Despite my upbringing in Ennolu’s service, I whispered a few words of prayer to Dromos, he who’d gifted me magic and put me in this pickle in the first place.
He owed me. And if ever he meant to repay that debt with a helping hand, this evening’s ordeal would be the time.
Chapter Five
The carriage rattled down the hill and around endless corners for a full quarter of an hour. My rage grew and grew with every passing moment. While my understanding of Calatria’s capital city’s layout might be vague and based in childhood memories, I did know that the better neighborhoods and more elegant houses in Nevaia—including both Lord Stefan’s and his parents’—were clustered around the tops of several hills rising to the palace’s high vantage point.
If my husband had come to collect me, I’d have spent only a few minutes in a carriage. Instead, to facilitate his extended sojourn in his den of iniquity, I’d had to ready myself early and go all the way down to collect him, and then all the way back up.
The insult rankled.
Allof the insults rankled, his and his father’s, and my fear began to sizzle away in the heat of my anger with every turn and stop and jolt of the carriage. I might suffer for the insolence of wearing this cassock once my husband got me alone, but I’d started not to care.
The carriage rolled to a stop at last and then bounced as the footman climbed down from behind. I peeked out the window, watching him trot down a narrow alley. Torchlight spilled from an open window, but otherwise the alley seemed very dark indeed compared to the broader street, where the last remnants of the sunset still reflected from white walls.
Despite the dimness and the uneven paving stones, the footman went unerringly to one of several identical doors.
So. Not the first time this servant had collected his master in this particular seedy byway. Should I be impressed by Lord Stefan’s fidelity to whatever house of ill repute lurked behind that door, or critical of his lack of imagination?
The door opened. My husband stepped out, and my stomach gave a new little twinge. The footman’s bow had identified him, but I’d known him instantly anyway by the arrogance of his bearing and the breadth of his shoulders in another ridiculous satin coat.
This one, a rich and gleaming violet, sported gold embroidery all down the sleeves, I saw as he approached. My fist clenched around a handful of my rough cassock and my heart beat faster.
The carriage door opened.
Lord Stefan finished drawling his orders to the footman, turned his head, set his foot upon the carriage step, and—stopped.
His very presence seemed to suck all the air out of the carriage.
Dark, flashing eyes raked me up and down, and his lip curled.
Finally he moved, stepping in and dropping down beside me. The door shut, the footman climbed on, and the coachman nudged the horses into motion.
My breath whooshed out of me.
Where was his rage? His violence? If that had been a reaction to my cassock, it’d been disappointing in the extreme.Damnhim!
I could smell him in the near-darkness, a rich, cloying blend of strong liquor and jasmine perfume and the same lemony something—hair pomade, perhaps?—he’d been wearingwhen we married. And beneath that, the scent of him, male skin and a hint of fresh sweat, and also…oh, gods. That had to be the smell of sex, didn’t it? Salty and musky and tangy.
He hadn’t even bathed thoroughly before crawling out of that disgusting place to make a mockery of me at his parents’ dining table. Disjointed images flashed through my mind: Lord Stefan with his breeches undone and someone pretty kneeling at his feet, or his bared teeth as he drove into a smooth, round ass from behind, muscular back gleaming with perspiration…
“I can feel you nearly vibrating out of your skin,” Lord Stefan said, his tone low and smooth, and I gasped, jolting back to my own body, chest heaving. “Say it. Whatever it is.”
I hate you. You sicken me. I’ve had more than one fantasy about your headless corpse, and unfortunately several others just now about how you perform in the bedchamber.
Ugh.
“Are you going to tell your father that you reek of, of, low pleasures because you’ve been so busy corrupting me? Do you really think he’ll believe that?” My voice cracked, my effort to emulate his calm and control failing miserably.
“He will if you reinforce the impression.” Lord Stefan’s voice dipped even lower, with a rasp like a rapier sliding out of its sheath. “And you know perfectly well you’ll need to for your own sake, and with shining-eyed sincerity. Low pleasures? Corrupting? Really? This prim and proper act of yours grows rather tiresome,Remigius, even though I’ve spent only a few minutes in your company. I’ll leave it to you to reconcile your vapors—”
A red haze descended over my vision, and I spun on him, every muscle rigid with the urge to strike him.
“My vapors? Myvapors? I’m neither prim and proper nor am I—”
“Your vapors!” he repeated, snarling at last, his face inches from mine. “Reconcile those and your fucking absurd potato sack, for that matter, with the story you’ll need to sell my father, namely, that my low reek came from consummating our marriage in any number of ways. Rubbing myself on you a bit to spread it would probably help your story, but I don’t,” and he raised his voice yet again as I began to protest, “think I’m inclined to be helpful!”
A scream of pure rage rose up in me, but I choked it down, instead making a sound like a strangled cat.
