Chapter Eleven Every Rose Has Thorns
Chapter Eleven
Every Rose Has Thorns
Hasan tugged at the collar of his catering uniform, scowling at his reflection. “Remind me again why I have to be the one to infiltrate the party?”
“Because I’ve bribed several of the partygoers,” Zeyar said, examining his cuff links as he lounged on Hasan’s bed.
Though tonight he was playing the role of getaway driver, he was dressed just as formally as Hasan, in a black-tie valet’s uniform.
“They’d recognize me, and then our cover would be blown. Also, I’m the better driver.”
“That’s debatable,” Hasan said, but he couldn’t refute his brother’s first point. “Come on, then. Let’s make a quick offering and go.”
Zeyar jumped up, smoothing his slacks. The two of them walked down to the cellar.
Hasan grunted as he pushed aside a crate of mango pickle, revealing a black tunnel with a ladder bolted to one side.
He descended the ladder, Zeyar following.
When they reached the bottom, Hasan’s fingers grazed the stone walls as he pressed the light switch.
The amber bulbs flickered to life, humming quietly as they bathed the room in golden light, illuminating the small pantheon of Virian deities on the other end of the room.
This was the Devar brothers’ most closely guarded secret, the source of their power: the true gods of the island.
After the empire had annexed Viryana, they’d desecrated the last of the old Virian temples and destroyed whatever shrines they could find, building cathedrals to the Founder on top of the wreckage, declaring him the one and only god of Viryana.
But the temples had been more than just places of worship—for the daivyakt, who had been blessed by the gods, that was where they went to renew their power by making naumya, sacrificial offerings.
Hasan took his offering, his untouched dinner plate, and laid it at the feet of Nathria, the glittering goddess of victory.
“You’ll need more than that,” Zeyar said. “If you’re caught inside the mansion, you’ll need a lot of fire. Make a bigger offering.”
Hasan bit his lip. He undid the clasp on his watch, a gift from Paranjay with a mother-of-pearl face, and set it beside his plate of food.
“My veins are a vessel for the divine power of the gods,” he intoned. “If Nathria finds my sacrifice worthy, may I be filled with her cosmic energy.” Though the goddess was earth-aligned and Hasan’s gift was fire, a warmth spread through Hasan as his prayer was heard.
Hasan stepped back, allowing Zeyar to go next. He withdrew two packs of expensive cigars, laying them at Nathria’s feet as well as at those of Dhilip, the god of speed. Zeyar repeated the prayer, then stepped back.
“Let’s go.” Hasan glanced at the watch, which ticked at Nathria’s feet. “The party will be getting started any minute now.”
· · ·
No one who walked in the front door of Montrose Manor could tell that Poppy had had only three days to plan this party, of that she was certain.
She had selected scarlet and gold party decorations, intentionally matching the families’ crests: the Sutherland crossed scepters, and the blooming Montrose rose.
She had personally taste tested the drinks and appetizers circulating on gold platters, and she’d hand chosen every item in the six-course meal, which would be served once the dancing was over.
She had even made time to get fitted for a new dress for the occasion, with lace sleeves and a bodice with a built-in corset.
The skirt bloomed outward in layers of tulle and blush-colored silk that matched the pink of her diamond ring.
Her lady’s maids had pulled half of her thick hair into a braided crown at the top of her head, leaving the rest of it to flow to her waist. Gold pins with heads of diamond and pearl kept the style in place.
Poppy couldn’t stop tilting her head, admiring the way they caught the light.
In other words, the evening was perfect. The seven years of education in Welkland had paid off. Not a single person in the room could deny it.
The party was in full swing, having started with the Montrose majordomo announcing Poppy’s parents, Richard’s parents, and then, finally, Poppy and Richard. She had glided down the staircase, nose held high, gloating at the dismay and envy on the faces of the ladies.
Poppy and Richard stood side by side at the front of the room, greeting every guest, fielding their well-wishes, and occasionally posing for a photograph with them.
After what seemed like an eternity, Richard released her arm. “I need to freshen up, but please, stay here and enjoy yourself. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
After he left, Poppy went to check the dining hall.
Once she’d ensured that the placeholders had been laid out exactly per the seating schematic she’d created, she made her way back to the ballroom.
