Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
If I thought having Lachlan following me around—ever present, ever handsome, ever off-limits—was tempting before, it is nothing compared to how it is now that I know how his mouth tastes, how his fingers feel caressing my body with specific intention, how his eyes dance with ravenous glee while he’s winding me up.
It’s all I can think about this week.
Even as his advice on how to handle Duke áine is starting to pay off.
At dinner this evening, Lisande is in my place next to the duke again.
I ignore them both, instead take a seat beside Aowen and Timothy Hopnell, son of Lord Hopnell, one of Torvil’s lesser landed courtiers.
Timothy is an enlightening and energetic conversationalist, knows quite a bit about the history and politics of Tír na Lune.
He expounds on the anti-monarchists—not an invention after all; they’ve existed in the territory for years—who have grown bolder the longer the kingdom remains kingless.
We discuss Campan’s Vale as well, and I ask why he thinks Torvil hid the Bannrhorn fragment there.
Timothy speculates that it was an attempt by the duke to strengthen his claim to the region and I cannot help but agree.
Lachlan and I haven’t risked more than a trip or two over these past few weeks as the fighting between the local fae and House áine grows more violent every day. It’s an outcome that Aowen, myself and Timothy lament. Timothy perhaps a bit more carefully, given his father’s position.
As dinner comes to a close, Timothy scrapes a hand through his dark hair and adjusts his glasses.
“Regardless of what any of us thinks, there is only one outcome that will settle the dispute. The selection of a king.” His gaze darts toward Torvil, toward Lisande, then back to me.
“And we’re all beginning to lose hope of that. ”
A month ago, I might have crumpled. Blubbered out apologies and prostrated myself at his feet, promising to do better.
But I’m growing a bit tired of being underestimated.
And more than exhausted by the bullies of this court.
So instead, I lean back in my chair, take a long sip of my wine, and proclaim, “The Season is not over yet, Mister Hopnell.”
Pride pulses through the diamrhán and when I tip my chin over my shoulder, Lachlan winks at me from further down the table where he’s sitting with some of the other celestial knights.
The next three nights pass in a similar manner, with Lisande in my seat next to the duke and me with Aowen and his courtiers.
I am learning more than I ever anticipated about the kingdom’s politics.
Far more than I learned on any of my outings with Tír na Lune’s ostensible leader.
The issues plaguing the kingdom since the loss of their monarchs are not so dissimilar to issues faced in the human realm.
The separation of authority is leading to isolationism, which in turn foments a dangerous tribalism.
There have been incidents of violence reported against fae who find themselves outside their territories.
And each is blaming the others’ dukes for the situation while finding their own beyond reproach.
I wish I could offer more insight, say something more clever than my oft-provided and cringe-inducing, “I’m so sorry to hear that, how terrible.”
Aowen guides the conversations with far more skill.
She always knows the right questions to ask.
Always offers potential solutions but never false hope.
She radiates a poise, confidence, and innate authority that I have yet to encounter here in the Otherworld.
Her brother has a touch of it. Lachlan does, too, in some ways.
But his power is a quieter, more steadfast thing.
The foundation upon which thrones are built, not occupied.
Neither Lachlan nor I have said a single word about the other night.
I know he left the ball squarely in my court, but his lack of comment on what happened between us is filling me with a twisted combination of vanity and fear.
I will not beg. But what if he changed his mind after he had his little sample?
What if I’m not what he wants after all?
It’s fine. It’s fine. He is not for me, and I am not for him.
It’s far easier to remember that when he’s not opening doors, pulling out my chair, guiding me through the castle with the gentle press of his fingertips between my shoulder blades.
Plus, the cherry scones I love so much keep appearing at breakfast and never on the trays Aowen has conjured. I swear I saw a swipe of flour on Lachlan’s tunic sleeve yesterday. Has he been fetching them from the kitchens for me?
I shake off my miserable confusion, trying not to stare at him across the table this morning, nearly a week after the “sofa dream.” That’s what I’ve been calling my lesson because at this point, I’m not even sure it happened.
His glasses are perched on his nose as he works on today’s carving—a small ashwood dagger with a wolf’s head handle. The slow, careful movements of his long fingers should not be making me think the things I’m thinking.
“I’ve arranged a meeting for you this afternoon,” Aowen says, pulling me from my inappropriate thoughts.
“Food. Naughty food,” Vesper offers through a toothy smile while braiding an underside section of Aowen’s raven hair.
I ignore the pixie’s taunts. “What kind of meeting?”
“Torvil’s been asking about you.” Aowen munches a slice of dry toast. She’s been out late nearly every night this week, flitting from courtier to courtier, singing my praises.
“Your obliviousness is nagging at him. He takes his lunch with every lord and lady you’ve sat with the night before.
Wants to know exactly what you’ve been talking about.
The court is starting to see your company as an advantage.
A way to get more face time with their duke.
And the more they angle for your attention, the more intrigued Torvil becomes. Bold strategy.”
She aims a sly smile at Lachlan, who flicks a wood shaving, tongues his lip ring, and shrugs a muscular shoulder. The man was crafted by his gods specifically to torment me; I’m sure of it.
“Lord Hopnell saw you drawing in the Tranquileries yesterday and asked if you do portraits,” Aowen continues. “He’s never sat for one and wondered if you’d be willing to draw him. I told him you’d love to.”
An idea brews. “Where does he want to meet?”
“His townhouse is two blocks away, down Catena Street. I told him to expect us there after lunch.”
“Would he be willing to come here instead? Tell him he needs a grander backdrop. And that I have the perfect framing in mind in the east salon.”
