“Like something out of a ballad,” she agreed softly. “Someone who could win—who could take the treasure, the glory—but not trap me in a marriage that’s loveless at best, and . . . worse, at worst.” She tried for a smile, though it felt watery. “I thought perhaps on Ladies’ Night I could find a lady’s knight, if you’ll forgive the terrible pun.”

“We’re not talking about this.” Gwen dragged her gaze away from the cocktail, fixing it on Isobelle. “We’re not talking about it, we’re not considering it, we’re not even— It’s madness.”

“Is it?” Isobelle asked lightly.

“Of course it is!”

“If you say so.”

“I do! I mean . . . isn’t it? Even if I competed—even if I could avoid being discovered—how would I win? I don’t know what I’m doing. I got extremely, ridiculously lucky today. I need training, but anyone we went to for help would turn me in in a heartbeat.”

“A man might, true.” Isobelle grinned at her, pushing the cocktail forward to offer it to Gwen.

Gwen was staring at Isobelle like she was waiting for her to grow an extra head, or explode into a puff of pink glitter. “You know a woman who can joust? I mean, there is a woman who can joust? And you know her?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Simple as that?”

“What else is there? You already have a very nice horse. Where did you get him?”

“He’s mine,” Gwen replied, so fast it was almost a snap, curling her hands around the cocktail glass as if she could use it as a shield.

Huh. Interesting.

“No doubt,” Isobelle agreed, though to be honest, the stallion Gwen had been riding earlier that day looked far too well-bred to have a history pulling a plough.

“Achilles was a foal from my mother’s mare,” Gwen said, stiffer than she’d been before, holding herself upright. “And she—she brought her horse with her when she left home to marry my father.”

“Well, he’s very handsome,” Isobelle replied, letting the other girl off the hook and focusing her attention on the aesthetic. “Bays are really in fashion this season.”

Gwen’s shoulders dropped a little. “I’d need to hire someone to help my father in the smithy on the days I’m away,” she murmured.

It took everything Isobelle had not to tip her head back and let out an unladylike hoot of victory. Until this moment, even Isobelle wasn’t sure this plan would work.

“I can help with that.”

Gwen bit her lip, clearly in the throes of mental calculation, tracing the edge of her glass with one finger. “Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, eyes flicking up, glittering with a combination of bemusement and terror. Isobelle was used to inspiring both. “I haven’t decided.”