Page 69 of Heartless

He didn’t set her down. Didn’t let her go.

‘When will I see you again?’ he whispered.

A tickle erupted in her stomach.

He wanted to see her again.

Happiness coursed to the ends of her limbs.

She could be his reason to stay in Hearts. Shewantedto be.

But with that thought, the gut-deep ache of her situation returned full force.

In Hearts, he was not a Rook. He was a court joker, and she was being courted by the King.

Cath planted both feet on the floor and extricated herself from his hold. He didn’t try to stop her – perhaps the worst disappointment of all.

She propped herself against a rose-covered bedpost, her legs still shaky. ‘We can’t,’ she said, before amending, ‘I can’t.’

His dimples faded.

She tried again. ‘Tonight was . . .’Magnificent. Marvellous. Magical.

But also horrible and dangerous.

‘Tonight can’t happen again.’

His half smile quirked, more sardonic this time. ‘I know. That is the way of Time.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. You should go.’ She was painfully aware of how easily their voices could carry through the walls. Soon Mary Ann would come to light the fire and fill the washbasin. Jest had to leave, and he couldn’t ever come back to her window again, and she could never admit to anyone this night had happened.

She had been to a real tea party. She had made friends who weren’t in the gentry. She had narrowly escaped death and watched the poor Lion being carried away into the night.

But she could never speak of these things. She, too, had a secret now to keep.

‘Perhaps I’ll see you at the Turtle Days Festival?’ said Jest. ‘If not more of His Majesty’s garden parties.’

His tone was light, but it felt forced. Clinging to optimism.

Cath shrugged, growing more tense by the moment. ‘I’ll be at the festival. It’s my family’s festival, after all.’

Surprised, Jest glanced around the room, taking in the elaborate crown mouldings and silver candlesticks and tapestried bed curtains.

‘That’s right,’ he murmured. ‘You’re the daughter of the Marquess.’

As if he’d forgotten.

‘It’s tradition that I start the dancing. I’ll be dancing the lobster quadrille. I expect . . . I expect I’ll be dancing with the King.’ She stuck out her tongue in distaste.

Jest’s expression brightened. ‘As I expect I’ll be performing for him.’

He stuck his tongue out to mimic her.

One of her embarrassing snorts escaped, unwilled, and Catherine buried her face in her hands.

‘What if . . .’ Jest started.

She lowered her hands. He had taken a step closer to her.

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