Chapter Thirty
Glorious coffee
Before the marquis’s party, Eleanor hadn’t realised this building existed in Breninsol.
If she ever considered it, she would have assumed he lived in the palace, like other high-ranking nobles with private wings or floors in the king’s palace.
For this noble to live outside the palace, he either had more money than anyone realised, or power that surpassed the other nobles.
The carriage trundled to a stop in the courtyard of the expansive residence, leaving Eleanor no time to consider the confusing, swirling mix of feelings that filling her stomach.
The man silently unfolded himself from the carriage, held the door open for her.
She thought that she could have had worse lords to have bought her.
At least this lord was attractive and, coupled with access to some exceptional wine, that might make this whole ordeal worthwhile.
Eleanor licked her lips at that silver lining and it gave her enough encouragement to move.
As she stepped out of the black carriage, she kept her eyes on the large man, a loose hand near her thigh and a tight grip on her bag.
“Follow,” he said and left her to trail behind him up to the waiting open double doors that dwarfed them.
The considerable entrance hall felt impossibly larger and emptier in the light of day.
It was devoid of everything: No lyrical music competing to be heard over the shouting and gleeful guests.
No servants carrying silver trays ladened down with food and drink weaving between the staggering nobles.
Just…silence. The silence echoed throughout the residence and, despite her circumstances, it felt peaceful to be standing in the substantial entrance way.
The removal of the carpets revealed the chequered white and black pattern of the tiled floor, previously hidden from the rambunctious guests. A sweeping, grand staircase dominated the area, ascending to hallways that branched left and right on the upper floor.
Two magnificent paintings mirrored each other and looked vaguely familiar.
They both felt like she was being engulfed, not just on account of their sheer size in the entrance hall, but also from the perspective.
The painter’s intent was for the viewer to feel immersed in the scene, viewing the subject imposed by the artist.
The painting hanging on the right emanated a serenity that was perfect for encountering a deceptively wondrous water horse.
It depicted a tiered waterfall that Eleanor should have felt nothing but sheer ferociousness from in front of such a natural phenomenon.
Instead, she felt a sense of calm drifting over her as the sedate water fell over the cliffs to gather in the waiting pools below.
The blues, purples, and silvers of the impending starry night sky echoed the painting’s tranquillity.
The opposing painting made Eleanor feel as if something had swept her away from the marquis’s residence.
Instead, she was on a shore’s edge looking out towards the vastness that was a sombre lake, where a turbulent storm threatened the distant mountains on one side.
On the other, oranges, reds, and golds lit the sky and reflected onto the water a dying sun on the horizon.
The lake’s shore felt so real she took a step back lest a fearful ancient lake monster dwelled within to drag her into its black depths.
At the lack of her echoing footsteps on the tiled floor, the massive man turned to look at her with a look on his face that made her scowl.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, she snapped, “I know, follow, ” pitching her voice in imitation of his low one-word command.
The mountain of a man abruptly turned and marched through the corridor beside the grand staircase.
Eleanor clenched her fists and pulled back her shoulders as she followed him along the wide hallway, and towards what must be the rear of the residence.
Ignoring the decor, she focused on her access points, as her eyes narrowed on the man’s back, knowing that wherever he was taking her would end with meeting the very man who owned this place.
He entered a room without knocking. This was it.
She braced herself to face the marquis and willed all thoughts of him from her mind.
She avoided thinking about how attractive he was, how his grey-blue eyes rendered her speechless and captivated her gaze, and how his wicked smirk and eyebrow raise fluttered her belly.
Thoughts like that were foolish thoughts of a young woman, which she was most certainly not.
Don’t be one of those who fall for the half smirks of his.
She entered a lavish sitting room, designed for aristocratic purposes.
One likely used this room to read letters from a great-aunt, only readable before morning tea, or for some other equally specific activity.
Her gaze swept across the plush, inviting armchairs, yet she found them unoccupied, a wave of disappointment washing over her.
He marched across the room and opened the floor-length glass doors that led to a patio, and he gave her an indiscernible look. “Follow.”
