Chapter Twelve – Remy
The past month had flown by so quickly. In Onson, the climate rarely changed so aggressively; even in the depths of summer, there could be snow or crisp air in the mountains.
But Vinitore had come into full blossom as he had learned more about how the branches operated.
He had taken to moving his work under the gazebo, where the castle staff would carefully and warily bring him things. It was almost cute; they would bring him little offerings or tributes, and back away from him carefully, as if he was going to melt them where they stood. Perhaps it would be good to set up a few embassies in towns like Vinitore and further-flung places where they hadn’t had a lot of interactions with dragonkin.
But tonight, the gazebo and most of the grounds had been opened up, and instead of his quiet work hours in the garden in the high noon of the day, it was near dusk. There was just enough crisp in the air to not be stuffy or oppressive, and the music was driving, even if it was seriously lacking from its overreliance on strings and woodwinds.
In truth, Remy could barely get into the mood to dance, to make merry with the mixture of nobility and townsfolk who had been invited up under Laurentino’s care.
In some aspects, Remy was miserable.
He supposed that it was his own fault in the grand scheme of things. Remy was unable to really think of anything else but Isabella. Ever since that day where she’d called him out in the courtyard, Remy had seen Isabella start to keep her distance a little bit more. He supposed that made sense, given how cold he’d been to her after her statement. But what was he supposed to do?
He could not have her. And yet…
How was he supposed to tell her that the reason why he didn’t stare, could barely look at her, was because if he stared at her as much as he wanted to, he’d never accomplish anything at all? How would he tell her that the reason that he kept his distance was because he was worried about his hands wandering, worried that the pair of them would end up locked in some closet, where a maid would happen upon him ravishing her. Even if she hadn’t rebuffed him so inelegantly, he was sure that she’d prefer not to be desecrated in her childhood home.
He felt like a rake of the highest order, lusting after someone so fragile.
He took a long pull of the light spring wine, and felt the heady sweetness of it turn his brain even more towards the saccharine thoughts.
He couldn’t get enough of seeing Isabella, the real Isabella, here.
The Isabella who was confident at her work, who ruled her family and the Council for the Code of the Crown with sweetness but with strength? How could he not stare at her when she wore those dresses that showed off the soft heaving of her breasts, so much so that all he could think about was tearing her dress off and letting his claws trace the delicate lines of blue beneath her skin. He craved to feel her against him again, this time without the pillows or borders or boundaries. To feel her underneath him, or her atop him, her dark auburn curls tumbling down over her impossibly warm, impossibly soft skin.
How was he supposed to tell her that he’d fallen for her mind and her body and her soul?
Well, he didn’t know how. That was the problem. It was the one he’d spent literal weeks working out. And when he’d finally tried, finally attempted to take a step forward, she had rejected him.
So, instead of facing the problem, he had been watching from the wings, listening to the Laurentine Triumvirate blather on and on about whatever they’d last hunted or killed, or, in Carmine or Tristan’s case, fucked.
He watched Isabella laugh with her sister Patricia and dance with some of the townsfolk as she talked, genial, amiable, and open. Isabella was wearing a gorgeous gown of light purple and gold, with those tufted sleeves that made her look delicate. It silhouetted her curves, the ones that he wished he could grip with his claws and never stop. Her laurels, golden, fine, and crusted with fine amethysts, caught the light and glittered with each step she took. They were stunning. She was stunning. And he was here, not with her.
He drank, copiously. He didn’t think that he’d ever drunk as much wine as he had in Vinitore. He couldn’t help it—there were always so many flavors and varieties. Heady, bubbly, fizzy, rich, earthy, dry. Isabella had been so right; she’d been so right about too many things.
“Why do they serve it in such tiny glasses?” he said, looking at the flute that looked more like a child’s toy in his claws. “Wouldn’t it be more economical, more practical, to serve it out of a larger glass?”
“It’s not for guzzling, it’s for sipping, delicately,” Tristan chided, nudging Remy gently. Remy was surprised when Tristan was able to actually move him. Just how many of these glasses had he drank? He turned to look back at the table and blanched. He wasn’t sure if he knew the numbers for all of those in Aurelian.
He turned back to Tristan. “Well, sometimes you need larger sips.”
Tristan chuckled. “I suppose we will have to get larger glasses for you all. Give me a moment to refill yours, friend. Why don’t you enjoy the rest of the festivities? I’m sure you’re light on your claws. You could cut in. Isabella will show you if you need more help.”
“Yes, she’s fantastic at instruction,” he murmured, catching her eye again.
She spun once on the floor, switching partners with her sister as they softly bowed and twirled to the dance.
He wasn’t sure whether it was the wine, his own misery, or just her in that dress, but it was enough to pull Remy from his seat and onto the dance floor.
Remy had watched enough that he was familiar with the dance; he’d seen it a few times during his time here. He cut in easily, feeling surprisingly light on his feet as he did it. Isabella looked at him from the other side of the circle, and Remy gave a knowing nod. She gave a slighter one in return.
Now it was a game. He continued to turn this way and that, mindful to slip between partners at the designated times. He wove in and out of the lines until he turned a final time, moving to stand in front of her.
“Vicomte,” Isabella breathed. Hearing that title on her lips was like the brightest wine in the vineyard.
“Princess,” he said, surprised at how low his voice was, and the soft rasp. “I will take your next dance.”
“I’ve been waiting,” she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as the dance began again.
She extended a hand to him, and it felt like fire on his hide. True, she had been dancing for most of the evening, but he had a feeling her hands were not any warmer than normal.
