Page 61 of The Blacksmith

“Good day, my lady,” Dawson said. “If you’ll pardon me, I believe there are visitors I must attend to.”

Idalia had not heard of any visitors but was glad Dawson was assuming the role she normally would have taken voluntarily. She inclined her head toward the back of the hall. Her father waited in the solar chamber adjacent to where she and Lance now stood. Under normal circumstances, no one bothered him in there.

“Good day, Lady Idalia.”

She couldn’t discern his expression. Although his expression was often serious, it looked . . . wary . . . and something else.

“You’re worried?” she asked.

When she’d found Lance earlier in the forge to advise him of the meeting, he’d not said much at all. They’d agreed this would be a formal welcome to Stanton, nothing more. She’d assured him it was not so unusual that such a meeting should occur.

And then? Idalia was not sure. She’d wished to ask Lance as much, but in the back of her mind she’d heard her sisters accusing her of overplanning. Her strengths, they often said, were also her faults, and Idalia tended to agree. For once, she’d decided to leave the arrangements to someone else.

Her father was waiting at the door when they reached the solar.

“Do come inside and sit.”

Lance bowed, which made her internally wince—she’d forgotten to warn him that her father disliked formality—and they all took a seat, Lance and Idalia across from her father. A large oak desk, one handcrafted for her grandfather, separated them.

“My daughter speaks highly of you, Master Lance.”

Lance seemed surprised by her father’s use of his name. But her father never forgot a name. Ever.

“As she does of you, my lord.”

“I would welcome you to Stanton, once again. I do hope the task of replacing Master Roland has not proven too difficult?”

“It has not, my lord. I find the people here quite welcoming. Your daughter included.”

He said it so smoothly Idalia nearly laughed aloud. Welcoming, indeed.

“And how do you find the forge?”

“Well appointed and in need of little.”

If Lance had not conversed with nobility often, as he claimed, it was difficult to discern. Her father would appreciate his firm, unwavering tone. And if her father’s smile were any indication, he was already impressed.

Sitting back in his seat, he continued to scrutinize Lance without even glancing her way. Which was typical, though the dismissal stung no less because of its frequency.

“Well,” he said at last, “if you are in need of anything, you’ve only to ask Dawson.”

Idalia looked down to her hands, which she’d folded in her lap.

“Or Lady Idalia, I presume,” Lance replied, “as she seems to have a firm handle on castle affairs.”

Her head shot up. Would her father take it as a rebuke? It did not seem so, but she would have to warn Lance in the future not to praise her in such a way. She did not want her father to think Lance’s words were a slight to the seneschal whom he so adored.

“As such,” her father responded.

“If I may ask a question, my lord?”

Idalia held her breath. Even if her father approved of Lance, it was near certain he wouldn’t approve of Lance for her. Add in a bad first impression, and her mother’s well wishes would mean little.

“Certainly.”

“My previous lord required that I incorporate one of the crown’s three lions on all armor, and I wondered if my lord asks the same of me?”

What in the heavens?