Chapter Five - A Gift
CHAPTER FIVE
A Gift
THE NUMBER OF guests had swelled since they left the temple.
There was a cacophony of chattering as they sat at the long tables, tearing into the platters of food in front of them.
Finely dressed servants in the royal livery glided around the room with jugs, ensuring no wine glass was left empty.
One such servant had attempted to fill the glass of the man beside her, but he had quickly placed a gloved hand over the top and gestured them away.
They had not spoken on the journey there.
He had travelled separately whilst she had been piled into the old carriage with her aunts.
They had found her in the antechamber, fixed her face, and got her back on her feet.
Aunt Beatrice had cooed at her, telling her how well she had done and how her new betrothed really was quite handsome despite the rumours.
Aunt Cecily was silent, and Rosamund tried to ignore the regret that was etched on her face.
Dorian had arrived first, his hands gloved once more.
He waited at the steps to the hall, his brother Aurelian and his wife Isolde beside him.
It had been Aurelian that stepped forward to help her down from the carriage, and like before she felt an ease wash over her as his hand took hers, “A beautiful ceremony Lady Rosamund, you looked wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she replied, unable to help a small smile, “I managed to stay on my feet.”
He laughed, and another rush of warmth flowed through her, “That you did.”
He let go of her hand to turn and assist her aunts and she felt its sudden absence, like when a cloud obscures the sun and the day returns to its former coldness.
With a little embarrassment she had walked towards where Dorian and Isolde stood.
Dorian appeared to be looking anywhere but at her, however Isolde reached out to her with outstretched hands, bringing her in close and kissing each of her cheeks, “Welcome to the family Lady Rosamund,” she leaned in conspiratorially and said, “now come one, let’s go eat. You must be starving after all that.”
“A little, yes,” replied Rosamund, forcing a smile and sneaking a quick glance to Dorian, though his attention remained pointedly elsewhere.
“Come on then,” said Isolde as she squeezed Rosamund’s hand before gasping and letting go, “Oh goddess I’m sorry, is it sore?”
“What?” asked Rosamund, confused.
Isolde gestured to the handkerchief that had been wrapped around Rosamund’s hand where the High Luminary had cut it.
The wound had completely mended before Rosamund had made it back down the aisle with Dorian, however she had quickly wrapped the bloody hand in the handkerchief.
As she looked back at Isolde, she saw that Dorian’s attention had finally been drawn to the conversation, he looked down at the bandaged hand.
“Yes,” said Rosamund, “a bit stingy.”
“Aurelian,” called out Isolde to her husband who crossed over to them, an aunt on either arm, “sort Rosamund’s hand will you.”
“Of course, my darling,” said Aurelian cheerfully.
Rosamund held the hand to her chest and quickly said, “it’s honestly fine, it was barely a scratch.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Aurelian dropping the arms of the aunts.
“Really, it’s ok,” said Rosamund, trying to keep her tone light and the panic from her voice.
Aurelian looked like he was about to insist when Dorian cut in gruffly, “Leave it.”
Isolde and Aurelian shared a look, but the golden-haired prince backed off and held out his arms for her aunts. A sense of relief washed over Rosamund. She could not let them discover her healed wound. Though she had been surprised that Dorian had intervened.
Perhaps he would rather I suffer, she thought, and was spitefully pleased that the wound had healed after all.
Her surprise continued when Dorian had held out his arm to her and the two had walked into the feasting hall together.
There had been no cheer, no cries of congratulations as they stepped into the room.
The feast was already in full swing as those from the temple joined the already feasting nobles.
The other royals were in place at the top table, and she was amazed to see that the central seats were reserved for her and her betrothed.
She had assumed that as the king’s representative, Bastian would have taken the honour of the centre, but two empty seats remained between he and his wife.
When Rosamund went to sit at her place one of the servants rushed forward to push in her chair as Dorian took his own seat.
“What sort of gentleman are you, Dorian?” teased Bastian, a chicken leg held in one hand, his wine goblet in the other, “Not pushing your ladies chair in.”
Dorian did not respond as he began to pile his plate with the various foods on offer. Bastian leaned in towards Rosamund, the stench of his wine breath and that sickly salt perfume wafted towards her, “Forgive my darling brother, I’m afraid they were rather short on manners when they made him.”
