She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. “I don’t think she will,” she said.
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