Morning came, and Lorraine was a storm wrapped in silk. She sat in her rocking chair, not rocking out of leisure but out of barely-contained irritation, the kind that could peel paint if it had a voice.
Emma burst in with a bright smile as she was excited with the brilliance of her plan. But one look at Lorraine's face was enough to tell her all she needed.
Her smile died instantly. She didn't ask. She didn't need to.
Her eyes caught the torn nightgown on the floor, and her lips pressed into a tight line before she turned and left without a word, skirts swishing in retreat.
She was sick today and would be resting.
Sylvia, who had been quietly brewing tea, just rubbed her forehead. So, that was why Emma had insisted on dressing the princess last night. She'd suspected some scheme, but now the evidence was there. A failed seduction and a proud princess spurned.
