White Roses a.b

chapter 33

Ashley 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 Andy, 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 Ash could hear inside her head.

As the crowd broke into another bout of laughter, Ash launched to her feet. ‘I need to use the dressing 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. Ash 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 Andy’s rumbling voice – followed by the higher-pitched, snooty tone of Margaret Mearle.

Ashley reeled back, ducking behind a pillar.

‘. . . about as pigheaded as they come!’ Margaret was saying.

‘An apt description,’ agreed Andy, 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.’ Andy 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,’ Andy 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.’

But I don’t understand it. He’s always been so rude towards me. I’ve never felt so judged in all my life than when I’m in his presence, with that snooty look he gives everyone, and the way his nose turns up.’

‘Could it be, Lady Mearle, that you’ve judged him unfairly? What you call rudeness might be nothing more than his inability to speak easily with a girl he admires.’

‘Do you really believe he feels this way?’

‘He told me so himself, Lady Mearle. What reason would I have for leading you astray?’