'Mother said he would be here by noon.'
Rosamund whispered the words, then let out a dry, hollow scoff. She stood her ground, her 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, leaving 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 firm, almost too tight, and bent to press his lips to her knuckles. The kiss lingered, deliberate. When he straightened, a smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned in, his voice soft but sharp, his 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, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she rose onto her toes, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder—a gesture that, to anyone watching, might have looked almost tender. She leaned close, her whisper icy and precise.
"You're talking," she murmured, "like a man who knows he's already lost."
She stepped back, her smile wide but brittle, like sunlight on thin ice. It didn't reach her eyes, which stayed hard and cold.
"You'll never have me, William."
She turned sharply, the hem of her simple cotton dress swirling around her ankles. Her heart pounded, but she kept her head high, her steps steady. She didn't 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 bit out, her jaw tight. Her hands were shaking now, but she didn't stop walking.
***
Rosamund had only made it a few paces—her back to William, her heart still hammering—when a hand shot out and seized her wrist. The grip was surprisingly strong.
Her mother stepped from the archway's shadow, her face a mask of calm that didn't reach her eyes. "That is enough," she said, her voice low and strained. "You will turn around. You will speak to him. Properly."
"Mother, please—" The plea was torn from her, raw and desperate.
Her mother's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Do not make this worse than it already is."
And that's when it broke. The last thin thread of her composure.
"I said NO!"
The shout ripped through the hall, louder and rougher than she'd intended. A maid by the far wall flinched, dropping a silver tray with a jarring clatter.
Silence. Heavy and sudden.
Rosamund stood panting, her chest aching. She saw the shock on her mother's face—the pale, wide-eyed fear. Not of her daughter's anger, but for her daughter's future.
But in that moment, Rosamund was too far gone to care. She yanked her arm back, the skin of her wrist already reddening. Then she just… walked.
Her shoes slapped softly against the stone, the only sound in the dead quiet.
Behind her, she heard the rustle of Edith's skirts as the maid started to follow.
"Stay," Rosamund commanded, the single word cracking like a whip. She didn't turn around.
And Edith, as if she'd walked into a wall, stopped.
***
Later. The glass house.
Sunlight fell through the panes in thick, golden shafts, dappling the leaves of lemon trees and spilling over the 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 warmth of the sun did not reach her.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path outside. Soft and deliberate.
"What are you reading, sister?"
Rosamund looked up. Mary stood in the arched doorway, her eldest sister—the one who had 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 with a quiet murmur. The nurse 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. Her grip was firm, her skin warm.
"But you will listen to me. I know for certain you will."
Rosamund did not pull away. She did not speak.
Mary's thumb moved in a slow, steady circle over her sister's knuckles. "Rosamund. You are of age. You must—"
"Please." The word was a splinter. "Don't… don't say the word."
Mary's hand tightened. She waited.
"Look at me."
Rosamund didn't move. Her face remained a careful, brittle mask.
"Look at me."
Rosamund turned slowly. Her honey-brown eyes were dry, but shadowed. "Then someone else," she said, her voice fraying. "Anyone but him."
Mary said nothing. Just waited.
"He threatened me." Rosamund's whisper was almost lost in the quiet. "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… I felt as if I were already gone."
Mary's expression tightened, but she held her silence.
Rosamund stared down at their joined hands. When she spoke again, her voice was so low it seemed to come from somewhere else entirely.
"I know there is someone. Somewhere." A pause, then a shaky breath. "Even though I am not capable of loving."
Mary's eyes shone. She lifted her free hand and gently 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 you talk about?"
Rosamund's lips parted, but nothing came out.
"We can never truly tell, you know," Mary continued, her voice 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's voice was gentle but final. She held Rosamund's hand as she stood. "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. They arrived at the dining hall. Mary pushed the door open.
Every eye turned toward them.
"Father." Mary's voice carried clearly as she dipped into a slight curtsey. Rosamund mirrored the gesture automatically, her body moving while her mind floated somewhere distant. She watched numbly as Mary took her seat beside their mother, leaving only the empty chair next to William.
Rosamund hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress before forcing herself forward. She sat without looking at him, her posture rigid, the space between them crackling with tension.
The Earl's voice cut through the awkward silence like a blade. "I'm so grateful to you, Lord William, that you would still consider my daughter." His burning gaze found Rosamund's. "After her…unruly behavior led to such scandal."
The words struck like a physical 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 and velvety. Rosamund focused on slicing her meat with exaggerated precision, the knife scraping against porcelain.
The awkward silence stretched until—
"Your Grace." A maid in a slate-gray dress slipped into the room, head bowed. Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she presented a cream-colored envelope. "A letter from Lord Edward's household. A ball has been arranged, and he requests your attendance."
The maid withdrew as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving the announcement hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Rosamund stared at the congealing gravy on her plate, the roasted vegetables suddenly looking like props in some grotesque performance.
Then came a brief silence...
Mary's voice, light and practiced, filled the void. "How splendid. A ball would be just the thing to—"
"I don't wish to go," Rosamund interrupted, her voice flat. The words dropped like stones into still water.
The Earl's hand slammed onto the table, making the silverware jump. "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.
Around them, the meal continued. Knives scraped as glasses clinked. Someone made stilted conversation about the weather. Rosamund counted each breath, each excruciating minute, until she could find something reasonable to excuse herself.
"I must take my leave now." William pushed his chair back, the sound sharp against the quiet. He stood, his movements unhurried. Then he took her hand, just as he had earlier—a deliberate, possessive echo of his promise. He pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, his single blue eye never leaving her face. It was a performance for the room, a silent claim.
"Thank you for the meal," he said smoothly, adjusting his coat. "A wonderful treat."
----------------------------------
To be continued ...