Rosamund
At ten o'clock, I descended the staircase alone.
The palace groom had helped me into an evening gown of deep emerald silk that Mrs Harlow had packed with instructions that it was for formal audiences.
It was finer than anything I'd ever worn, with a fitted waist and sleeves that tapered to the wrist and a neckline that sat just below my collarbones. My hair had been pinned into a style I couldn't have managed on my own, swept back from my face and gathered in a low twist at the nape of my neck.
I looked like a Duchess, but I felt like an imposter.
I'd napped after we settled into the room, and apparently, Nevan had come in because I saw traces of his presence. His coat was gone from the chair. His boots were gone from beside the door. A blanket was arranged on the couch and neatly folded at one end, as though he'd erased every trace of himself before leaving.
Wasn't he going to honour the King's invitation tonight?
