Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Yes. Yes, you have, Charlotte.
You are a complete and utter fool for rejecting your sweet and absurdly handsome bodyguard’s generous offer.
It becomes more and more apparent with each subsequent outing with Duke áine.
On Monday, I am cautiously optimistic about the tour the duke has promised through the wider territory. So far, he’s not introduced me to any of the common folk in Tír na Lune. I’m not sure he himself spends much time with them.
But instead of the duke, one of his valets arrives after breakfast to inform me he’s been called away for a rehearsal of—wait for it—the Vanquishing of the Báshounds, a play Lisande has commissioned based on the piece in the Sky Gazette.
Ridiculous. And that title. The báshounds have not been vanquished. They are still very much alive, prowling around their paddock and feasting on innocent deer.
Lachlan attempts to cheer me with a silly story about Desmond coming home from a party rip-roaring drunk and entering the wrong bedchamber. Ended up crawling into bed with one of his mother’s friends. The woman was pleased by the intrusion. Her wife, not as much.
“What were his parents like?” I ask, through a fit of laughter.
“Strict, but compassionate,” Lachlan says. “And fiercely protective of all the peoples of the celestial kingdom, not just those in Tír na Strelle. He is very much like them. He will be a great king.”
The reverence in Lachlan’s words draws my attention to his powerful frame, his white armour, the sword resting against his chair.
“Only a great king would be worthy of such a great knight.”
“See?” He smiles across the table, one of those broad ones that pops his dimple, and heat swoops through my belly. “Who said you’re not charming?”
The next day, the duke has planned a luncheon in the Tranquileries.
On our walk there, I ask questions about his territory, his people, their customs. But the only topic that interests Duke áine is Duke áine.
He finds a way to steer the conversation back to himself each time. It is quite impressive, actually.
And as soon as his valet spreads out our blanket, Lady LaBeaumont slithers over. Claims the duke is the only person in all of Tír na Lune with a palette sophisticated enough to select the soup for the evening’s first course.
It is the first time, to my knowledge, that I have been passed over for soup.
I stomp to the pink willow, fuming, until Lachlan arrives with my sketchbook. I spend the afternoon drawing unflattering portraits of the duke and Lisande which Lachlan assures me are both skillfully rendered and hilarious.
There is a great amount of joy to be had in indulging one’s pettier instincts.
On Wednesday, I learn the meaning of the phrase be careful what you wish for. Duke áine does not abandon our outing, a kelpie ride—separate kelpies, praise the faerie gods—over the Nubiium River. Not wanting to waste another second being polite and skirting the issue, I ask him to share his clue.
He side-eyes me from atop his mount. “I am not sure you are ready to hear it, Miss Fitzroy. I have not had sufficient time to judge whether you possess the qualities I’m looking for in a queen.”
My hands strangle the reins, and my eyelid starts twitching. What would be the consequences if I knocked him from his kelpie, then encouraged my own to stomp him to death? Would the ring fall off and send me to the Afterlands with him? Right now, I’m willing to chance it.
More airily than I imagined I was capable of, I ask what, precisely, he’s looking for in a queen.
His response begins with a list of virtues—obedience, modesty, humility—that I am certain are code for a meek woman who will never question my decisions nor steal my spotlight.
Which gives way to an hours-long monologue on his own accomplishments and character.
By the time we return to the castle, I am on the verge of pitying my arch nemesis Lisande. How on earth can she stand to spend so much time in this man’s company?
I return to my quarters—alone, since Lachlan is teaching at the Eyrie this afternoon—and vow to try harder at dinner. I have less than a month before Lughnasadh, by which time I need to have found the second fragment.
Even if I do, I still have Duke Cernunnos to contend with.
We’ve heard no word from Tír na Dubh, nor from Desmond.
If Cernunnos has been kept informed of my progress in Tír na Lune, then I am not at all surprised by his silence.
Every odds-maker from here to Farlock’s Edge is predicting my failure.
Why would he extend an invite to a dead woman?
The whole affair is exhausting.
And every night, as I lay in the thorny bed in my coldly beautiful prison cell, Lachlan’s offer blazes into my mind.
Use me.
It’s always accompanied by visions of his bare torso, his ravenous expression when he walked in on me naked, those thoughts he couldn’t stop me from hearing. Especially the one about how soft I looked.
Not to mention highlights of his bravery and kindness and gentle encouragement these past weeks.
He is a very good man.
It makes me want to do very bad things to him.
I get so hot that in order to fall asleep, I either have to throw off my blankets or take matters into my own hands.
It only ever takes a few circles of my slick fingers as I conjure remembered sensations of his teeth on my neck, his hands on my waist, his strength at my back, and I’m coming with my own teeth sunk into the meat of my palm to confuse the diamrhán.
Just in case he’s eavesdropping. Despite his offer, I’m not sure I want him to know how often I touch myself while thinking about him.
My nightly diddling does nothing to ease my frustration, though. I am frustrated by this House’s vain, vapid duke. Frustrated by his sycophantic courtiers. Frustrated by his meddling, murderous lover.
Mostly, though, I am frustrated with myself.
Aowen is, too; her desperation is reflected in the outfit she and Vesper have selected for me tonight.
The ethereal ice-blue gown boasts a scooped neckline, and though fitted sleeves cover my arms, my shoulders are bare and the flowing skirt is nearly translucent. There’s no slit, but it’s hardly needed since my legs—and panties—are plainly visible.
Vesper braided the top half of my hair, but left the bottom to cascade down my back, and she’s worked some cosmetic magic on my face. Elongated lashes make my green-gold eyes look enormous, a wash of peach sweeps up my cheeks, and my rose lips look recently bitten.
“Pulling out all the stops,” Lachlan grunts, either too slow or too careless to mask the want in his gaze when I exit my bedchamber.
Vesper bleats a prideful chirp, and Aowen offers me a smug smirk.
When I caught my reflection in the mirror earlier, I felt like a vixen. Interesting. Capable. Powerful. A woman who has already ensnared one duke of the Otherworld, and plans to add another to her cache.
“If the duke ignores her in this,” Aowen says, admiring Vesper’s handiwork, “then the man has no eyes in his head.”
Vesper beams. “Food. Dazzling food.”
“We’re going to be late for dinner,” Aowen says, lifting her skirts.
She opens the door, and Vesper chirrups a farewell before zooming through it.
I trail the blur of lavender down the hallway. “Where is she going?”
“I’ve learned not to ask.” Aowen marches forward, but before I can follow, a warm hand around my upper arm halts me.
There’s solid heat at my back, soft breath on my ear.
“You look exquisite, Charlotte.”
I close my eyes, need quivering down my spine. I really need to stop masturbating to thoughts of my bodyguard every night.
“If the duke cannot see what a treasure you are, then he doesn’t understand true value. And doesn’t deserve to be your king.”
I am afraid of what I might admit if I open my mouth. So I say nothing as I take Lachlan’s proffered elbow, and let him lead me to the dining hall.
Where another battle in this endless war begins.