Chapter 1
Chapter One
While attending the annual Yuletide Ball at House Celestine, Lady Cyra Firebane made a solemn vow—to find a lord of Aeramere to mentor her in the art of seduction and sexual intimacy.
Such a feat should be fairly simple, considering there were plenty of males in attendance and she would be so lucky as to have her choice.
Unfortunately, dancing was the order of the evening, and she would have to find a partner to whirl her around the ballroom floor once or twice before she approached them with her proposition.
Again, it shouldn’t be too difficult, but most of the lords she found attractive were already ensnared in the arms of other females.
Come Midsummer, she would be forced to marry.
The hands of fate had not been in her favor last season, and while there had been one or two ideal candidates for a husband, neither of them had chosen to continue to pursue her.
It wasn’t her fault she found their conversation tedious, but now she was suffering the consequences of her own actions.
If she didn’t find a husband before the end of next summer, her brother would undoubtedly have to choose one for her.
Cyra rolled her lips, skimming her surroundings.
The Yuletide Ball was dripping with frosted celestial wonders and boughs of winterblooms. Not to mention the bundles of snowy mistletoe bound with red ribbon hanging sneakily from almost every corner, waiting to surprise unsuspecting couples.
Kissing, of course, would be entirely off the table this evening.
In Aeramere, if she kissed a male and their magic claimed one another, then she would be fated to whomever her magic chose.
Of course, kissing someone didn’t necessarily guarantee a mate, but she wouldn’t dare risk the possibility under such circumstances—the meeting of lips was far too intimate.
Whereas she was approaching this particular sexual encounter as nothing more than a learning experience.
A way of understanding her own wants and needs, as well as the desires of most males.
For surely any lord would be willing to share with her their preference for the use of her hand over the use of her mouth, as well as other specific bedroom positions.
She tapped her foot in rhythm to the delicate chords of a waltz and toyed with the firelight flickering from the candles situated on the banquet table.
Her magic hummed as the flames sparked and sputtered at her command.
Rising up on her toes, she took a cursory glance around the space, her gaze snagging on the couple of the evening.
It was hard not to be thoroughly entranced by the way Lord Solarius Starstorm danced with his wife, Lady Narissa.
They were absolute perfection together, a seamless ribbon of velvet twirling through the ballroom.
Effortless. The tension, the longing in their eyes was incomparable.
Cyra could only hope for a relationship like that, one where her husband looked at her as though she was the purest form of divinity.
The fates would shower her with blessings if that sort of love found her.
Until then, she was scoping out the ballroom, on the hunt for a male worthy of her virtue. Or at the very least, one who was damn good in bed.
Lord Nyxian Starstorm would be a fine choice, the scar lancing down the left side of his face always lent him a roguish sort of appeal.
And she’d heard plenty of rumors regarding his rather popular sexual prowess.
Apparently, he was quite well-versed in the art of foreplay and had an extremely wicked tongue.
However, he was also the brother of her sister-in-law, and entirely off limits.
Cyra sighed and took a small sip of winterberry wine.
The bold, berry flavors danced across her tongue, and she appreciated the liquid encouragement.
Not that she wasn’t already bold, but a boost of confidence in the form of warm, mulled wine certainly never hurt.
She strolled along the edge of the ballroom, past the inky walls streaked with wisps of silver and embedded with crystals to mimic starlight, when she caught sight of Lord Reif Marintide.
Her lips pursed in thought.
He wasn’t a terrible choice.
In fact, he was dashingly handsome. Golden, windswept hair fell across his forehead.
It wasn’t long, but not short either, yet somehow always seemed to look perfectly mussed, as though he ran a hand through the gilded waves and simply forgot to care about them.
His skin was kissed by the sun, and he wore a crisp white shirt with black pants and a matching overcoat—all trimmed with the faintest thread of gold.
She couldn’t be sure, but she was fairly certain his eyes were green.
Or maybe they were blue. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things.
She had no plans of staring into his eyes all night.
She wanted to learn so she could please her future husband and be somewhat prepared in terms of realistic expectations.