As she passed a gaggle of Welkish women, her name caught her ear.
She paused, pretending to flag down one of the caterers as she eavesdropped.
“The Sutherland girl. He’s only marrying her because her father is the viceroy,” one of them said, derision dripping from her voice.
Poppy frowned. She’d known that her engagement would provoke envious slander, but she’d assumed that the jealousy would stem from the fact that Richard had chosen her over one of them.
This rumor, however, seemed to imply that the person she was, the person she had become, was unworthy of his choice.
Nothing could be attractive or desirable about her, because she was Virian.
One of the Virian caterers had seen her raise her hand and had swiftly reacted. She wanted to wave him off, but it was too late—he’d already reached her.
“She obviously doesn’t realize it,” another woman tittered. “Did you see how she was holding herself? Like she’s some lady just because she got exiled to Welkland for a few years.”
Poppy cringed at the derision toward her lack of a title.
A third voice piped up. “I heard His Grace thinks she’s changed. That she’s civilized now.”
“Of course he thinks that,” the second woman said. “He’s too proud to admit that he made an error by adopting her, so he insists on carrying on this charade. Personally, I’m shocked that Captain Montrose is willing to play along with it. I always thought the Montroses to be honorable.”
“Captain Montrose is a man of solid judgment,” the third woman said. “Perhaps she truly has changed, if he’s chosen her to be his wife when he could have had his pick of any other woman.”
Her statement was met by a round of snickering. “I hardly believe it,” the second woman said. “You can put a saddle on a camel, but you can’t make it a thoroughbred.”
Poppy found herself paralyzed. Her hand, half outstretched to take the drink from the caterer’s tray, refused to obey her.
Her gaze flickered up to his face. She hoped he hadn’t heard—or at least had the tact to pretend he hadn’t—but instead, he looked disgusted.
When his eyes met Poppy’s, his expression shifted, but it wasn’t pity on his face.
It was disdain, as though he couldn’t believe she was willingly subjecting herself to this.
Her face burned—who was this man to judge her?
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?” he pressed. He picked up one of the drinks from the tray and offered it to her. “You might feel better—”
Poppy pushed his hand away. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t be drinking right now. What I need is to find my fiancé.”
As soon as she said it, she knew it was true.
Yes, she had to find Richard. She needed to hear him say that he was marrying her because he dreamed of changing Viryana together, because he wanted her by his side as he ruled the island, because she was dignified and ladylike and deserving of a place in the nobility. Not because her father was viceroy.
Poppy spun on her heel and left the ballroom, holding back tears.
· · ·
Richard wasn’t in the restroom. Poppy pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to bury her face in her hands. The least he could do was be present when she needed him. She caught the arm of a serving girl. “Excuse me, do you know where Captain Montrose has gone?”
“I saw him in the west wing, Miss Sutherland,” the girl answered.
“Thank you,” she said, but the information did nothing to alleviate her agitation. The west wing didn’t have a bathroom—only the Montrose library, and the personal offices of the men.
She released the girl and headed past the ballroom, cutting through the center of the house, past the twin staircases, until she reached the west wing. Perhaps there’s some work that Richard had to attend to, she theorized. He must have met a colleague and gotten distracted.
She entered the library, heading for Richard’s office at the back, weaving through the shelves until she reached her destination.
The study door was closed, but an outline of light around the edges indicated that it was occupied.
She lifted her knuckles to knock, but as she drew closer, a snippet of conversation hooked her.
“Sutherland woman?”
She froze. The voice was male, though she didn’t recognize the speaker. But when the second voice spoke, she recognized it immediately.
“It was obvious,” Richard said. “I first got the idea when the old man had his stroke. The viceroy has no male heir, see. But as his son-in-law . . .”
“Sounds to me like you have the office all lined up for you, then. Congratulations. But why smear the name of your future wife?”
“Plans change,” Richard said. “The girl came back different—she’s no longer the meek creature that used to blend in with the wallpaper at social functions.
She holds herself like a lady and quotes the scripture of the Founder.
Old Sutherland is convinced she’s ‘one of us’ now.
He even lets her sit in his office and help him; would you believe it? ”