While Beauty Slept (34 page)

Was my marriage happy? I could not say. Our vastly different natures often put us at odds; during rides in the country Dorian fretted at my slow pace, while his attempts to explain the intricacies of joust tactics left me yawning. Amused rather than impressed by Flora’s tutelage, he referred to the collection of bottles and jars I stored in a corner of our room as witches’ brews, though he was happy enough when I applied one of my salves on his sore muscles. Married or not, he would not relinquish the role of entertainer, and he sought the admiration of both women and men. In his eternal quest to amuse and be amused, Dorian enjoyed making me a topic of fun, lamenting his lost freedom or complaining of his wife’s sharp tongue, when we both knew I had never spoken a word against him. When I told him that such complaints hurt my feelings, he rolled his eyes and said marriage had dulled my appetite for humor, thereby proving his point.

How, then, can I explain the way he enthralled me in private? On the nights I turned from him in irritation, frustrated by a thoughtless remark or gesture made earlier, he would run his fingers through my hair or kiss my chest along the neckline of my gown, until my body betrayed me by responding to his touch. Unlike so many men, who take what they need from a woman to suit their own tastes, Dorian took pleasure in giving pleasure. The fact that I was known throughout the castle for my discretion and modesty only heightened his wish to see me undone. I revealed a side of myself to Dorian that no one else had ever seen, and the knowledge of such secret selves can bind a couple in matrimony more sturdily than can their church vows.

I did not expect Dorian to be faithful to me, and he was not. I accepted it as the price paid to spend my days as I pleased, for he put few demands on me during daylight hours. Dorian could be coarse and arrogant but also generous and charming, unintentionally insulting but never purposefully cruel. My own parents had shown me that a wife’s lot could be far worse. I hoped fatherhood might tame his wandering eyes and juvenile ways, yet a year, and then two, passed with no change to my cycle.

Fears for my own possible barrenness did not blind me to the looming dangers facing the kingdom. A seeming victory—the capture of the youngest deRauley brother—revealed itself in time as a further spur to the rebels. The young man’s trial for treason was a sham, for he had little knowledge of his older brothers’ scheming, and the cruelty of his execution, dragged out for maximum suffering, only hardened the hearts of those already disposed against the king. Sir Walthur spent his days closed off with the Royal Council, debating whether additional troops should be sent north, where talk of Prince Bowen’s taking over the throne was now commonplace. Though Bowen himself eluded the king’s spies, it was clear he was actively plotting in the area, stirring up discontent with his brother’s rule.

Dorian spent his days on horseback, practicing battle formations with the other knights, overgrown boys playing at war until the real thing came along. In the privacy of our room, he taught me how to wield the jeweled dagger that had become his most prized possession, standing with his chest pressed against my back, clutching my hand as he demonstrated a thrust or a cut. It was the closest I had ever come to understanding the lure of soldiering, for my very bones seemed to take on the weight of that steel, filling me with unaccustomed strength. The undercurrent of danger proved exhilarating, and such encounters invariably ended with the dagger dropped to the floor as we reached for each other instead.

Though Dorian proclaimed himself eager to fight, the king and his advisers believed it was in their power to cow the rebels without resorting to a full invasion. It is only hindsight that makes a war inevitable. For months—years—we set our hopes on other resolutions. The eldest deRauley brothers might be captured, putting an end to their conspiracy, or Prince Bowen’s arrogance might drive away his followers. The king invested great effort into building a network of allies that would make his hold on power unshakeable. The rulers of neighboring lands had every reason to support King Ranolf, for any upheaval in our country might spill over into theirs. The cornerstone of this strategy was Hirathion, the land that bordered us to the north and therefore was the most likely to be affected by possible bloodshed.

Were Hirathion’s king to publicly stand with us, the rebels’ stronghold would be encircled by territory loyal to King Ranolf, dealing a mortal blow to the northerners’ conspiracy. So it seemed a most auspicious sign when the king of Hirathion sent word that a representative would be visiting the castle to discuss a formal alliance.

