For the first time in her life, she’d been tempted to emulate the flappers and hack her ‘crowning glory’ off at her shoulders.
When the maid had finished combing and curling her hair, she began to carefully weave bejeweled ribbons through it. Finally, she produced an elaborate headdress and settled the heavy piece on top of Khalia’s head, pinning it in place with dozens of gouging hair pins that almost instantly produced a headache.
She discovered when she went to rise from the bench at last that the thing had to be carefully balanced. She had to stand perfectly straight and she could not move her head more than a few degrees in any direction. Briefly, rebellion rose inside of her and she was tempted to rip it from her head and fling it across the room.
She quelled it. She had not been reared to become queen and there was much to be learned regarding appropriate behavior, but she had grown up in an orphanage and she was well versed in the need for conformity.
She discovered the outfit her handmaidens had chosen was equally beautiful and just as torturous to wear. The top was fairly typical in design--nothing more than two tiny wedges of fabric to cup her breasts and strung together by narrow ties that went around her neck and her back. It differed only in that it was so encrusted with jewels that it was stiff and abrasive to her skin.
The bottom was as bad or worse. The hair on her mound had been shaved to no more than a tiny strip… and that was barely covered by the scrap of bejeweled cloth. The tiny triangle narrowed between her legs and became not much more than a string in the back, which tucked between the cheeks of her buttocks in back, leaving both buttocks completely bare. Some sadistic bastard had had the bright idea of stringing jewels even along the narrow ties, however, and the tiny, sharp stones immediately became a painful reminder of just how sensitive that area was.
She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be expected to dance in the thing.
The maids had chosen a sheer blue skirt to tie about her waist. It snagged immediately on the jeweled femi-piece she wore, however, and Khalia found she lacked the patience to deal with that irritation on top of the headdress and the discomfort of the bejeweled femi-piece and top. “No,” she said emphatically, removing the skirt and tossing it aside.
Her maids stared at her. “But… your highness. It would be … shockingly disgraceful to appear in public without a skirt!”
Khalia looked at the woman hard, trying to decide if she was joking or not. She appeared to be completely serious. “I’m next door to naked now!” she said indignantly. “You’re saying this is all right, so long as I wear a ‘veil’ over it that’s thin enough I could read through it?”
The women exchanged uncomfortable glances. “It is the custom.”
Khalia’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve no intention of worrying with that thing catching every time I take a step, or breathe. I’ll wear it like this, or you can find something else.”
The woman who’d spoken before bit her lower lip and looked at the other women for support. When no one said anything, she bowed her head. “Your highness, we were ordered to dress you in your finest garments. You have nothing richer.”
Khalia shrugged. She hadn’t really expected them to produce anything else. “Then I suppose I will set a new style tonight.”
They stared at her, some obviously frightened, others shocked, some just as obviously fighting a desire to giggle. She ignored all of them. The gigglers giggled at everything--she meant to rid herself of them at the first opportunity. The women who disapproved, seemed to disapprove of everything she did.
The maid who’d dressed her hair came forward timidly, carrying a deep blue length of the thickest material Khalia had seen since she’d arrived. “This robe was intended for after your coronation, your highness, but it is heavy fabric, unlikely to snag on the jewels as the other does.”
“She is not to wear that until she is queen. It is a robe of office.”
Khalia looked at the woman. “What office?”
“A robe of state, your highness,” the woman stammered. “When you are queen.”
Khalia drew a long suffering sigh and glanced at her hairdresser. “I’ll wear the robe,” she said firmly, more from sheer contrariness than any real desire to wear it. Moving to the bench she’d just vacated, she sat while the hairdresser attached a stiff contraption across her shoulders and around each arm to support the robe, secured the robe and then very carefully arranged her hair again.
When she stood once more, she saw that nearly half the handmaidens had vanished. The others were cowering in the corners. She glanced at her hairdresser and shook her head slightly. “Timid little mice.”
The hairdresser fought a smile, but became serious almost at once. “It is not the acceptable mode of dress at court, your highness, but they should not presume to tell you what you may, or may not, wear.”
“Exactly,” Khalia said. “What are you called?”
“Guiteanna … daughter of General Fireater.”
Khalia frowned thoughtfully and finally placed the name. The girl’s father was a lesser noble, who had distinguished himself in the last war and been promoted to general … Much as Damien had, except that Damien had still been a very young man and had risen much faster and higher in rank. “Thank you, Guiteanna.”
The silence that fell over the state dining room when she was announced might have alarmed her, or embarrassed the person that she had been. Contrarily, it sent a ripple of grim satisfaction through her. She’d been a conformist all of her life, and it had only secured her position as a nonentity, a ghost among the living who was accounted as nothing and ignored.
If the only satisfaction open to her was in defying their traditions, then she would enjoy what she could.
Smiling faintly, she descended the short flight of stairs. As if her movement had finally shaken them from their shocked immobilization, the assembly scrambled to recover themselves, bowing deeply.
