"Mother said he would be here by noon."
Rosamund whispered the words, then let out a dry, hollow scoff. She stood her ground. Fists clenched at her sides. Nails biting into her palms. She would not let him see her flinch.
Her gaze stayed fixed on his face. Too perfect, with its one missing eye. Like a crack in fine porcelain.
William stepped forward. He left his guards behind. His one good eye—bright, unnervingly blue—never left hers.
"Are you surprised to see me, my lady?" His voice was smooth. "I couldn't help myself. I had to see you… my woman."
He took her hand. His grip was firm, almost too tight. He bent and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The kiss lingered. Deliberate.
When he straightened, a smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned in, voice soft but sharp, breath warm against her ear.
"One eye," he murmured, "is a small price to pay. But I'll take everything from you. Every dream, every hope, every scrap of happiness. I'll leave you with nothing. That… is a promise."
Her stomach twisted. She did not pull away.
Instead, she rose onto her toes. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. A gesture that, to anyone watching, might have looked almost tender. She leaned close. Her whisper was icy and precise.
"You're talking," she murmured, "like a man who knows he's already lost."
She stepped back. Her smile was wide but brittle, like sunlight on thin ice. It did not reach her eyes. They stayed hard and cold.
"You'll never have me, William."
She turned sharply. The hem of her simple cotton dress swirled around her ankles. Her heart pounded, but she kept her head high. Her steps steady. She did not look back, not even when she heard Edith's quick, nervous footsteps hurrying after her.
"My lady—" Edith's voice was breathless, trembling. "Are you—"
"I'm fine." Rosamund's jaw was tight. Her hands shook. She did not stop walking.
---
Rosamund had made it only a few paces. Her back to William. Her heart still hammering.
A hand shot out and seized her wrist.
Her mother stepped from the archway's shadow. Her face was a mask of calm that did not reach her eyes. "That is enough," she said, low and strained. "You will turn around. You will speak to him. Properly."
"Mother, please—" Raw. Desperate.
Her mother's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Do not make this worse than it already is."
The last thin thread of composure snapped.
"I said NO."
The shout ripped through the hall. A maid by the far wall flinched. She dropped a silver tray with a jarring clatter.
Silence. Heavy and sudden.
Rosamund stood panting, chest aching. She saw the shock on her mother's face. Pale. Wide-eyed fear. Not of her daughter's anger, but for her daughter's future.
She yanked her arm back. The skin of her wrist was already reddening. Then she walked.
Her shoes slapped softly against stone. The only sound in the dead quiet.
Behind her, skirts rustled. Edith started to follow.
"Stay." The single word cracked like a whip. Rosamund did not turn.
Edith stopped as if she had walked into a wall.
---
Later. The glass house.
Sunlight fell through the panes in thick golden shafts. Dappling lemon leaves and flagstones. Rosamund sat on a wrought-iron bench. A book open in her lap. Her eyes tracked the lines, but the words meant nothing. The sun's warmth did not reach her.
Footsteps crunched on gravel.
"What are you reading, sister?"
Rosamund looked up. Mary stood in the arched doorway. The eldest. Married well. Birthed an heir. Done everything as she ought. She held her youngest child against her shoulder, a sleeping bundle of lace. After a moment, she passed the infant to a waiting nurse, who withdrew without a sound.
Rosamund's gaze returned to her book. "Please. Before you start—I am tired of being spoken to."
Mary crossed the space between them. The bench sighed as she sat. She took Rosamund's hand. Firm. Warm.
"But you will listen to me. I know you will."
Rosamund did not pull away. She did not speak.
Mary's thumb moved in slow circles over her sister's knuckles. "Rosamund. You are of age. You must—"
"Please." The word was a splinter. "Don't say the word."
Mary's hand tightened. She waited.
"Look at me."
Rosamund did not move.
"Look at me."
Slowly, Rosamund turned. Her honey-brown eyes were dry but shadowed. "Then someone else," she said, voice fraying. "Anyone but him."
Mary waited.
"He threatened me." A whisper. "He said he would take everything. My happiness. My life. He is ruthless." She swallowed. "He looked at me with that one eye, and I felt… as if I were already gone."
Mary's expression tightened. She held her silence.
Rosamund stared down at their joined hands. When she spoke again, her voice came from somewhere else entirely.
"I know there is someone. Somewhere." A pause. A shaky breath. "Even though I am not capable of loving."
Mary's eyes shone. She lifted her free hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rosamund's ear. A gesture so tender it made the air still.
"What if he is that someone?"
Rosamund's lips parted. Nothing came out.
"We can never truly tell," Mary continued, slow and careful. "The young man still waits. He sits with Father and everyone in the dining hall. You must join them."
"But—"
"No buts." Mary stood, pulling Rosamund up by the hand. "Let's go."
---
Step by step, Mary guided her from the glass house. Down the corridor. Toward the murmur of voices and the clink of silver. She pushed open the dining hall door.
Every eye turned.
"Father." Mary dipped into a slight curtsey. Rosamund mirrored the gesture automatically. Body moving while her mind floated elsewhere. She watched numbly as Mary took her seat beside their mother, leaving the empty chair next to William.
Rosamund hesitated. Her fingers curled into her dress. Then she forced herself forward. She sat without looking at him. Her posture rigid. The space between them crackling.
The Earl's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "I am so grateful to you, Lord William, that you would still consider my daughter." His burning gaze found Rosamund. "After her… unruly behavior led to such scandal."
The words struck like a blow. Rosamund's knife hovered over her plate. Her appetite vanished.
"The pleasure is mine, Earl of Warwick." William's voice curled around her. Smug. Velvety. Rosamund focused on slicing her meat with exaggerated precision. The knife scraped against porcelain.
The awkward silence stretched until—
"Your Grace."
A maid in slate-gray slipped into the room, head bowed. Her gloved hands trembled as she presented a cream envelope. "A letter from Lord Edward's household. A ball has been arranged. He requests your attendance."
The maid withdrew. The announcement hung like a storm cloud. Rosamund stared at the congealing gravy on her plate. The roasted vegetables looked like props in a grotesque performance.
Mary's voice, light and practiced, filled the void. "How splendid. A ball would be just the thing—"
"I don't wish to go." Rosamund's voice was flat. The words dropped like stones into still water.
The Earl's hand slammed the table. Silverware jumped. "You will attend," he said through clenched teeth. "And you will be gracious. Or need I remind you what's at stake?"
Rosamund's throat tightened. The roast lamb tasted like ash. William's knee brushed against hers beneath the table. Accidentally? She jerked away as if scalded.
The meal continued. Knives scraped. Glasses clinked. Someone made stilted conversation about the weather. Rosamund counted each breath. Each excruciating minute. Until she could excuse herself.
"I must take my leave now." William pushed his chair back. He stood, unhurried. Then he took her hand. A deliberate, possessive echo of his promise. He pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. His single blue eye never left her face. A performance. A silent claim.
"Thank you for the meal," he said smoothly, adjusting his coat. "A wonderful treat."
---
To Be Continued...