Chapter 9 – The House on Top of the Hill #2
The sight of her eyes widening and the wash of furious color through her face was a balm to his spirit.
But she had already come this far, and she was a daughter of House Melun; she would not back down easily.
After a moment to get over the worst of her anger and embarrassment, she sat up straight and made herself look at him again, eying the strangeness of his male body as if he were a new musical instrument she was abruptly obliged to play.
“Do not kiss me,” he warned, turning his head away as her face lowered toward him. “Ever.”
It was painful for both of them. She was still unready when she forced him inside herself, and she had to bite her lip to stifle a cry, tears springing to her eyes.
It hurt him too, especially when she inexpertly began to move, and her eyes flicked to his face resentfully, as if he were being cruel.
Had she thought he would help her with this? Did she really expect him to pity her?
He would give her nothing. As she took him into herself, his hate was so great that he wanted to deny her every other conceivable satisfaction.
He wanted to slap her hands off him. He could have endured it without making a single sound, and he wanted to deny her that, too, refuse even the most minimal participation in this act.
But as he moved painfully in and out of her, he thought of something better that he could deny her.
She would never have his child.
Bastin grunted. A quiver ran through his body, the muscles of his thighs flexing.
He hated it, but this was the lesser of the available evils.
Slowly, believably, he let her force sounds from him, and his responses stimulated her enough to give them both a bit of merciful moisture.
She was drenched with sweat by the time he groaned and pretended to orgasm, thrusting upward inside her several times.
“Get off me,” he spat when it was over, before she could realize that he was still hard. He doubted her bridal lessons had included these finer points of sexual activity. When he pulled out of her, he was reddened with her blood.
Silently, he dressed, keeping his back to her. When he got back to his own palace, he was going to scrub the stench of tuberoses from his body and then find a woman to wipe away all memory of that loathsome touch.
“I will invite you to my bed again, husband,” Esmene said behind him, the words perfect, melodious, and bearing an underlying steel.
It was a challenge that would set the course of an empire.
* * *
“Cruce Adelan, Your Grace.”
“Jaose Thiraman, Your Grace.”
“Emiset of Giry, my lady. Please call me Emi, if you like.”
“Peritenn Emberoy, my lady. Oh, and you can call me Peri.”
“Sim Gedot, m’lady.”
Ranged in a tidy row, each bowed or curtsied in turn, making Ophele feel as if she were facing a very polite army.
These were the first of what eventually would be a small army: the massive staff necessary to keep a ducal estate humming.
As soon as she had received word they had arrived, she had dropped everything to come and welcome them, anxious to do her duty as the mistress of Remin’s house.
The day of judgment had come at last.
“I’m Samin,” piped the last one, a little boy who would have charge of the household’s boots.
“He is my nephew, Your Grace,” said Adelan, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Adelan could be no one but the butler, a short and tidy man with cropped gray hair and surprising bottle-green eyes. “He will not trouble you.”
“I am sure he’s no trouble,” Ophele said, a little overwhelmed as she looked up at them all and trying not to show it. “I’m very pleased to meet all of you.”
The six of them had arrived on the ferry that morning and paused just long enough to deposit their belongings in the cottages by the manor and have a wash before they sent their greetings to their new lady.
It was only when she was halfway up the hill that Ophele realized she ought to have summoned them to her rather than scurried off to greet them herself, but with both Lady Verr and Sir Leonin at her back, she was terrified to admit the error.
“The h-house isn’t finished yet,” she continued, feeling a prickling burn of embarrassment sear up the back of her neck.
Peri and Emi made her particularly anxious.
The two maids looked very sturdy and capable, and Ophele was sure they would see through her in a way a man would not.
“I have spoken with Master Didion, and he said soon it will be ready to move in. He’s the architect.
We have already ordered some furniture, including th-things for your rooms… ”
She stopped as her tongue tangled and felt her face redden.
“The cottages are quite comfortable, Your Grace,” the butler assured her. “Duke Ereguil explained that we might find things in flux, as it were. We have some suggestions about how we might be of assistance in the meantime, though of course we would not dream of disrupting your schedule.”
“Oh, you’re not,” she said, her hands fluttering. “I also—these are my guards, and my lady. Lady Verr. And Sir Leonin of Breuyir, and Sir Davi Gosse. You will see each other often, I expect.”
