Page 5 of A Fragile Enchantment

“I have not, sir. Thank you!” It came out far too loud. Struggling to rein herself in, she curtsied to him. “I will not waste this chance.”

Just then, a tentative knock sounded on the door. It creaked open a fraction of an inch, and a muffled voice said, “A message for you, Your Highness.”

“Do not hover there like a wraith. Come in.” Jack closed his eyes, as though searching for some inner reservoir of patience. “What is it?”

The door opened just enough to admit a page boy, who lingered in the threshold with his gaze riveted to the floor. An envelope hung limply from his fingers. “Another letter from Helen Carlile, sir.”

“For God’s sake…” Jack crossed the room and snatched the letter from his page.So much for courtly grace,Niamh thought. “Another one? Another letter from Helen Carlile is what you interrupted me for?”

The page cringed. “I’m sorry, sir! This is the third in as many days, so I figured it was urgent.”

“You were sorely mistaken.” Jack tore the letter neatly in half. “I do not have time for her self-righteous screeds today—or any other day, for that matter. The next time you see one of these, send it back. Better yet, burn it. I do not want to hear even a whisper of the name Helen Carlile—or Lovelace, for that matter—in these halls. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The page did not leave immediately. He glanced at Kit and Niamh, as though he were afraid of saying too much. “There is another thing. Your valet, sir… I thought you might like to know as soon as possible, given the circumstances.”

Jack muttered something under his breath. For a moment, he looked quite exhausted, but by the time she blinked, he’d righted his stoic expression. “Very well. Send for Mrs. Knight at once. I will speak with her in my study.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.” When the door slammed shut behind the page, Jack let out the most long-suffering sigh she had ever heard. “If you’ll excuse me.”

How could a valet and one woman, Niamh wondered, possibly cause a prince such frustration? And who was Lovelace?

She glanced at Kit as though he might provide some insight. But his gaze was trained like a marksman’s rifle on his brother’s retreating back, and it was filled with loathing. Her breath caught at the sight of it. It was not the petty sort of hatred children professed for their strict older siblings. This was as bitter as a winter night—and old, with roots going all the way down.

Kit had nursed this grudge for a long time.

When he caught her looking, he scowled. “What are you staring at me for?”

“I…” Her mouth hinged open. One of these days, she might just stick him with a needle out of spite. If anything,hewas the one staring ather.“I am not!”

“Right.” With that, he got up and stalked out of the room.

Niamh buried her face in her hands. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and of course she was assigned to the most curmudgeonly, unsociable client in the entireworld. Perhaps this offer truly had been fairy-tale perfect, exactly as Gran warned her. A beautiful ruse, like a glass apple filled with poison.

Nothing was going exactly as she’d dreamed it.

3

A few moments after Kit’s departure, a maidservant named Abigail fetched Niamh and led her to her new bedchamber. Her thoughts turned in such anxious circles, she bumped into the doorframe—hard enough that Abigail paused and asked her if she was all right. Any coherent reply, however, vanished at the sight of her new room.

The heavy curtains let in a gauzy spill of midmorning light. It sparkled on the glass beads of a chandelier and patterned the carpet with delicate slivers of rainbow. It was all she could do not to throw herself onto the bed, but getting even a spot on those immaculate linens seemed to Niamh a sin of the highest order. Even from a distance, she could see how finely woven they were. They were even embroidered with the rose crest of House Carmine in gleaming white thread.

“Shall I send for a bath?” Abigail asked tactfully.

“Please. That would be lovely.”

Within a few minutes, a small contingent of servants had hauled up a claw-footed bathtub and set it beside the fireplace. Abigail wheeled over a cart cluttered with elegant glass bottles, then drew the privacy screen.

“Call for me if you need anything, miss,” she said.

And with that, Niamh was left alone.

Immediately, her throat tightened, and her eyes stung.Don’t cry,she told herself. Oh, how she hated that she cried whenever she was stressed or angry. But once she’d begun, she could not stop. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. All she could think of were Kit Carmine’s amber eyes, boring into her as though she were a rat that had snuck into the wine cellar. All she could hear was the utter contempt for her in his voice.

A peacocking fool. A sycophant.

He didn’t know the first thing about her.