Chapter three

Edward’s POV

The image of Lythera bleeding on the ballroom floor follows me long after I leave the palace.

Even now, with Amelia seated beside me in the carriage, I find myself remembering the way Lythera looked up at me. There had been blood running down her forehead, her gown stained with spilled refreshments, and broken glass scattered around her hands.

For one brief moment, I had seen something in her expression that made my chest tighten. It was not anger, nor the familiar determination with which she usually approached me, hoping to win a smile or a word of praise. It had been something quieter, something I could not quite name.

Hurt.

The thought irritates me almost as much as it unsettles me. I shift in my seat and glance at Amelia, who has been unusually quiet since we left the ballroom. The sight of her pale face draws my attention away from my troubling thoughts, and I reach for her hand.

“Are you still upset about what happened?” I ask.

She looks at me with those wide, sorrowful eyes that have always made me feel as though the world has been unkind to her. “I am all right, Edward. I only wish the evening had ended differently.”

“So do I,” I mutter, remembering the Queen's announcement and the way the entire ballroom had turned to stare at Lythera as though she had suddenly become someone important. “Your sister has a remarkable talent for making herself the centre of attention.”

Amelia lowers her gaze, her thumb moving over the back of my hand. “Please don't be angry because of me. I know Lythera has always wanted what I have, but perhaps she truly believes she can make you love her if she tries hard enough.”

The words settle into the space between us, confirming what I have suspected for years. Lythera has never been content with her place in the world. Whenever Amelia receives praise, Lythera finds a way to place herself nearby. Whenever I visit the Amberton estate, she appears with some thoughtful gift, some carefully prepared meal, or another excuse to remain at my side. She remembers the smallest details about me, as though collecting them will eventually force me to return her affection.

It is exhausting.

And yet, as the carriage slows outside the Amberton residence, the memory of her bloodied forehead returns.

I had pushed her. I cannot pretend otherwise. I had been angry, and she had been standing in front of me, and for a moment I had allowed that anger to decide what my hands would do.

I should have called for a physician when I saw the blood. At the very least, I should have ensured she was taken home safely.Instead, I had told her to clean up the mess and find her own way home.

A faint, unwelcome weight settles beneath my ribs.“She will be fine,” I tell myself, looking out at the passing gates. “Lythera is always fine.”

She has always been stubborn enough to recover from anything, especially when there is an opportunity to prove she is stronger or more deserving than Amelia. Perhaps the humiliation will finally teach her to stop forcing herself into situations where she is not wanted.

I push the memory aside as the carriage comes to a stop.

Amelia squeezes my hand before I help her down. “Thank you for bringing me home, Edward.”

“Of course.” I offer her a reassuring smile. “Rest well. I shall see you soon.”

She gives me one last look, and I watch until she disappears through the entrance. Only then do I turn away, climb back into my carriage, and return to the palace.

Whatever guilt I feel over Lythera will pass.

It always does.

Two days later, I find myself at the Amberton estate again, listening to my friend complain about my terrible judgment.

“You cannot seriously believe you did nothing wrong,” he says, leaning back in his chair as we sit in one of the estate's reception rooms. “I heard what happened at the ball. Half the court was talking about it before breakfast the following morning.”

I set down my teacup with more force than necessary. “Then half the court should learn to mind its own business.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You humiliated a woman in front of the entire court, shoved her hard enough to send her crashing into a table, and left her bleeding on the floor. Even if you despise her, surely you can admit that was excessive.”

“I did not intend for her to be injured.”

“But she was.”

His bluntness irritates me because I have already had this argument with myself. I have spent the past two days insisting that Lythera brought the situation upon herself, that she should have left Amelia alone, that her constant attempts to win my attention have become intolerable. Yet none of those explanations changes what happened when she fell.

I remember the way she struggled to rise, one hand pressed against her forehead, while the people around us stared.

I had expected her to plead with me, perhaps to insist that Amelia had misunderstood her intentions. Instead, she had looked at me as though she had finally seen something she could no longer excuse.

My friend studies me for a moment before speaking again. “You don't have to marry her simply because the Queen has chosen her. But you could at least check whether she is recovering. A small gesture of decency will not kill you.”

“I came to see Amelia,” I reply.

“Then see Amelia. And perhaps ask after her sister while you are here.”

I give him a displeased look, but his words linger after he leaves me to my thoughts. I have already arranged to bring Amelia a few gifts, and it would hardly be difficult to bring something for Lythera as well. A small token, nothing extravagant. Something to acknowledge that the incident went further than I intended without encouraging her to mistake my concern for affection.

That is all.

I will see Amelia, ask after her health, and perhaps make certain Lythera's wound had healed. Then I can return to the palace with a clear conscience.

It seems simple enough, at least that was what I thought.