Lord Marintide was single, whether by choice or fault, she couldn’t be sure.
Most of Aeramere knew him to have a wandering eye, if not two wandering hands as well, so he was hardly loyal.
Which meant he wouldn’t be at risk of falling in love and becoming attached to her.
A small technicality that worked quite well in Cyra’s favor, considering she was only looking for one evening full of sexual instruction.
Not a lifetime of love. By all counts, Lord Marintide would be a splendid choice for her venture.
He was fairly older than her—by at least seven or eight years—and he had plenty of experience.
The most difficult part would be convincing him to agree to such an accord.
Cyra smiled to herself.
She could flatter a male as easily as any other lady of proper social standing, but why waste her time flirting and fluttering her lashes when she could simply proposition him outright?
Smoothing the fabric of her crimson gown, she made her way toward him, grateful she’d chosen something form-fitting for the occasion, and not an overflowing dress with an obscene number of layers.
She adjusted the beaded bodice, ensuring her full bosom was decently displayed yet not too abundant from the snug corset.
The last thing she wanted was to accidentally give him a glimpse of what she could offer before they even made it out of the ballroom.
Mustering up her courage with a dazzling smile, Cyra made her final approach.
“Good evening, Lord Marintide. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.” She curtsied deeply, pleased when his brows lifted in surprise before he quickly recovered and bowed accordingly.
“Lady Cyra.” He accepted her proffered hand, brushing a featherlight kiss across her knuckles. One that had no business sending a swarm of butterflies into a frenzy in her belly. She straightened against the tingling onslaught and did not falter. “The pleasure is all mine.”
His voice was deeper than she remembered, a gravelly rumble, and she smiled brightly against the unexpected bloom of warmth spreading through her.
It was natural, she reminded herself. A completely normal response to a male of such esteemed caliber, especially one who was so distinctly praised in hushed whispers among the ladies.
If she was slightly aroused by the way he spoke, then perhaps that meant her plan would be mutually beneficial.
Originally, she’d adopted the mindset that she would simply go through the motions, but if Lord Marintide already garnered a reaction from her, then perhaps she might enjoy the rest of the night as well.
Her swell of hope faltered, then tumbled completely when he dropped her hand and resumed his critical sweep of the ballroom.
He took a large gulp of wine. “Can’t say I’ve ever been entirely fond of the Winter Solstice. What about you, my lady?”
On that, they could agree.
“I much prefer the autumn season.” Cyra shifted slightly, angling herself a little closer, telling herself it was so he could hear her over the jovial music filling the air, and not at all because his scent was entirely too tempting.
Even though he smelled of balmy citrus and sea-swept driftwood, and it was enough to make her knees soften.
“Yes,” he murmured, his gaze lazily devouring her. “I imagine you would.”
Unsure if his remark was intended as a compliment or an insult, she bit her bottom lip, and his eyes—neither green nor blue but a lovely mix of both—tracked the movement.
“Fire and all that,” he added casually, and the quiet mention of her magic sent her pulse racing.
“Right.” She nodded, worried that if she idled too much longer, she would lose her nerve and he would lose interest, neither of which she wanted to endure at the moment. “Would I be too bold to assume that your preferred season is Midsummer?”
Lord Marintide grinned then, wide and beautiful. Oh but blazing heavens, he was positively gorgeous when he smiled.
“You would not. Midsummer is most assuredly my favorite season.” He swirled his glass of wine then took a slow sip, keeping his gaze trained on her from over the rim.
There was something about the way he watched her that set her nerves on edge.
“Tell me, Lady Cyra, are you on the prowl for a husband?”
She startled, for she had not expected him to be quite so brazen. Very well, two could play this game. With practiced eloquence, she set her wineglass on the table nearest them and met his mocking gaze.
“On the contrary, my lord. I’m looking for someone to…how do I say this delicately?” She tilted her head to one side, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Deflower me, if you will. And I dare say you’d be a most advantageous partner.”
