Chapter 12: Terms

"Not here," he said. "Not in front of them."

So Ianthe heard his terms in the Dowager's carriage, going home through the snow at one in the morning.

The Dowager sat beside her with her eyes shut and her hands folded on her cane.

Every so often she let out a small, ladylike snore.

The Duke of Norvaine sat across from them with his knees nearly touching Ianthe's, because the carriage wasn't built for a man his size.

He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

He put them on his knees, then folded them, then put them on his knees again.

"The War Council meets at Midwinter," he said. "Morcaine will tell them I vanished for ten weeks and came back mad."

"Did you?"

"Vanish? Yes."

"And the other thing?"

He thought about it.

"Not more than usual."

The Dowager snored.

"If they believe him, they'll leave him my army," he said. "And my soldiers will starve on his half rations till spring."

"And a betrothal helps how?"

"A man who's about to be married looks like a man who means to stay."

He looked at the window. "It's stupid. But it's how they think."

"So I'd be your betrothed until spring."

"Until spring. Then you end it. Publicly, if you like. You can tell the whole court I was dreadful at breakfast."

Ianthe went very still.

"At breakfast?"

He went still too.

"People say that," he said, after a moment. "About me."

"Do they."

"Frequently."

The Dowager's snore had a sort of hiccup in it.

"Why me?" Ianthe asked. "There are a hundred girls at court with fathers who'd sell them to you by the pound."

"Because you stood in front of Morcaine's bet. Because he hates you now."

He shrugged one big shoulder. "I need someone in my house he can't buy."

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