Chapter 8
He closed the door behind him. The sound of the lock sliding home was deafening in the quiet room.
She stood up slowly. She placed the book on the table and sank into a deep curtsy.
"Rise," he didn't say.
Instead, he crossed the room in three strides. She saw his boots stop in front of her face.
He reached out with his riding crop. He placed the cool leather tip under her chin and lifted.
She was forced to look up. To meet his eyes.
They were storm-gray, swirling with conflict. He was looking at her face, searching for her.
"Uncanny," he murmured. "Except for the eyes."
She let her lip tremble. Just a little. She widened her eyes, letting the moisture gather there. Fear. He wanted fear.
"Your Majesty?" she whispered.
He dropped the crop. He turned away, pacing to the fireplace. "Pour me a drink."
She moved to the sideboard. Her hands shook as she lifted the decanter. Wine splashed onto the polished wood.
"Clumsy," he noted, not looking around.
"I'm nervous," she said. "I've never been sold before."
He froze. He turned slowly to face her.
"Sold?"
"My husband," she said, wiping the spilled wine with a napkin. "He traded me. For a position in the Cabinet."
Alaric laughed. It was a harsh bark. "He did. And you agreed."
He walked back to her, looming over her. "Why? Why would a woman agree to such a thing?"
"For my daughter," she said.
She looked him straight in the eye. The fear was gone. This was the truth.
"Kenney is a weak man," she said. "He would have let us starve. Or worse. I did what I had to do to ensure Emily has a roof over her head."
Alaric stared at her. The anger in his face softened, just a fraction.
"Adella..." he started, then stopped. "She had no choice either."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The monster receded, leaving a tired man.
"Sit down," he said, gesturing to the table. "Eat."
Dinner was brought in. They ate in silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.
"Do you play the piano?" he asked suddenly.
She knew the right answer. Adella was a virtuoso.
"No," she said.
He frowned. "Do you paint?"
"No."
"What do you do, then?" he asked, irritated. "Besides look like a ghost?"
She put down her fork. "I count."
"You count?"
"I manage the household accounts. I track the price of coal. I calculate how long a sack of flour will last." She took a sip of wine. "I am a practical woman, Your Majesty. I deal in reality, not art."
He looked at her. Really looked at her. For the first time, he wasn't seeing Adella. He was seeing Imogene.
"Reality," he mused. "I have very little of that around me."
He stood up and walked behind her chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders. His grip was heavy, warm.
She stiffened.
He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. "Don't try to be her. You can't. Be yourself. It might be... amusing."
She held her breath. Was he going to kiss her? Was he going to take her right here on the rug?
He squeezed her shoulders, then let go.
"Sleep well, Mrs. Lloyd," he said.
He walked to the door.
"Tomorrow," he said without turning back. "We ride. Be ready at dawn."
The door closed.
She slumped back in the chair. She touched her shoulder where his hand had been.
He hadn't touched her. Not in that way.
It was more dangerous than if he had. He was interested.
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