I did not see the delegation from Hirathion arrive; the men disappeared into the Council Chamber almost immediately to confer with the king. However, the news soon spread that the visiting party consisted of only a few officials, led by an ambassador whose name was unfamiliar to Sir Walthur. Dorian strode into our room, filthy and exhausted from a week of military exercises in the western region of the kingdom, and complained that the ambassador’s youth proved Hirathion’s indifference to our affairs.

Still, among the ladies of the castle any change to our usual routine was cause for excitement. A great feast had been prepared for his first night, and even Queen Lenore rose to the occasion, adorning herself in the precious jewels she usually forswore. I wore the red gown made for my wedding, which elicited a lecherous grin from Dorian when I emerged from our bedroom. All the members of court were present in the Great Hall when the men from Hirathion arrived, ushered by a hum of curious whispers. They were led by a dark-featured young man who moved with a dignity beyond his years. His eyes darted swiftly across the room, and I sensed immediately an intense curiosity, an eagerness to observe and remember all he saw. This, Dorian whispered to me, was Joffrey Oberliss, the ambassador on whom our fates might depend.

I noted his lack of title—further proof of his relative unimportance—yet he comported himself with the grace of one accustomed to aristocratic circles and was granted a seat of honor at the queen’s side. Throughout the meal my eyes were drawn to him as he engaged Queen Lenore in conversation, listening to her answers with attentive concentration. Rose, separated from the guest of honor by both her parents, leaned forward repeatedly to catch his words, her expression openly enthralled. I shot her a disapproving glance, but I could not fault her for finding our visitor compelling. Joffrey exhibited a refinement and a thoughtfulness that were rare among the hardy, boisterous knights of King Ranolf’s circle.

After the plates were cleared and a series of flowery toasts had been offered, the king signaled the musicians to begin. The younger courtiers rose from their seats and gathered in the middle of the room, arranging themselves in rows facing one another to dance. I had learned the steps only recently, after my marriage, and firmly declined Dorian’s entreaties to join him; I would not risk tripping over my feet at such a formal affair.

As the musicians sounded out their first tune, Rose turned to her father and touched his arm. I could not hear her words, but the king stood and signaled for silence.

“One moment!” he announced. “My Beauty would like to join the company, but only if our guest serves as her partner.”

He turned to Joffrey with a playful smile, delighting in the young man’s surprise. A look of alarm passed across Queen Lenore’s face, so quickly that few would have noticed, to be replaced with her customary polite smile. Rose’s forwardness in requesting a dance with a man of drastically lower rank was a considerable breach of etiquette. But if King Ranolf had chosen to encourage his daughter’s youthful high spirits, Queen Lenore could not be seen to disagree.

Rose had moved to the floor by the time Joffrey got up from his seat. Befitting her position, she stood at the head of the line of ladies, where she would be on full display to the surrounding guests. I wondered if Joffrey would be able to follow the steps; not all young men have a talent for movement, and his gait appeared hesitant as he took his place.

They stood opposite each other, his eyes staring directly into hers, for Rose at sixteen had spurted to above-average height. The music began, and Rose took two dainty steps forward, then slid smoothly past and around her partner, as if wrapping him in an invisible net. The warmth of her smile melted Joffrey’s cautious reserve, and he succumbed further with each movement, his eyes following every dip and turn, lips parting with pleasure as he matched Rose’s steps. When their hands met briefly at the end, his palm stayed too long against hers, and she pulled away with a delighted laugh.

We all saw it. The ambassador was so besotted by Rose that he did not care if the whole court noticed. They danced another round, then another. The king, who should have put a stop to such favoritism, was caught up in conversation with his courtiers; Queen Lenore, always deferential to her husband’s wishes, made no move to admonish her daughter. A woman’s honor is her most prized possession, and I feared that Rose was wearing hers too lightly.

During the next pause in the music, I stood and made my way toward the edge of the dancers. I saw Rose stare at Joffrey with raised eyebrows, daring him to flout etiquette and request her hand yet again. Moving into her line of sight, I shook my head slowly, hoping the darkness of my expression would compound the warning. Rose’s smile dropped, along with her flirtatious manner, and she introduced me to her guest with formal politeness.

