by someone who has never seen you fill out an arrest order.” Voices approached from the hall. Elias pulled Viola behind the screen, into a space intended for one discreet musician or two very thin adulterers. Her back met the silk panel. His body blocked the opening. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Preventing the king from seeing you dressed as a servant.” “He has seen me dressed as a shepherd boy.” “His Majesty spent a month believing that was a fever dream.” The king's voice came from the other side. “Hawke?” Elias's eyes closed briefly. Viola smiled. “Your king calls.” “And you are standing on my foot.” She shifted her weight without improving matters. The screen pressed cold against her shoulders; Elias was warm everywhere he touched her. His breath stirred the loose curl beside her temple. For a man who made restraint look effortless, he had become remarkably careful about where he placed his hands. King Rowan spoke again, nearer. “If you are strangling Lady Viola behind that screen, do bring her out. Her father has been asking whether anyone has seen her.” Viola mouthed, Fever dream? Elias gave her a look that promised consequences and stepped away. The screen's brass foot caught beneath Viola's borrowed skirt. Silk billowed. Wood cracked. Elias lunged for the frame while Viola reached for the side table. The table rolled. The screen tipped toward the hall. Elias caught Viola instead. They went down together in a collapse of painted moonlight. The music stopped. Viola found herself sprawled across Elias on the polished floor, one knee trapped between his thighs. His arm circled her waist. Her bodice had shifted just enough to make the king raise one eyebrow and her father turn the color of old wine. A folded page floated from inside Elias's coat and landed beside Viola's hand. King Rowan bent and picked it up. “Your Majesty,” Elias said, still beneath her, “that document is part of an inquiry.” “So I gathered.” The king opened it. His brows climbed higher as he read. “Merciless hands, Hawke?” Laughter broke through the court before being strangled into coughs. Viola pushed herself upright. Elias's hand slid from her waist slowly enough to be noticeable. She wished it had not been. Her father crossed the floor. “Viola, tell His Majesty that this is a malicious forgery.” “It is a malicious forgery.” She rose and faced the room. “If I intended to seduce Lord Hawke, I would never compare his eyes to winter stars. They are much closer to rainwater in a prison bucket.” The court laughed properly this time. Elias stood beside her, brushed dust from his sleeve, and said, “Her metaphors are usually more violent.” “You see?” Viola told the king. “He knows my work.” King Rowan studied them over the letter. His amusement remained, but his attention had sharpened. “The signature appears convincing.” “Someone copied it,” Viola said. “The paper came from a press closed by royal order,” Elias added. “Whoever arranged this expected the letter to create more than gossip.” “It has already created an audience.” The king glanced around the hall. Fans had stopped moving. Masks had turned toward them. By dawn, every drawing room in Bellhaven would have a different account of what had happened behind the screen. Lord Wycliffe stood near the throne, silver-haired and grave. “A public denial may quiet the worst speculation, Your Majesty.” “For perhaps an hour,” King Rowan said. “Lady Viola has been discovered on top of Lord Hawke while a declaration of passion fell from his coat. Bellhaven will not surrender such a feast because I ask politely.” Viola opened her mouth. The king lifted one finger. “I have a more durable solution.” Elias stepped forward. “Your Majesty—” “You will marry.” The words carried to the gallery. Viola stared at the king. Her father made a sound that might have been relief or the beginning of a seizure. “Whom?” Viola asked. King Rowan looked delighted. “Each other, Lady Viola. Do try to keep pace.” Elias's composure suffered its first visible fracture. “Your Majesty, neither house has requested this alliance.” “Then both houses may thank me for saving them the effort.” “I object,” Viola said. “So do I,” Elias said at the same moment. They turned on each other. “You object?” Viola demanded. “Naturally.” “You might attempt to sound less relieved.” “You might attempt silence.” “Enough,” the king said, though he was plainly enjoying himself. “The wedding will take place in twelve days. Until then, Lord Hawke will continue investigating the forgery, and Lady Viola will refrain from entering my palace in stolen clothing.” “Borrowed,” Viola corrected. King Rowan handed the letter to Elias. “Twelve days.” Elias took the page. Their fingers did not touch. Viola looked from his severe profile to the delighted court, then to the torn screen at their feet. Somebody had wanted to stain her name and distract the Crown's Hound. Instead, that person had chained her to him. Across the ballroom, a silver moth mask vanished through the eastern doors. Viola caught Elias by the sleeve. “There.” He followed her gaze, but the doors had already closed. “Did you see the face?” he asked. “No.” Viola released him. “But I heard enough to know our future happiness was not the plan.” Elias folded the forged letter and returned it to his coat. “For once, we agree.” A palace messenger hurried toward them carrying a velvet box. Inside lay two matching betrothal rings bearing the royal crest. Viola looked at the rings, then at the man she had spent half her life trying to defeat. “Twelve days,” she said. Elias took one ring and held it out to her. “Try not to destroy the kingdom before then.” She offered him her left hand. “Try not to bore me into fleeing it.” His fingers were steady as he slid the ring onto hers. His thumb passed once over her knuckle, a small motion hidden from the court. Viola felt it all the way to her wrist. Then Elias bent close enough that only she could hear him. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “you are going to tell me exactly how you found that woman.” Viola smiled for the watching court. “Tomorrow morning, my lord, you are going to learn how marriage works.”