Livia Avery came down the grand staircase of Northside Manor in a tailored black velvet riding habit, her gloved hand lightly on the bannister, the heels of her riding boots clicking on the polished wood. Her husband Sir James, crossing the stone-floored hall, looked up and noted the letter in her hand and the flush in her cheeks.
‘So, you finally get your wish,’ he said levelly. ‘You’ve waited most patiently. It’s been five years since you met the duchess, and now she is queen. I thought you had given up.’
She took a little breath. ‘I never give up.’ She showed him the royal seal.
‘Is it a royal summons?’
‘We can’t speak here!’ she ruled and led the way into the library. Large logs smouldered in the hearth; she undid the mother of pearl buttons on her dark riding jacket and pulled at the cascade of fine lace at her throat. He observed her beauty with nothing but weariness. She was like the classical statues she had dotted around his house and gardens – lovely to look at, but meaningless to him.
She sat in the great chair before the fire, leaning slightly forward, her face glowing in the firelight as if posing for a portrait. Her dark hair was shiny, the creamy skin smooth on her cheeks, a few light lines around her dark-lashed eyes. She waited for him to take his seat opposite her before she would speak.
‘I’m all ears,’ he said ironically.
‘I am summoned to court,’ she breathed. ‘James, Duke of York is to be crowned king, his wife is queen. There is no support for the late king’s bastard. James the Second will inherit without challenge and my dearest friend Mary of Modena will be queen.’ She was as exultant as if she had herself persuaded the people of England to crown the unpopular roman catholic brother to the king, instead of the adored protestant bastard son. ‘She writes that she needs me, she is unwell. I will, of course, obey.’
Still he said nothing.
‘You could come with me? I am to be a lady-in-waiting, we could open Avery House? I could get a place at court for you. This could be a fresh start for us.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not sure that I want a fresh start. I doubt that I’d want anything you can give me.’ Her dark eyes flashed with irritation. ‘You cannot expect me to refuse a royal invitation; it’s practically a command.’
He turned his face from her show of temper. ‘Really? I imagine that you could very well refuse. But I am absolutely certain you have courted her – writing every week, sending little gifts, all your engaging tricks – I imagine you have begged her to invite you. And now: she does.’
‘You should be grateful to me . . .’
‘You can go.’ He had no interest in what she might say. ‘I will send you in the carriage. I imagine you will live at St James’ Palace while they rebuild Whitehall. I assume you will return here when they go to Windsor in the summer?’
‘You agree?’ she demanded…
What are the three books from Dawnlands please in order