Her hand fit in his so slightly, but there was still strength there. The pads of her index fingers were rough with new calluses. He enjoyed the way they rasped in his palm. Perhaps it was from the nights of candlelit hours holding quills. What would her hands feel like on his bare shoulders, on his chest, between his spines?
He stumbled slightly on his feet and caught himself as he spun, beginning the dance again.
He lost track of how many dances they did together. The lines would shift, or the patterns would change; this one had a clap in it. This one had an adorable little hop that would make her skirts flounce just a bit before she came down, and did lurid things to her curves.
Finally, he stopped her as they ended a dance at the end of the line together.
“Do you need a break, Vicomte? We’ve barely started.”
“I tend to get my exercise from martial arts. Dancing is a different skill set. But you have also been doing this for much longer than I have. Do you think that you need to take a few moments off the floor? I think… I want to perhaps continue our conversation from the gardens.”
The realization dawned across her face all at once and she suddenly seemed flushed. “Oh, yes. Then I think I would like some white wine, thank you,”
“Of course,” he murmured, and took her hand, walking with her to the refreshment tables opposite from her brothers.
This was the quieter side, as it was a bit far out, closer to the wildflower gardens. Remy pulled her closer, grabbing a pair of wine glasses and passing her one. She sipped softly, and Remy watched the delicious way her throat moved as she swallowed. This was dangerous; she was dangerous. Perhaps he was the one who needed the chaperone now. Remy downed his beverage twice as fast, and put it down and started talking before his mind could catch up.
“You asked why I couldn’t look at you, why I look at the crown of your head, your right arm, the middle of your nose? It’s because if I look anywhere else I think I would truly combust, turn into a cloud of flame and shadow. I think that you would ruin me, Isabella. And, for you? I’d so desperately want to be ruined.”
Isabella blushed. Remy craved to see just how far down that blush went.
“So forward.”
“You enjoy it. You told me as such. You said you admired my boldness, my tenacity,” Remy murmured.
“I did. I do. But…” She looked around for a moment and then waited for another turn of the music, and then grabbed his claw, storming off. Remy followed, surprised at her strength. She led him to a little covered trellis, replete with crawling wisteria.
“It’s beautiful here,” Remy said. “Every time I turn around in this little jewelry box I’m amazed. How did you—”
“Could you do the same thing you did sober?” she said, scanning his face.
“Whatever do you mean? Remy said, instantly defensive.
“Confessing these feelings for me, wanting to rip off all my clothes. How much of this would you have said without drinking through a dozen glasses of wine?”
“The glasses are so small, admittedly,” he said, and then saw that her face grew slightly more annoyed. “I would have been able to do it sober. I would be able to do it in any condition. All the wine has done is removed my barriers.”
She looked him over. “Why didn’t you say it, then? When we were in the courtyard alone?”
“Because I didn’t want to do this hiding in the shadows, skulking around corners of your heart. You rebuffed me, Isabella. You denied me to your brother and you’ve yet to say anything, anything at all to me. How could I have possibly known what your intentions are? You canceled our courtship. I gave you two gifts; I was ready to interview with your brother. What else must I do? I want to court you, honestly. Isabella, you told me you didn’t want me. I am awash in confusion. Put me out of my misery here and now. If you don’t want anything to do with me, so be it. But if you have the tiniest flicker of emotion in your heart for me… Let me set you aflame.”
Isabella seemed to assess him, the same way she’d look at a semi-colon before she would remove the clause entirely. Finally, she took one of his claws in her hands. Her touch was so warm, so soft. Remy looked down, gently wrapping her hand in his, careful not to tear her delicate skin with his claws.
“Remy, I’m so sorry. I was a fool.” She took a step back, and removed the laurels from her head, a few wisps of auburn falling into her face. A touch of imperfection. She handed them to him, shaking her head. “I was scared, scared of what Laurentino would say. Scared of what would happen if I got rejected, again. I don’t talk much about my past. I had a suitor once, and I brought him to my brother. But he wasn’t… I couldn’t be with him. He had too many secrets buried. Too much debt, too many detractions. Laurentino forced me to give him up. And I agreed, for the good of the crown. For this,” she murmured, gesturing to the laurels. “So… I’m giving them to you. Gift of the heart. Being princess, being Caller, is important to me. It’s my life’s work. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live a life without love in it any longer.”
Then, she set her hands on both sides of his head and pulled him closer, thinking for a moment, and then kissing the top of his snout.
Remy stilled in her touch. She was so warm, so soft.
Remy felt himself stir into life, and gently leaned into her soft, chaste kiss. He set a claw on her hip, full and supple under his touch, and fought the urge to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
She continued to explore, leaving a trail of fire down his snout, down the side of his head, and then, slowly to his neck, opening her mouth and leaving gentle nips that left Remy hissing with pleasure. Then she leaned back down, removing her hands from his head, and stepping back.
Remy felt the tension leave his body, as more and more of it coiled and stirred to life below.
“You can’t do that,” he said, his voice tortured.
Isabella quirked a smile. “Ah, but I did. So clearly, you’re incorrect.”
Remy laughed, and pulled her close, carefully nuzzling his head against her neck. “You are a challenge. I can’t wait to bring you to task.”
“You’ll have to keep waiting, then. There are far too many people around.”
“I’m trying to find the energy to care about them.”
She blushed again, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. “Then maybe there’s somewhere else we can go.”
“Show me then, Princess, and then I’ll take the lead.”