Lord Whimsitt had hired some local girls to rouse the crowds in these early qualifiers, putting them in skimpy clothes and giving them bundles of streamers to wave, in the green and red and gold colors of the dragons. For the most part, these poor cheerleaders swept the streamers overhead in perfunctory arcs, about as interested in proceedings as the rest of the crowd—but just now, the tournament favorite, Sir Ralph, was riding around the lists in a lap of victory. He had dispatched his opponent so easily and thoroughly that they were forced to drag the unconscious boy off on a stretcher. The crowd, bloodthirsty as ever and coming to life for their favorite, loved it.

The man had finished his lap and reined in his horse before Lord Whimsitt’s raised box. Sir Ralph saluted with his sword, and Whimsitt simpered at him in return. Darkhaven’s lord was a portly man of medium height, with an infamous collection of very fine hats that hid his thinning hair. Today he wore a brilliant emerald chaperon-style turban in velvet—the wrong choice, given his temples were now trickling with sweat.

Isobelle, sitting in the box beside and below his, contemplated her guardian with a faint scowl. She’d realized recently she didn’t know all that much about him, beyond the hat collection. Her parents had entrusted her to his care three years earlier, but Olivia had been far more parent and guardian to her than Whimsitt had. He didn’t believe in educating women, and Isobelle didn’t believe in dealing with boring men, so they’d avoided each other by mutual agreement. Until he’d taken advantage of her parents’ absence and put Isobelle and her dowry up for grabs in his tournament. Now, she deeply regretted her failure to pay attention.

Isobelle shivered and looked away from her guardian. Smirk all you want, she thought, lifting her chin. I’ll find a way out of this yet, you’ll see.

Sir Ralph had not left. Instead, he’d walked his horse over to stand before Isobelle’s box. He raised his visor, revealing a pair of predatory hazel eyes that swept over her, hair, dress, and all, and then fixed back on her face with an unnerving intensity.

Lord Whimsitt had informed Isobelle that she must show herself at each stage of the tournament, even the qualifiers. Now she wished she’d bothered to defy him, because she would’ve rather not seen just how easily Sir Ralph had won.

“My lady,” said Sir Ralph—and though the words were a standard greeting, Isobelle could not help but hear the slight emphasis he placed on the word “my.”

He already believed he’d won her.