Chapter 26
The moment I stepped back into the castle, I requested a roster of the knights from Perel.
Having committed to the task, I decided to pen the name cards by hand.
Even identical gifts would carry extra weight with a recipient’s name inscribed on them.
Calling out each knight’s name during distribution would leave a lasting mark as well.
In hindsight, it was a wildly impulsive choice.
Crafting those cards consumed far more time than I’d bargained for.
I’d overlooked the absence of printing presses in this realm.
What I hoped to wrap up in an hour dragged on, plagued by spelling errors that squandered batch after batch.
Once I’d at last finished all ninety-nine, I dabbed on scented oil for a subtle allure—
Only to unleash a fresh disaster.
The oil seeped in, leaving stubborn stains that persisted after drying and wrecked every card.
“You ought to enclose them in fragrance-infused fabric so the scent seeps through gradually.”
Leta offered this tip upon entering with a pitcher of water, long after I’d botched yet another round.
When the second set of ninety-nine cards was done, dawn had broken.
I’d snatched scant rest before the morning’s elaborate dressing ritual.
No sooner had I completed it than the embroidered handkerchiefs arrived.
Servants handled the wrapping, but I tied the ribbons personally for that intimate flourish.
Ninety-nine bows later, my wrists throbbed.
Little surprise, then, that fatigue gripped me after all the scripting, primping, and knotting.
Compounding it, the tome I’d chosen proved a slog.
Given the era’s rigid protocols, mastering formal dining customs seemed prudent.
Annette’s form retained some ingrained reflexes, yet I opted to review the manual regardless—
Alas…
“On the plate’s right, align the dinner fork, dinner knife, salad fork, salad knife, dessert fork, and dessert knife, from outside in. To the left, position the soup spoon, dessert spoon, and teaspoon…”
The antiquated, dust-caked volume brimmed with interminable, trivial minutiae.
My lids drooped; an irresistible torpor descended.
Loic finally raised his gaze after wrapping up his labors.
The study lay hushed, save for the hearth’s gentle pops.
To stay focused, he’d fixed his stare on the papers, willfully tuning out the Grand Duchess’s proximity.
Why this unnatural stillness?
Typically, by now, she’d piped up once or twice.
Intrigued, he rose and peered at the guéridon—
Where the Grand Duchess slumbered deeply, sprawled across her splayed volume.
“Your Highness.”
He edged toward the settee with caution.
She lay tucked in a fetal curl, serene as a masterpiece.
Each languid breath lifted her slender shoulders in faint rhythm.
“You ought to retire to your chamber.”
Even as he sought to rouse her, his tone dipped to a murmur.
Something in him recoiled at shattering her tranquil visage.
Yet she stirred not a whit.
Pausing, Loic rested a palm feather-light on her shoulder.
Contact ignited a thaw, dissolving the day’s accrued weariness in her skin’s radiant warmth.
…This is exquisite.
He studied her slumbering countenance in silence.
Silken, ivory tresses spilled across her rose-tinted cheeks.
The lips once lively with banter now sealed softly.
Her fine lashes quivered now and then in dreams.
He yearned to relocate her sans disturbance.
Whom to summon?
Briefly, he pondered dispatching a knight to bear her—
Then stiffened.
Entrust her to another man’s arms?
Never.
He’d brook no rival’s touch upon her, much less an embrace.
Even he, her spouse, balked at the liberty…
Abandoning her here till dawn was untenable.
Prolonged in that pose, her limb would cramp beneath her head.
After protracted deliberation, Loic resolved and stooped low.
One arm slipped beneath her knees, the other encircled her waist with exquisite care.
Her petite frame nestled instinctively against his torso as he hoisted her.
…!
He caught his breath on reflex.
A fierce, electric surge coursed through him, rousing long-dormant nerves.
This eclipsed mere hand-holding.
Previously, mere solace and heat.
Now? An torrent, nigh unbearable.
Why such potency?
It hadn’t struck thus on their inaugural lift.
She weighed next to nothing.
Her warm exhalations grazed his throat; her pulse thrummed steadily at his breast.
Curiously, his lumbar grew leaden, chest constricted oddly.
Alone though he was, color flooded Loic’s cheeks.
My mana surging unchecked?
Inhaling deeply, he drew her nearer, warding off the draft as he bore her down the stairs with precision.
Her bedchamber wafted her faint, enduring perfume.
Beside the four-poster, Loic faltered.
A fierce aversion welled—he craved to cling.
Her form melded against him, impossibly yielding.
Perhaps novelty fueled it, but crimson heat plagued his features, restraint fraying.
How is every inch of her so plush?
Do all women yield thus?
A moment more…
Gritting his teeth, he wrestled composure.
Steady on.
Yet he lingered, cradling her unduly.
At length, he lowered her tenderly to the mattress.
“Mmm…”
A faint mewl escaped her dream.
His jaw locked.
Yestereve, he’d lingered beyond her door, awaiting her ages.
Despite his own edict barring nocturnal visits…
I’d not intended total estrangement. Had I unnerved her unduly?
Loic navigated women clumsily.
He gauged poorly the tenderness required for gentleness.
Children fled weeping at his mere aspect; his mien intimidated.
Knights quailed under his glares.
Thus, his “softened” words likely rang as menaces to the Grand Duchess.
Even so…
He’d tarried for shared repast.
Descended to the hall, yet she’d forsaken breakfast.
She who’d harped on his meals…
To thwart her cravat-tying ambushes, he’d pocketed it.
Hastened to his study early; she appeared nowhere.
Save the guéridon procured for her, sentinel by the sofa.
Work evaded him.
Perchance he’d overawed the fragile capital bloom.
Her defeated slump in the gloom haunted him.
By noon, unease propelled him; en route to inspect watchtowers with Perel, he veered through the gardens.
There she was.
Amid the wild, barren groves—leafless sentinels—she flourished, sole blossom in vernal glory.
Though mere hours parted them, solace washed over him.
He’d nearly hailed her—
But—
“Your Highness, the Grand Duchess!”
That idiot retainer preempted, preening as her consort.
Prior vexations evaporated.
She seemed unaltered.
Nay, toward Perel, her warmth outshone any he’d known.
Naturally, she’d favor no distinction for me.
“A Hundred Recipes for a Wife to Win Her Husband’s Love….”
Irrelevant.
Loic remained her wedded lord, none other.
“The feeling of the ring Sir Perel placed on my finger is still fresh in my memory.”
…Though that wretch had slid it on.
I belonged at the rite.
Months or year wedded, Loic merited presence.
I should have donned her ring.
Pathetic cur.
Eternally, her wedding recollections would summon Perel, not him.
Does it signify? Strangers in a year’s span.
He couldn’t say.
Yet when she quit Blenheim, he wished no proxy groom her sharpest souvenir.
Witnessing her tend the knights stirred… oddities.
It chafed that those brutes ogled her rapt.
Yet pleasing, too, his folk nurtured thus.
I scarcely fathom my desires.
Loic sighed profoundly.
Then the door swung; a maid slipped in—
Beheld him looming over the dozing Grand Duchess—
And yelped, cowering.
