Devrim's Discipline - Brianna Hale Page 0,12

There’s a whole column dedicated to guessing who he’ll marry. For a list of princess hopefuls, turn to page five!

I turn the page and see him. Not the King, but Archduke Levanter, in profile, the photograph taken through one of the palace windows. And what a proud profile it is. I feel the color drain from my face and hastily put it down. The memory of his body is imprinted on mine. The feel of his large hands taking hold of my wrists and then pushing me down over his lap. How dare he do that to me? If Aubrey hadn’t walked in, would he actually have spanked me?

I ignore the paper for a moment longer, then pick it up again and stare at his picture. Imperious nose. Flinty eyes. Hard, implacable jaw. Yes, I think he would have.

I read the accompanying caption.

Archduke “Ironclad” Levanter meets privately with King Anson at the palace. The Archduke is known for his strict adherence to tradition, but will twenty-seven years of prison have softened him, or only hardened him further?

I can answer their question: there’s nothing soft about the Archduke. Ironclad is a good nickname for him.

“There’s a piece in here about Briar Balzac,” Mama says, her eyes not lifting from the newsprint. “You remember, the illegitimate niece. It’s come out that her father isn’t Lord Anthony Balzac, Duke Balzac’s younger brother, but one of Lord Anthony’s oldest friends. Did you hear anything about that last night at the ball?”

“Only what you told me,” I reply, getting up to serve the casserole.

“Do tell me if anything interesting reaches your ears, about anyone at all. Such things could be useful.”

I place a bowl and spoon at her elbow and sit down to eat my own dinner. “Useful for what?”

But Mama’s too absorbed in reading and doesn’t answer. We eat, and my eyes keep straying to the gossip papers. My fingers itch to riffle through them, searching for more pictures of the Archduke. More tidbits about the Levanter clan.

We eat in silence, and I play every moment of both encounters with the Archduke over in my mind. The first at the ball when he swept past us, regal and haughty, in his scarlet uniform. Then again when he appeared in the doorway of Aubrey’s bedroom. He’d seemed different then. Distracted. Frustrated. I wonder what was bothering him. Other than me, that is.

“Wraye, are you all right? You haven’t said a word all evening.”

I jump and realize that dinner’s over, and Mama is trying to put a mug of cocoa in my hands.

I accept the cocoa. “I’m fine. Just…trying to memorize the names of all the nobles who were presented last night.” I take a swift mouthful to hide the guilty expression on my face. If Mama knew that I’ve inflamed the ire of the most important man at Court, she’d probably become hysterical.

The day I came home and told her I knew the truth about how Papa had died, she fell to the floor sobbing. It’s one of the scariest things you can see, I think, witnessing a parent lose all control. I was eleven at the time. I don’t ever want to see that again.

I reach a hand across the table toward her. “Mama, I promise to do everything I can to restore favor to our family.”

She looks up quickly and then smiles, but she still looks worried. “You’re a good girl. I know you will.”

“But if for some reason I can’t…” I begin.

Mama jumps to her feet. “Time for bed. You need your beauty sleep and so do I.”

“Mama—”

“Tomorrow, I’m going to book salon appointments for us. We could both use a proper haircut.”

Mama and I have been cutting each other’s hair for years. We’ve become quite good at it, though the styles aren’t anything elaborate. “How can we afford that?

“I have a little money set aside. Our appearances are important.”

Personally, I would prefer something more to eat, as our dinner was little more than stewed tomatoes and beans. Mama’s in charge of the money, though, and always has been.

I get up to wash the dishes. Once we’re installed in our proper home, I suppose I can eat as much chicken in white wine sauce as I please.

I stare at the curtains as I swirl sudsy water over the dishes. Our curtains are always closed these days to prevent the neighbors and any journalists from snooping. My thoughts drift back to the day we watched the chains being cut on the gates to