The Blackthorn carriage, a monolithic structure of polished ebony and silver, drew to a halt at the edge of the royal field. Its arrival sent a ripple through the gathered elite, a sea of silk and jewels basking in the sun. Conversations hushed, then resumed in a new, sharper key.
Another Blackthorn, a matron murmured behind her fan. They roll in as if they own the very air.
A young woman in a pink gown giggled to her friend. It must be Cecilia with Charles. Look at the carriage.
Her companion, sharper-eyed, shook her head. No, I saw Cecilia and her mother trailing the Duchess of Hawthorn not ten minutes past, laying on the charm. They hunt for a marriage contract now that the Duke's sons are home.
The eldest, right? I've heard Cecilia's obsession with him borders on scandalous.
Well, I don't think…
Their gossip died a sudden death as the carriage door opened. Charles Blackthorn stepped out, his posture easy and confident. He turned, extending a hand back into the carriage's dark interior. A moment of suspense hung in the air before a slender, gloved hand settled into his.
Then, she emerged.
Lady Layla Blackthorn stepped into the sunlight, and a new, different kind of whisper swept through the crowd. The deep blue of her simple linen dress made her seem like a piece of the sky had fallen to earth, a stark contrast to the jewel-toned velvets and ruffled silks surrounding her. Her dark hair, braided into a graceful crown, emphasized the elegant line of her neck and the startling pale clarity of her skin.
Who is that? a young lord breathed, leaning forward.
She's… pretty,another conceded, his tone hesitant.
Not that pretty, sniffed a woman in emerald green, though her eyes tracked Layla with unwavering intensity.
I like her dress. It's… different.
Is she his wife? When did Charles Blackthorn get married?
The whispers swirled around them, a low, buzzing orchestra of curiosity and judgment. Layla's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage, but she kept her chin level, her gaze fixed on some distant point ahead. She would not let them see her flinch.
The humble hired carriage carrying Lucia and Livia pulled up right after. The twins alighted, their plain dresses making them near-invisible in the glittering throng, yet their eyes missed nothing. Silas emerged last. He met Layla's gaze for a fleeting second. If you need me, my lady, send word. At her slight nod, he gave a short, respectful bow and melted into the crowd, a watchful shadow.
The twins moved to Layla's side, their faces tight with concern. She offered them a small, private smile. Excuse me for a moment, Charles, she said, her voice calm. She stepped aside, drawing Lucia and Livia with her.
I am alright, she whispered, the words meant only for them. I need you to trust me. Follow from a distance. I must learn this world for myself, without their poisoned commentary. I must understand the players.
Lucia, ever pragmatic, gave a slow, approving nod. We will watch your back, my lady. You have your fun.
A genuine smile touched Livia's lips. Yes. Have fun.
Fortified, Layla returned to Charles's side. He offered his arm again, and she placed her hand on it, the gesture feeling both foreign and necessary. He led her through the crowd, a path clearing before them as much from curiosity as from respect for the Blackthorn name. Layla kept her head high, her posture regal, absorbing the stares and turning them into a shield.
They moved towards a beautiful, wooded bridge arching over a clear, rushing stream. The entire structure was draped in flowering vines, a cascade of white and purple blossoms that filled the air with a sweet, heady perfume.
This is beautiful, Layla said, the admiration in her voice entirely real.
It is, Charles agreed, smiling at her delight. And the field is just ahead. The views are best from the higher tiers.
They stepped onto the bridge, the scent of flowers thickening around them. But before they could cross, a voice, smooth and cultured, called out.
Charles! A moment.
They turned. A young man approached, cutting through the crowd with an innate authority. He was tall, with sun-streaked brown hair and a confident, easy smile that reached his warm, hazel eyes. He moved with the grace of a born athlete, his attire impeccable but understated.
Charles stopped, his face breaking into a genuine grin. Lord Adrian! I heard you returned.
Adrian Crestwell, eldest son of the Duke of Hawthorn, clasped Charles's arm in a familiar greeting. We arrived just yesterday. I planned to call on you after the games. But first… His gaze, curious and appreciative, shifted to Layla. I do not believe I have had the pleasure.
"No, you have not, Charles said, a note of pride in his voice. May I present my cousin, Lady Layla Blackthorn. She is staying with us now.
Adrian bowed, a perfect, elegant gesture. Lady Layla. A delight. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, met hers. And how are you finding our city, my lady?
Layla dipped into a slight curtsy, her movements graceful. It is… vibrant, my lord. A little crowded for my tastes. This is my first venture out since my arrival.
Adrian's smile widened. That will not do. You cannot hide such a presence away. He gestured for them to walk with him. You simply must come to the ball my family is hosting tomorrow. You cannot refuse.
I… I do not know… Layla began, her hesitation a carefully crafted shield.
Please, my lady, Adrian insisted, his charm disarming. My mother will send the invitation personally. I am certain your family would not refuse. He looked to Charles for support. Charles, you will ensure she attends, will you not?
Of course, Charles agreed, looking pleased.
The field opened before them, a vast, sunken bowl of emerald grass surrounded by stone steps that served as seating. Adrian led them not toward the general sections, but upward, toward the highest tier where silken canopies shaded the most powerful families in the city.
As they ascended, the whispers intensified. The news of the Blackthorn heir escorting an unknown beauty toward the elite section traveled faster than a galloping horse. It reached Lady Jane where she sat, preening, with Eleanor, Margaret, and their daughters.
A servant bent and whispered in Jane's ear. Her smile did not falter; it hardened, becoming a brittle, terrifying thing. She turned to Eleanor, but before she could form the words, she saw them.
Charles. And Layla. Led by Adrian Crestwell himself.
They passed right by the Blackthorn women's seats. Layla's gaze swept over them, polite and utterly unreadable. She did not stop. She did not acknowledge them. She continued her ascent to a place they themselves could only aspire to.
The three women sat frozen. Jane's knuckles were white where she gripped her fan. Eleanor's face lost all color, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. Margaret looked between them, a silent panic in her eyes.
Silvia looked as if she had swallowed poison. Cecilia, who had spent the last hour positioning herself for a chance encounter with Adrian, could barely draw breath. Her dream, the man she had meticulously plotted for, was now escorting her country cousin to a seat of honor as if she were a visiting princess.