Chapter 11

She arrived at eleven, in cream cashmere, with a driver and two bodyguards and an arrangement of white roses. Rowena Blackwood. I'd been mated to her son for five years and I had never once been invited to tea at her house. Every local debutante Kieran ever paraded through Silvercrest had. Not me. Not the wife. She sat in the chair beside my bed—the same chair her son had wept beside eight hours earlier—and arranged herself like she was at a garden luncheon and not at the bedside of a...