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Anne said, sliding a bit of spiced pork pie onto Rosamund’s plate. ‘It is quite delicious, and you have had nothing to eat since you arrived.’
    â€˜â€™Tis not at all fashionable to be so slight,’ Mary Howard sniffed, derisively eyeing Rosamund’s narrow shoulders in her silver-satin sleeves. ‘Perhaps they care not for fashion in the country, but here, Lady Rosamund, you will find it of utmost importance.’
    â€˜It is better than not being able to fit into one’s bodice,’ Anne retorted. ‘Or mayhap such over-tight lacing is meant to catch Lord Fulkes’s eye?’
    â€˜Even though he is betrothed to Lady Ponsonby,’ said Catherine Knyvett, another of the maids.
    Mary Howard tossed her head. ‘I care not a fig for Lord Fulkes, or his betrothed. I merely wished to giveLady Rosamund some friendly advice as she is so newly arrived at Court.’
    â€˜I hardly think she needs your advice,’ Anne said. ‘Most of the men in this room cannot keep their eyes off her already.’
    â€˜Anne, that is not true,’ Rosamund murmured. She suddenly wished she could run and hide under her bedclothes, away from all the quarrels.
    â€˜Rosamund, you are too modest,’ Anne said. ‘Look over there, you will see.’
    Anne tugged on Rosamund’s arm, forcing her to turn to face the rest of the chamber. She did not see what Anne meant; everyone appeared to be watching the Queen, gauging her mood, matching their laughter to hers. She was the star they all revolved around, and she looked it tonight in a shining gown of gold brocade and black velvet, her pale-red hair bound with a gold corona headdress.
    But one person did not watch the Queen. Instead he stared at her, Rosamund, with steady, dark intensity: Anton Gustavson. Aye, it was truly him.
    He had been really beautiful in the cold, clear light of day, laughing as he’d flown so swiftly over the perilous ice, other-worldly in that aura of effortless happiness.
    Here in the Queen’s fine palace, lit by firelight and torches, he was no less handsome. His hair, so dark it was nearly black, was brushed back from his brow in a glossy cap and shone like a raven’s wing. The flames flickered in shadows and light over the sharp, chiselled angles of his face, the high cheekbones and strong jaw.
    But he no longer laughed. He was solemn as he watched her, the corners of his sensual lips turned down ever so slightly. He wore a doublet of dark-purple velvet inset with black satin that only emphasised that solemnity.
    Rosamund’s bodice suddenly felt as tight as Mary Howard’s, pressing in on her until she could hardly take a breath. Something disquieting fluttered in her stomach. Her cheeks burned, as if she sat too close to the fire, yet she shivered.
    What was wrong with her? What did he think when he looked at her so very seriously? Perhaps he remembered how ridiculous she had been, running away from him by the pond.
    She forced herself to lift her chin, meeting his gaze steadily. Slowly those lips lifted in a smile, revealing a quick flash of surprisingly white teeth. It transformed the starkly elegant planes of his face, making him seem more the man of sunlight and ice.
    Yet his dark-brown eyes, shielded by thick lashes longer than a man had a right to, were still unfathomable.
    Rosamund found herself smiling back. She could no more keep herself from doing it than she could keep herself from breathing, his smile was so infectious. But she was also confused, flustered, and she turned away.
    Servants cleared away the remains of the meat pies and the stewed vegetables and laid out fish and beef dishes in sweetened sauces, pouring out more wine. Rosamund nibbled at a bit of fricasséed rabbit, wondering if Anton Gustavson still watched her. Wondering what he thought of her, what was hidden behind those midnight eyes.
    â€˜Oh, why do I even care?’ she muttered, ripping up a bit of