As the door swung open, I stood beside Alaric, trying to look more composed than I felt. My hair was hastily pinned up, and I knew my cheeks still bore the flush of our recent passion.
The Dowager Duchess Annelise Thorne was exactly as Alaric had described her—regal, intimidating, and sharp-eyed. Her silver-streaked dark hair was arranged immaculately beneath her severe hat, and she carried herself with the confidence of a woman who had spent decades commanding rooms.
"Grandmother," Alaric greeted, his tone casual despite his rumpled appearance. "What an unexpected pleasure."
Her eyes narrowed as she looked from him to me. "Clearly," she said dryly. "I see I've interrupted something."
I felt heat rise to my face, but Alaric merely smiled. "Important business that couldn't wait, I'm afraid."
"I'm sure." The Dowager's gaze fixed on me now, assessing me from head to toe. "So you're Isabella. The mysterious masked bride who captured my grandson's heart. Though I see no mask now."
