The Shadow Queen

fault, you brainless fool. So do something about it.” And he damn well was going to do something about it just as soon as he got this miserable rag of a shirt over his shoul—
    “Stop it,” Jazen snapped, rushing into the closet. “Stop!You’ll rip the seams.”
    Daemon bared his teeth and snarled at his valet. “What’s wrong with Lord Aldric that he couldn’t get the measurements right? I give him enough business.”
    The valet stripped the shirt off him and hung it back up with a fussy care that honed Daemon’s temper—and also made him wary.
    “It doesn’t fit because it’s not your shirt,” Jazen said, examining the shoulder seams for rips.
    “Then why is it in my closet?”
    “Because it’s Lady Angelline’s shirt.”
    “Then why is it in my closet?”
    Jazen huffed out a breath, and Daemon got the impression the valet had hoped never to have this conversation.
    “It has to stay in your closet with the rest of your clothes in order to absorb your scent,” Jazen said.
    “Are you saying I smell ?”
    “If you want to pick a fight, look elsewhere,” Jazen said with a rigid courtesy. “You asked a question; I’m trying to give you an answer.”
    Daemon closed his eyes and struggled to leash his temper. “My apologies, Jazen,” he finally said. “I’m a bit . . . cranky.”
    “Prince, you passed cranky halfway through breakfast—which is when Beale suggested I pack a bag for you so that you could leave the moment you decided to go to the Keep.”
    He’d always been so good at hiding feelings he didn’t want anyone to see. When had he stopped being good at hiding?
    He opened his eyes and looked at Jazen. “The shirt.”
    Jazen selected another white silk shirt and handed it to him. It didn’t look any different from the other one—except it fit him perfectly.
    “Servants are discreet,” Jazen said. “Especially personal servants. And while they won’t discuss things that go on in the household with anyone outside their house, they do talk among themselves. So I began to see a pattern with the laundry. Lady Angelline would borrow one of your shirts, and when it was laundered, it would be returned to her closet. But the second time she wore it, she would seem dissatisfied—and go browsing in your closet again. That’s when I realized the shirt itself wasn’t the attraction. The appeal was your scent—physical and psychic—that was absorbed by the material.
    “I also realized from the things the maids said that your shirts were a little too big to be comfortably big, and it was easy enough to learn that the High Lord’s shirts had been a better fit. So the last time I was in Amdarh to place an order for your shirts, I took the liberty of talking to Lord Aldric, and he made a couple of shirts that were just a little smaller than your measurements for shoulders and sleeves. I put a little bead on the hanger so that those shirts are easy to identify, and I position them so that Lady Angelline is more likely to choose one of them than any other.”
    “I see,” Daemon said. He hadn’t considered why Jaenelle chose to wear one of his shirts. The way she looked always aroused him, even when it was clear she had no interest in him doing anything with that arousal. “Do you know why she does that?”
    Jazen hesitated. “I wouldn’t presume to know what the Lady thinks.”
    “I asked, Jazen. I’m not going to hold your opinion against you.”
    Jazen hesitated a moment longer. “The servants at the Hall are very discreet,” he said again, emphasizing that point, “but they’ve told me a little about things that happened before the Lady came to live with the High Lord. So I would understand why she responds to some things the way she does.
    “I’m guessing that she first started wearing the High Lord’s shirts when she felt nervous or vulnerable because she needed the reminder that she was safe, that he would stand as her sword and shield. Later on, since Helene and the laundry maids didn’t remember Lady Angelline abandoning his shirts after a couple of washings and she only occasionally borrowed a different one, I think she was at an age when she simply liked wearing one of his shirts—and she enjoyed a small rebellion against a father who liked women to dress for dinner.”
    “So she arrived at the table well dressed but in a man’s shirt,” Daemon said—and wondered if Saetan had been amused or annoyed by that maneuver.
    He missed her so much he ached. Missed her so much the loneliness gnawed at his gut. He hadn’t been able to sleep last