“Must have skipped you too Bastian,” said Isolde as she took the seat to his left and batted his arm.
With a wink to Rosamund, Bastian turned his attentions to Isolde instead, leering down at her, his gaze flicking to her ample bosom, “When are you going to leave that pathetic husband of yours and come live in my household Isolde?”
“Oh, you mean my pathetic husband that trounced you at the games last month?” said Isolde smugly.
Far from being insulted Bastian laughed and took a bite of the chicken leg in his hand, holding Isolde’s gaze.
She wrinkled her nose and muttered, “Animal,” before reaching to pile her own plate with food.
There had been a twitch at the corner of Dorian’s mouth when he heard Isolde’s response, however his face had returned to its usual glower as he looked down at the meal in front of him.
She noticed that he fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, and held his goblet tightly, the leather of his gloves creaking with the tension of his grasp.
He did not want to be here. In the middle, the centre of attention.
That was why Bastian had left the chairs empty.
Not to honour his brother, but to make him uncomfortable, a spectacle for everyone else.
Had the fear of their earlier touch not still coursed through her she might have felt sorry for the man.
As it was, she too felt exposed at the top table.
Rosamund was used to Evelyne grabbing the spotlight, her charming, talented sister.
She was the entertainer, as witty as Isolde had been with Bastian.
Her sister would have put the man in his place, whereas the words had dried up in Rosamund’s throat.
If Isolde had not stepped in, she would have gaped at him like a fish, which surely would have only given him more fodder for teasing her.
It did seem that Bastian delighted in tormenting Dorian. She did not know how much her betrothed had worked out about what happened at the ceremony.
Did he see? Does he know?
They were bound now by blood. Though not married formally they were as good as bonded in the eyes of Liathern and her magic.
The wedding would only solidify the promise, binding her to the royal family.
Should one of them break that promise now, the magic would ensure the consequences.
Summoning some courage, she gestured to the platters in front of them, “What do you recommend?”
His head snapped round like he had just heard a dog speak, “Eat what you like.”
Internally, she took a deep breath and fixed the smile on her face, “Well, what do you like?”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.
Goddess help me.
“If I know what you like I could make it for you.”
“I have a cook for that.”
“Well to see if I like it then.”
He frowned, “My cook is highly skilled. She can make you whatever you want.”
Rosamund gave up and reached for her own wine goblet to take a long drink.
“So Dorian, what do you make of your new wife?” asked Bastian as he turned his attention back to them.
“She asks a lot of questions,” grumbled Dorian as he lifted his knife to poke at the steak in front of him.
“I was just asking for Prince Dorian’s recommendation.”
“Really,” said Bastian with raised eyebrows, “whatever for?”
What is wrong with these people? Have they never heard of small talk?
“She wants to cook it,” replied Dorian.
Bastian barked a laugh, “Perhaps she means to poison you brother.”
A chilling smile crossed Dorian’s face as he turned to look at Rosamund, “Is that what you mean? Do you wish to poison me?”
Rosamund spluttered into her wine, much to the amusement of Bastian, “No, no of course not! I wouldn’t! I-no, no I’m not planning to poison you.”
But I am thinking of pouring the rest of this wine into Bastian’s lap if he keeps laughing like that.
He held her gaze a moment longer and she found herself leaning away from him. The issue with that was that it brought her closer to Bastian who draped his arm across her shoulders, his hand still holding the chicken leg.
“Now, now little brother, don’t scare the woman,” said Bastian with a grin, “you’ll have her running off to someone else’s bed.”
Dorian’s stare shifted from Rosamund to his brother. She imagined she saw a fire fill his eyes, but no sooner was it there than the same icy countenance returned, “She may do as she pleases. I care not.”
He rose to his feet, his chair scraping on the floor and drawing the attention of the other guests.
As he passed by his brother, he pushed Bastian’s arm off her shoulders before stalking off down the hall.
He approached a man in armour with sandy hair and full beard and soon enough the two were in deep conversation.
Bastian waved a hand over her half-filled goblet.
Sweet, red wine began to fill it. The prince grinned as she stared at it in wonder.
He leaned closer. “Now where were we? Someone else’s bed? ”