She must have flushed even deeper, for Blythe narrowed her eyes for a long moment before her face lit with delight. “Oh my God, you were dreaming about a man, weren’t you? Who was it? You must tell me!”
Death’s low, rumbling laughter sounded in the back of Signa’s mind. Go on, he taunted, tell her.
“It was no one—”
“Don’t give me that.” Blythe scoffed. “Did you meet someone at the ball? Given that you did not so much as blink in his presence, it surely wasn’t the prince.”
As much as she would have loved to say she’d met someone, Signa was so flustered that it was a struggle to even recall her own name, let alone that of anyone else at the soiree. Knowing Blythe, handing over a name would be like granting her permission to stalk the poor man and figure out every last detail about him, his family, his deepest secrets, and his worthiness of Signa. And so, without giving it too much thought, she said the first name that came to her mind.
“It was of Everett Wakefield.”
Blythe’s mouth slammed shut. She folded her hands pleasantly in her lap, doing a poor job of appearing at ease. “Well he’s… I mean, I suppose he is eligible. But goodness, Signa, the timing. I wondered if you still might be interested in him after everything. It seemed your attention diverted from him over the past months, though I didn’t want to pry. God only knows he could use some company, with everything he’s going through—though have you seen the way Charlotte looks at him? I wonder what she might think if the two of you were to make a match.”
“I suppose I’ll have to ask.” As the towering spires and iron gates of Thorn Grove came into view, Signa breathed a sigh of relief so heavy it fogged the window. The sooner she could get out of the carriage, the better.
Death, after all, was waiting for her.
FOURTEEN
BLYTHE DIDN’T BOTHER TO KNOCK WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT SIGNA’S room early that next morning, flushed and breathless as her body bowed to the weight of the floral arrangement she carried. It was nearly half as large as she was, with wisteria that draped over beautiful greenery.
“Dare I ask what feminine wiles you worked to earn the prince’s affection so quickly?” Blythe set the arrangement on Signa’s tea table, trying not to trip over the flowers that skirted the floor.
It was barely sunrise, though Signa was already wide awake, seated at the desk in her sitting room and poring over the list of names of those who had received an invitation to Thorn Grove the night of Lord Wakefield’s murder. Several of them seemed to have been crossed out while she’d been sleeping, and it took her a solid ten minutes of staring at the parchment before she realized that this update could have been done only by Death. The realization had her scouring the table until she found a letter he’d left for her folded into the list of names. Wildflowers were pressed into the page, and Signa’s heart practically burst at the sight of it.
Fate may have been able to stop them from speaking, but he couldn’t stop this. She’d just unfolded the letter, which detailed all the things they’d do once this was over and all the places they’d see, when Blythe burst through the door, leaving Signa to shove the letter down her bodice as she pushed up from her chair. Crossing the room, she inspected the flowers with a frown.
“They’re beautiful,” Blythe said between stretches, trying to soothe her back from the weight of the arrangement. “Given the way you spoke to him and how you daydream of Lord Wakefield now, I had thought they were for me until I saw your name on the letter. I’ve no idea how you managed to tame such a beastly man, but I’m impressed.”
Signa bent to see that Blythe was right—in the middle of the arrangement was a gilded envelope addressed to her. She pried it from the flowers, knocking a few petals to the table in her haste.
“I thought you didn’t care for the prince,” Blythe pushed, her eyes narrowing as she drew several steps closer to examine the envelope.
“For someone who also did not care for him, you certainly seem interested in what he sent,” Signa bit back. She didn’t mean to come across as antagonistic as she did, but Blythe’s prying ate at her nerves, and whatever this letter said, she preferred that Blythe not see it.
“Is it so wrong to be curious?” Blythe swept the fallen petals away. “Rest assured, I despise the man enough that he should have sent me flowers as an apology for burdening me with his existence. They’re quite lovely.”
They were, unfortunately. They appeared expensive, too, which meant that anyone who saw them delivered would immediately understand the prince’s intent. Signa could only imagine the ways in which Byron’s mind was already scheming.