Page 95 of Reign

I observed from a distance. She laughed, clearly charmed by Bash, while jealousy twisted my stomach. If anyone could overlook her scandalous occupation, it would be him. Usually, I valued his unjudgmental nature, but as they flirted, I found myself wishing he wasn’t so accepting.

Jane, with her perfectly cinched corset showing off ample cleavage, had Bash’s gaze drifting downward. I glanced into my tankard, catching a rippling reflection of my unkempt hair and unrouged cheeks.

Not wanting to dwell on my pitiful appearance, I downed the ale in one gulp, belching softly as the bubbly liquid settled uneasily in my belly.

Unable to stop myself from stealing another glance, I saw Bash wholly focused on Jane, as though they were the only two people in the chamber.

I sighed, certain his interest in Jane had been piqued after glimpsing her pleasuring the knight.

Clearly, Jane possessed the secret to capturing a man’s undivided attention, while I seemed only skilled at irritating them.

Fitzroy clicked his fingers in my face—a habit of his I despised.

“I know you’re uneducated, but surely you’re aware of how rude it is to ignore someone,” he chided, right on cue.

“Sorry,” I said, turning to give him my full attention.

Despite months of war, Fitzroy still looked infuriatingly dashing. His ruggedness suited him—the slight stubble and salt-tousled locks only heightened his charm.

After a moment studying his striking face, I said, “Your mother must be a beautiful woman,” recalling the mediocrity of his half brothers.

“What makes you say that?” Fitzroy asked, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Because…” I hesitated, my heartbeat quickening as if I were about to make a confession.

“You’re handsome,” I replied plainly.

My reaction confused me—calling Fitzroy handsome was no different from calling Dog an animal or Jane a prostitute. It was a fact. Nothing more.

Fitzroy responded with that irritating smolder.

“But the prettiest flowers don’t always smell the sweetest,” I added, unwilling to cultivate his ego.

“A rose is both beautiful and sweet-smelling,” Fitzroy countered, his smolder unrelenting.

“Beneath the petals hide sharp thorns,” I reminded him.

Raising a brow, Fitzroy asked, “You think I’m thorny?”

I nodded. “You’re a right prick,” I teased.

Fitzroy chuckled and sipped his ale. He turned his gaze toward the golden glow of the fireplace. As the crackling flames danced in the hearth, his eyes glazed over, lost in thought someplace far away.

I found myself relaxing into his company—even enjoying his conversation, something that so rarely happened when we spoke.

After a moment of silence, staring into vacancy, Fitzroy cleared his throat and looked back at me.

“She was very beautiful—a great painter, too. The best, in my admittedly biased opinion,” he said, his tone hollow.

I’d never looked past the opulence of glistening jewels to consider Fitzroy’s personal life. I’d naively assumed his concerns were confined to himself and his status. But his melancholic expression when he spoke of his late mother revealed a depth I hadn’t expected.

“Is she known for her art?” I asked.

Fitzroy snorted as though that was a ridiculous question.

“The only thing my mother is remembered for is being the King’s favorite mistress,” he said, his lip curling as if that notion left a foul taste on his tongue.

“How does one become a mistress to a king?” I asked, still naive about the workings of high society.