“May I request the honor?” he asked, extending his hand toward me. Flushed from the dancing, giving me the full force of his attention, he was even handsomer than he had appeared from a distance. It was no wonder that Rose had been dazzled.

I shook my head. “I must decline, with the greatest respect. Unfortunately, I am a poor dancer.”

“As was I, until tonight.”

His flash of wit disarmed me, and I found myself grinning along with Rose. Then, aware of all the eyes upon us, I discreetly nudged Rose back toward her table. “Time to take your place,” I whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Rose murmured, then raised her voice to include Joffrey in our conversation. “I would find some cold cider quite refreshing. There’s nothing like dancing to awake a thirst.”

“I’ll have some sent,” I said, searching the hall in vain for a serving maid. As usual, most had disappeared once the music had started, no doubt to indulge in their own revelry downstairs. I slipped through the doorway behind the dais that led to the Receiving Room, remembering how I had made this same escape years before, on the day of Rose’s baptism. Here I had huddled with the king and Flora as Queen Lenore recounted the grisly tale of Millicent’s dark powers. On this night the room was empty and still, and I moved through the dark space quickly, averting my eyes from the shadows that shifted as I passed. Alone, I climbed down the narrow staircase that led to the Lower Hall, shivering when the damp walls rubbed against my arm. The noise and gaiety of the feast had been left behind; the only sound was the tap of my shoes against the slabs underfoot. Despite the many years I had lived at the castle, I had never lost my discomfort walking these passages alone, secretly fearing that one wrong turn might lead me into a tunnel or dungeon from which I would never return.

Once downstairs, I accosted a half-drunk footman and charged him with bringing pitchers of fresh cider to the king’s table. I darted back up the stairs, so distracted that I did not see the dark figure blocking my way out until I ran headlong into the solid mass of his body. His arms imprisoned me, pressing my face against his chest and muffling my scream with his shirt. His fingers spread across the nape of my neck and up through my hair before gently pulling my head back so that I could look at him. It was Dorian.

“I am sorry I frightened you,” he said in hushed voice. “’Twas all in fun.”

Fun? Furious, I twisted away from his grasp. He reached out for my hand and clasped it with unexpected tenderness, bringing my fingers up to his lips for a kiss. The sweetness of the gesture was enough to halt my steps, and Dorian drew closer, sliding his hands along my sleeves, up to my shoulders.

“How you torment me,” he whispered, running his mouth along the arch of my neck. “It seems forever since I touched you. It was torture, watching you tonight, being denied this.” His hand slid smoothly down my side to my thigh. I felt the skin of my calves prickle in the clammy air as he pulled up my skirt.

“What would you have me do, wife, with the blood risen up in me?” One hand pressed against the curve of my bottom to keep me in place; the other began a steady stroke along my inner thigh.

“I cannot stay,” I said, my languid voice at odds with my words.

“Please.”

The ache in his voice took me by surprise. Dorian’s mouth moved from my lips to my cheeks, my forehead, my ears, desperate movements driven by a need he could not master. I grabbed his hips with my hands, pressing him against me until I could feel the hardness of his desire. His fingers moved between my legs, stoking my own hunger for what came next.

Suddenly I heard the distant crash of a falling pot, followed by faint laughter. Roused from a momentary madness, I remembered we were at the top of the servants’ stairs, in full view of whoever might ascend. Terrified, I froze and stared at Dorian. He grinned devilishly and pulled my skirt almost to my waist. His boldness spurred on my own desire; I could not stop, not now. I reached under his tunic, fear of discovery hurrying my fingers. Dorian pushed me against the wall, taking me as we stood, grinding into me with a force that left me breathless. Even after he was spent, he held me there, lost in the moment, unwilling to see it past.

For those few, silent minutes, I held him. Though we had come together in a frenzy of lust, I felt an unexpected tenderness for my husband. Dorian had revealed a chink in his armor, a need of me I had never suspected. Perhaps, deep down, he even loved me.

Belatedly remembering my obligations, I pulled away and hastily smoothed out my dress. Dorian watched, amused, while I hid all trace of debauchery. As we walked out into the Receiving Room, I was surprised, then panicked, to see two figures hovering in the doorway opposite me. Who were they? What had they heard?