“Across from the duke’s office?” Lachlan asks with an impressed grin. Clever little queen.
So many grand portraits hang in the castle gallery. But guess who’s not yet in the line-up? I grin back. You told me to show Torvil what he’s missing.
“Would he agree to it, do you think?” I press Aowen.
“I don’t see why not. What are you up to?”
“Food. Sneaky food.” Vesper ties off the end of Aowen’s braid, then flits over to start mine.
I pop a grape into my mouth.
“Ensnaring a duke. And earning his clue.”
“Where should I sit?” Lord Hopnell asks, twisting around in the pale afternoon sunlight streaming into the east salon.
He’s a froggy-looking man with bulging eyes, a too-wide mouth, and a generous belly over stick-thin legs. His silver hair—parted down the center and shaped into two log-like curls atop his ears—does little to dampen the effect.
“Right there in front of the fireplace, my lord.” I gesture to a large chair with red silk cushions framed in white wood. A veritable throne. “I hope you’ll agree this is the only seat in this room that suits you.”
Lord Hopnell puffs his chest, grinning as he settles down.
“I must say, Miss Fitzroy, I was a bit taken aback when you suggested the palace as the setting for my portrait, but”—he swivels his gaze around the room—“I do believe it was the right decision. It’s appropriate for how close His Grace and I are. ”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a snicker. My acquaintance with Lord Hopnell is a result of our twin banishments to the frozen wilds of the courtly dinner table. But I would never insult my pawn. “A powerful man deserves a powerful background.”
Speaking of power, the air shifts as Lachlan strides into the salon.
He’s changed into his pristine white armour, at my request. His auburn hair is freshly braided, and his pauldrons make his shoulders look absurdly broad.
I wanted another shiny object in the room to lure Duke áine’s attention.
The strategy may have been a bit too effective, though; the sight of him in full dress takes my breath away.
“Sir Cathal,” Lord Hopnell croaks out, displeased.
Many of the Tír na Lune courtiers observe Lachlan with barely concealed distaste.
I am not sure if it’s because they believe him to be a trumped-up harlot who doesn’t deserve his knighthood, or because his loyalty lies with a different House. “What are you doing here?”
Lachlan doesn’t miss a beat. “Our future queen is under the protection of House Macán. It is my duty to ensure her safety.”
Lord Hopnell huffs. “Surely you don’t believe she’s in any danger from me.”
“Never, my lord,” Lachlan says in that smooth, low voice that does funny things to my insides.
I want to hear it whispering filth in my ear again.
“But I thought it wise to be here for you, too. A man of your stature must have acquired a few envious enemies over the years. I offer you my protection as well.”
Lord Hopnell’s shoulders swell, and a wide smile splits his face. “Yes, just so. Good thought, man, good thought.” He turns to me. “How should I pose?”
I guide Lord Hopnell into position as I say into Lachlan’s mind, Give him what he needs, huh?
Men are simple creatures, Charlotte. Make us feel important and we’ll do whatever you ask.
Yourself included?
Of course, he purrs, but as I told you, you need to ask first. Out loud. Otherwise I might get it confused with all the begging you do in my dreams.
I spit out a laugh, and Lord Hopnell gives me a confused look. “Relax your face, my lord,” I say to him, then settle in to get started.
Despite the distraction of Lachlan’s mind-flirting, once I put charcoal to paper, that familiar creative focus washes over me.
Time melts away, and I am halfway through my initial sketch when voices echo through the hallway to our left.
Lord Hopnell twists his head around. “Is that His Grace?”
I chide gently, asking him to please hold his position. I want us all to seem unbothered by the duke’s presence.
“Wait for me in my office,” Duke áine says as the footsteps stop, and my spirits leap.
Lisande simpers, “But, Torvil, we’re needed—”
“In my office.” A sharp reprimand, followed by a low, “And do not call me that in public. I’ve asked you too many times, Lady LaBeaumont.”
Lisande clacks away as I focus on the buttons of Lord Hopnell’s waistcoat, clinging to the fabric in a desperate battle with his paunch.
Duke áine steps up beside me. “What’s going on here?”
Lord Hopnell scrambles out of his chair, bowing. “It was her idea, Your Grace. I commissioned her for a portrait, and she thought—”
“A portrait?” The duke trains his violet eyes on me, intrigued. “I wasn’t aware you were an artist, Miss Fitzroy.”
I execute a small curtsy. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Your Grace. And it’s just a hobby, really. I would never presume to call myself an artist. This is my first official portrait.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Hopnell splutters. “She is a rare talent. I discovered her myself. Saw her sketching out by the reflecting pool.”
Duke áine ignores Lord Hopnell, his focus solely upon me. As if I have magically transformed into something of value. “And you felt Thaddeus was the most appropriate subject for your first official portrait?” A vein in his temple throbs.
My eyes dart to Lachlan, an unobtrusive statue who will not move until called upon. And though his face is a perfectly blank canvas, I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Trap sprung.
“I thought it best to practice my skills on a lesser courtier”—Lord Hopnell huffs an affronted breath—“before even thinking to use you as a subject.”
Duke áine sniffs. “Bring examples of your work to dinner this evening. If anyone in Tír na Lune should be judging your talent, it’s me. Your commission will have to wait, Thaddeus.”
“I am at your service, Your Grace,” I say, bowing as Duke áine stalks away, trailed by a blubbering Lord Hopnell.
Later that evening, a sketchbook tucked under my arm, I arrive at dinner to find Lord Hopnell seated farther from the duke than he’s ever been.
And right next to him is Lisande LaBeaumont.
I am far too petty to resist smirking at her as I take my place next to the duke.