With that one-word command, she narrowed her eyes and followed him into the gardens.
Her thin cloak offered little protection against the crisp morning chill, which seeped through to her skin, causing the fine hairs to stand on end, making her acutely aware of the cold.
The man led them down a set of stone steps beside the patio, onto a lower level of the gardens.
The weaving path was lined with fragrant shrubs in different stages of bloom, and the dew clung tenaciously to the glistening leaves as the morning’s new light, filtered through the dense canopy of trees overhead.
As the silent stone of a man led her around the corner of a thick hedge, she emerged onto a stone patio that overlooked a serene body of water.
Her breath caught, as she took in the captivating view unfolding before her. Sitting in the fresh light of day was the Marquis of Laerus.
He was wearing a grey and silver silk dressing gown along with matching grey trousers and slippers.
His silky dressing gown was so tightly fastened, not a hint of skin was visible, and she felt a pang of frustrated annoyance.
A half-bun, secured with a simple tie, held back his long, black hair, the loose strands falling around his shoulders.
She would have thought it looked strange, but it suited him, showing off his annoyingly elegant cheekbones.
From where she stood at the edge of the garden, he looked distant, untouchable. A blend of spicy florals and roasted nuts reached her with the scent of a fresh, bitter morning dew. He was sipping from a teacup, lounging on a wooden padded chair overlooking a lake.
Of course, the marquis was rich enough to have his own private lake.
The man lumbered forwards with heavy steps and bowed. Surely, she imagined the slight cock of the man’s brow.
Eleanor clenched her jaw and curtsied to the marquis, as was required.
He waved a lazy hand at the matching seat opposite him.
“You!” Eleanor hissed accusingly, as she took a few accidental steps forward.
“One day, you're going to give me a much nicer greeting,” the marquis said confidently, putting his cup onto its saucer.
“Wouldn't bet on it,” she snapped back.
“Oh, but I am a betting man,” he replied, smirking, and the infuriating man curled his fingers at her in that come hither motion. The fingers which she absolutely refused to acknowledge had been stars in a dream or two.
“Coffee or tea?” he asked as she reluctantly came closer and sat in the adjoining chair, facing the lake with her bag tucked next to her on the floor.
Her mouth watered, and not for the man sitting across from her.
Little delicate pastries, which seemed as if they would melt in her mouth, filled a tray on the laden table.
A tall porcelain pot matched the sea-green teapot, cups, and saucers, and one whiff of the aroma revealed strong coffee.
The remedy to her headache was sitting right in front of her.
She hesitated. Was he asking to serve her? Surely not. There must be some servant whose sole purpose was to attend to the marquis. He might have had his own coffee servant.
Intrigued to test the theory, Eleanor replied, “Coffee,” and waited to see what he’d do, entertaining the notion of a coffee servant. If there was not one, she thought she should propose the idea to him.
He leaned over the tray and poured her a teacup of steaming black coffee. “Honey? Cream?”
“Just honey.” She shifted in her seat, not feeling comfortable that he had served her.
He portioned out a teaspoon’s amount, and they both watched, transfixed by the slow drizzle of the sweet nectar into the dark cup. After the marquis stirred the contents back and forth, he placed the teacup and saucer in front of her.
“Thank you,” she numbly replied, as she met his mercury eyes. As always, they gave little away.
Eleanor averted her eyes to stare into her black cup of sweetened coffee, as a wave of emotion swept over her that she’d been unprepared to feel.
The tightness in her chest was so profound that she felt the desperate need to massage the area to alleviate the discomfort, as if physical touch could somehow soothe the intense sensation.
His voice was almost gentle as he asked, “Anything wrong?”
She blinked, remembering herself. “I didn’t think…you’re a marquis.” She inwardly cursed herself for stating the obvious.
Of course, he knew his own bloody title, idiot.
“And?”
She really felt stupid now, but she continued while feeling the colour in her cheeks rising. “I…I thought you had people serve you, or…you know, me. Not the other way around.”