It was a stupid thing to say, of course they would see each other often. Emi and Peri exchanged glances as they made their courtesies, and Ophele cringed inside, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt.
“My lady, Wen will still be serving luncheon,” Sir Leonin bent his head to murmur the suggestion, recalling her to her duty.
“All of you must be hungry,” she said. “It will be a little bit of a walk, I’m afraid, but I can show you where things are…”
Maybe she should have asked Sir Miche to steal a carriage after all.
Everywhere was a bit of a walk from the manor, but at least it was easier to speak when she didn’t have to look at all of them at once.
Ophele pointed out the inlet where much of Tresingale’s laundry was still done, heartily recommended the bathhouses, and looked down the long stretch of Market Street with renewed trepidation.
A cobbler, a chandler, and the new weaver were all due to arrive in town shortly, but it was a two-mile walk to the market square.
“But most of the supplies are there,” she went on, indicating the storehouse.
The servants had ranged themselves behind her, but Adelan strolled beside her with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, absorbing every word.
“Sir Justenin has been acting as His Grace’s steward, especially regarding the house, so I’m sure you’ll want to speak to him. ”
“I have corresponded with Sir Justenin a little, Your Grace,” Adelan replied, nodding. “I would like to begin work as soon as possible.”
That was good. The tasks belonging to a boot boy, footman, or maid were fairly straightforward, but she wasn’t at all sure how the responsibilities might be divided up between herself, Adelan, and Sir Justenin.
If she was lucky, the two men would sort it out for themselves, and she would just do whatever was left over.
At the cookhouse, Emi volunteered to go see about luncheon while Ophele settled everyone else at a table inside.
“Will there be no cook at the manor, my lady?” Adelan inquired, lifting little Samin onto the bench. The boy could not be older than seven.
“Not yet,” she replied apologetically. “His Grace is very particular about food, so we will likely depend on Master Wen through the wi—wo…oh. Bother. Emi.”
Shoving her chair back, Ophele was off like a shot, with Sir Leonin and Sir Davi right on her heels and Lady Verr exclaiming behind her. Her skirts flew as she raced around the cookhouse toward the back. She heard the explosion almost as soon as she turned the corner.
“What the bleeding fuck are ye doing in my kitchen?! ”
Ophele ran faster. If Emi replied, she couldn’t hear it; she wrenched open the kitchen door and threw herself bodily between the maid and the cook, her arms flung out as if Wen might start slinging cleavers.
“Wen. Wen. Master Wen!” She had to shout to be heard over the profane epic he was extemporizing. Emi was going to be back on the ferry before suppertime. “She’s one of the new house maids! I didn’t tell her, it’s my fault!”
From the doorway, Sir Davi tactfully extracted Emi, whose eyes were like saucers.
“Then warn the rest of those domesticated blighters, too,” Wen snarled. “Walking into me larder like the Princess of the Pantry, I won’t have it, I will not!”
“I know, I know,” Ophele agreed, placating. “I will tell them. I really am sorry. And would you mind terribly heating something up? They’ve just come across the river today, and that beef stew you make with tarragon is so good, with the little potatoes?”
She added a little sweet entreaty to her voice. His lip curled.
“It’s lucky ye are that I’m a kind-hearted soul,” he growled. His knife spun in his fingers and impaled a haunch of something before he stalked away. “With the little potatoes, she says. Tarragon. Didn’t I say it would come to tarragon? Loyse! Fetch me a bleeding pot!”
“I do apologize,” Ophele said to Emi as they walked back to the dining area of the cookhouse.
The girl was medium height and sturdy-looking, but it took a resolute soul to face Wen.
“Master Wen is very protective of the kitchen. If you stay behind the white line, he won’t mind you, and there’s always food in the cupboards. ”
“Yes, my lady,” Emi replied. There was still a little too much white showing in her eyes.
Walking back into the cookhouse was excruciating.
Ophele couldn’t bring herself to meet anyone’s eyes as she repeated the warning, aware that she hadn’t lasted an hour before she had completely obliterated the fiction that she was any sort of lady, let alone a duchess.
What must they think of her? Lady Hurrell wouldn’t have budged from a stately glide if the house were aflame.
Taking her seat, her hands knotted in her lap. They were all looking at her.