Lord Marintide choked, then coughed. Loudly.
All humor evaporated from his gaze and his voice dropped an octave. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m quite certain you heard me, however, I shall make myself more clear.” She took another step closer to him. “I’m a virgin, you see, and I’d like for you to have sex with—”
Lord Marintide lurched forward, wine splashing over the rim of his glass as he clamped one hand over her mouth, stealing a glance around them.
“Are you mad? What if someone overhears you?” His eyes—definitely turquoise, not quite blue or green—widened with shock. “There are a number of lords who are far less noble than I, and they would be quick to take advantage of such a situation.”
She supposed she hadn’t considered that, but it was too late now. Grabbing his wrist, she pulled his hand away from her mouth.
“Be that as it may, my lord, I’m quite serious in my endeavor. I have no options left but to marry by Midsummer, and I do not wish to exchange vows as a virgin. I want to know how to pleasure my future husband and—”
“Sweet shores.” Lord Marintide snagged her by the upper arm and shuffled her backward into a waterfall of brilliant blue winterblooms, then further still into a darkened alcove where glimmers of light slanted in between the petals.
“Lady Cyra, such talk is hardly appropriate for a ballroom. It should be reserved for private quarters.”
“Like that of an alcove, perhaps?” she suggested, arching one brow in question.
Overhead, magic swirled in the air. Dark green foliage unfurled and the soft white blossoms of mistletoe bloomed.
Lord Marintide scowled up at the flower.
The corners of Cyra’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I take it you don’t believe in all the magic of mistletoe, my lord?”
He scoffed. “Hardly. Flowers do not decide fate. They may lead to questionable choices, but so does too much wine.”
Cyra laughed then, fully, so her cheeks flushed, and when she finally caught her breath, she found Lord Marintide staring at her with the most peculiar expression.
“What is it?” she asked suddenly, those bothersome insecurities prodding at the back of her mind. “Have I got something on my face?”
He blinked, easing back slightly, and adjusted the sleeves of his coat. “No. It’s nothing.”
She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her pinky, just in case. “Will you at least consider my offer?”
Lord Marintide hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugged, appearing more than a little uncomfortable in his own skin. “Before I answer your question, allow me to make sure I understand your intent. Clearly.”
He roughed the back of his knuckles along the underside of his smooth jaw, stealing a glance toward the wall of flowers hiding them away in the alcove. “You want me to spend time—”
“One night,” Cyra amended quickly. “Any more than that and rumors may spread. I cannot have all the eligible lords of Aeramere thinking I’m unavailable, you see.”
“Of course.” Lord Marintide clicked his tongue, studying her. “Very well. You want us to spend one night together, so you’re not married off as a virgin.”
Cyra sighed, rolling her eyes to the curved stone ceiling. “You make it sound so drab. So positively boring.”
He reared back as though she’d slapped him. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not just sex I’m after, Lord Marintide.
I want to be fluent in the art of seduction and intimacy.
I want to learn.” For she’d heard terrible stories from wives whose bedroom activities were monotonous and dull.
“I want to know where to touch and be touched. And if my future husband is unsure, then I’d like to be able to guide him.
For example, do I prefer to be kissed on the inside of my wrist or the inside of my thigh?
In reciprocation, am I better with my hand or my mouth? It’s not just sex, it’s an education.”
Lord Marintide swallowed. Hard. “Alright.”
She arched a brow. “Alright?”
“I’ll do it.”
“You will?” Elation bubbled up inside Cyra’s chest, but then Lord Marintide closed the distance between them, so her back was pressed against the cold stone wall.
His gaze dipped to her mouth then back to her eyes, and he planted one hand on the wall near her head, leaning in close.
So close, the tempting scent of him left her mind fuzzy.
He bent forward, the warmth of his lips just grazing the outer shell of her ear.
“But you should know, Lady Cyra,” he purred, his voice like decadent midnight velvet. Heat pooled low in her belly, sending shivers of awareness tingling down her spine. “Once I’ve had you, once I’ve taught you, no other will ever compare.”