Page 7 of The Consort's Curse
Except perhaps not, as they were skintight, making it clear that the legs were well-muscled and owed nothing to padding. He had broad shoulders. Glossy dark blond hair that framed his face elegantly, with matching stubble glinting on his firm jaw.
An air of wishing he were quite literally anywhere else in the world completed his ensemble.
He stopped just inside the doorway, propped one hand on his hip, and gave the chapel an insultingly slow survey from heavy-lidded dark eyes, much darker than I’d have expected from the color of his hair. Striking. Everything about his appearance was striking, and all in ways that unsettled me for one reason or another. Not that I needed more reasons.
“Father,” he said, without any warmth at all. Not that I’d doubted it, but this confirmation of Lord Stefan’s identity made my heart sink even lower. “Your Eminence.” His gaze passed over Ser Prendian, whom he didn’t trouble to acknowledge.
I found myself holding my breath.
And then those eyes fell on me, and the air rushed out of my lungs so suddenly it left me with spots swimming in my vision. For a long moment, he simply stared at me, expression so blank it couldn’t possibly be natural. And then he reached down into the froth of lace that spilled from the front of his coat and pulled out a long-handled gold filigree quizzing glass that hung around his neck on a ribbon, flicking it up in front of one eye with a practiced motion.
That eye, oddly magnified, blinked at me through the lens. It held the same cold indifference as its fellow.
“Good gracious gods,” he drawled, looking me up and down through the glass, straight golden eyebrows climbing. The tendons stood out in the back of his hand. He was angry, probably. Very, very angry beneath his over-well-bred nonchalance. “My dear sir, where on Ennolu’s usually bounteous Earth did you find such a…person? Surely Ennolu could have been slightly more bountiful than this, if inclined.”
Oryoucould have, you hateful old bastard, remained unsaid but clearly audible to all.
“Ennolu provides what is needed,” the priest put in, cracking the fraught, brittle silence. I hardly heard him over the ringing in my ears.
I’d tried to prepare myself for cruelty, threats, and domination.
Instead, it seemed Lord Stefan meant to destroy me through sheer humiliation.
A horrid thought struck me: As dreadful as it would be if he tormented me with my curse, forcing himself on me or denying me what I needed until I begged and crawled, or…or what? Perhaps luckily, I didn’t have sufficient experience and imagination to go further.But what if he really did refuse to bed me at all?Locked me up alone with no relief for my curse? They’d taken my potions away. My magic wouldn’t return unless he took me, and I’d have no defense, no way out. He could be a happy widower by morning.
Panic bubbled up, accompanied by a stomach-churning side dish of pure rage, and the combination took away my voice. My mouth opened. No sound came out except for a sort of gasping squeak.
Lord Stefan finally lowered the quizzing glass, but he raised his eyebrows even further.
“With all possible respect to you and to Him, Your Eminence,” he said, “in this case, I can’t help thinking thatEnnolu’s perception of my needs and my own view on the matter differ a bit, what?”
Hadn’t I had almost precisely the same thought yesterday about Lord Stefan’s needs and his father’s perceptions of them? That would probably be the only thought Lord Stefan and I had in common.
“Enough of this nonsense!” The Lord Chancellor’s harsh voice burst through the chapel like the sound of breaking glass. “Your needs have been fully met, as you can clearly see and as we have discussed at length, though it pleases you to pretend otherwise. Take your place at the altar. And you! Attend.”
“And you” clearly meant me, but my brain refused to translate that sharp command into an impetus that would move my limbs. I stood there frozen, ears ringing with the echoing tension of a room full of angry people.
Lord Stefan stepped forward, flushed along his cheekbones and with his lips compressed into a flat line, his movements so measured that they felt more aggressive than striking out and shouting would have been.
He walked right by me in a click of heels on tile and a rustle of heavy silk. Not even a pause to acknowledge me, not so much as a flicker of his eyes.
As if I didn’t even exist.
But the faint breeze of his passing brushed over my face…and a sudden, lancing pain like the touch of a hot poker shot down my spine, leaving me shuddering and with fresh sweat beading my temples.
My magic knewheexisted, damn it all. And the latent frisson that had been building slowly toward the outbreak of my curse had burst into fruition as my magic sensed his nearness. As if it wantedhimto be the one to soothe it.
And perhaps I had enough of a dramatic streak in me to consider weeping and wailing and protesting that I’d rather die,but the pragmatism instilled by years of monastery life brought me back down to earth.
No. I wouldn’t rather die. If it came to it, I’d climb on Lord Stefan’s cock and make the best of it.
And it would come to it. Soon, and growing sooner.
So I forced myself to take a step, legs stiff and my neck aching with tension. And then another, stumbling to stillness next to Lord Stefan in front of Ennolu’s altar and the impatient priest.
“Stefan, Remigius,” the priest said, with a broad and insincere smile.
I winced. Gods, couldn’t he have spared me that? Ennolu didn’t give a damn if I used a nickname in His presence.