She was escorted to the seat her uncle had occupied at every other function she’d attended. Surprise flickered through her, but she took the seat. Her uncle was red with fury when he took his seat beside her. She gave him a cool look.
“Your highness,” he muttered under his breath. “I have not officially stepped down. Until your coronation …people will talk.”
She lifted her brows at him. “What will they say?”
She hadn’t thought it possible he could turn any redder. He proved her wrong. “It is insulting,” he said in a hissing voice.
“Why would you feel slighted? You told me you were anxious to ‘hand the weighty mantle of office to me’, that you were ‘weary of carrying it’.”
Maurkis looked for several moments as if he would strangle, or die of a seizure. Finally, he merely nodded and sat back as a servant arrived to place the first course before them.
Khalia let out a surreptitious sigh of relief. It hadn’t been her intention to challenge Maurkis openly, particularly when she knew he must still be plotting against her and doing so was liable to bring him into the open, as well, or drive him to more desperate measures. On another level, she didn’t regret it. She had disliked him on sight, because she had sensed that he was weak, self-indulgent, greedy, suffered from an inflated opinion of himself, and stupid. Nothing she’d discovered since had led her to change her opinion of him.
Ignoring him, she glanced down the table as the other diners finally began settling in their seats. Her heart skipped a beat when she caught a glimpse of a man far down the table. The woman blocking her view finally turned her head away, flirting with the man on her other side, and Khalia realized that it wasn’t merely hopefulness. It was Damien.
For a long moment, their gazes met down the length of the table. Finally, he inclined his head and returned his attention to his diner partner.
In that single moment, he completely annihilated her composure and her self-confidence. With an effort, she focused on her meal, allowing the chatter around her to wash over her while she wrestled with her chaotic though
ts and emotions. It was something Maurkis said during the fourth course that finally penetrated her abstraction. She glanced at him and saw a complacent smile was curling his lips. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. It was purely malicious, however, and Khalia knew even before he repeated his question that it would be something she would find very unpleasant. “The petitioners. Have you reviewed them yet?”
Khalia searched her mind for what he was referring to. Vaguely, she recalled that one of the ministers had given her a stack of papers to look over earlier, but she’d been so distracted by the commotion her maids created in her suite that she had merely set them aside.
“Not yet.”
His brows rose. He slid a glance down the table toward Damien, watching him for several moments. Unable to resist, Khalia followed his gaze. The women seated on either side of him were vying for his attention and a wave of jealousy washed over her. The moment she met her uncle’s gaze again, she realized she’d given herself away.
“I’m surprised you haven’t looked at them yet. You’ll be expected to settle upon one very quickly … preferably before the coronation.”
She hadn’t a clue of what he was talking about, but she had no intention of allowing him to know it. She could either contain her curiosity until she retired to her apartment where she could look at the papers, or she could wait for him to gloat over it … whatever ‘it’ was.
“Perhaps this diner will prove enlightening, however. It will give you the opportunity to meet some of the men who have petitioned for your hand, and then you may look through the petitions and match faces to the reports.”
Despite everything that she could do, Khalia could not prevent the shock wave that went through her, or the nausea that followed it. She supposed she had known that this would be a part of what was expected of her, but none of it had ever seemed real to her. She’d continued to nurse a forlorn hope that she would somehow escape and return to her old life in her own world. And then there had been the deeper fantasy that Damien would rescue her and claim her for his own.
“You never chose a mate,” she pointed out finally.
He shrugged. “In my case it was not only not necessary, but frowned upon. I was … am nothing more than regent to hold the throne for the true ruler. It was the will of the people that I not breed heirs that might try to interfere with the succession. You are to be the queen, however. You must produce an heir. Moreover, being a female has the added draw back of your reproductive processes. If you have not settled upon a proper mate beforehand, it is not too farfetched to consider the likelihood of a war breaking out over claiming your favor.”
Dimly, she remembered that Damien had said something about that. The truth was, she’d been so inundated with demands since her arrival, and so frightened about the outcome when they’d set out to come, that she’d completely forgotten the very dangerous situation her cycles put her in.
Something had changed, however. Despite the fact that she should have found herself in the midst of battles to claim her by now, the ‘bulls’ that surrounded her day in and day out hardly gave her more than surreptitiously admiring glances.
She frowned, mentally calculating, but the truth was these creatures were far more knowledgeable about such things than she was. All she knew was that at some point between her courses, she was fertile. She might have been fertile when she and Damien had lain together, and she might not. She could do nothing but wait until the next time she was due to start her courses … and even then she couldn’t be completely certain. She was generally as predictable as sunrise, but emotional strain could well interfere and she’d certainly endured a great deal of emotional strain in the past few weeks.
She didn’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the males might be able to sense that she’d been claimed. She wondered now if their lack of extreme interest was merely the result of having had intercourse with him. Or did it mean that she was carrying Damien’s child?
Chapter Sixteen
Ignoring the gloating expression on Maurkis’ face, Khalia concentrated on behaving with indifference to his remarks, making small talk whenever anyone spoke to her and an attempt to show interest in the elaborate dishes set before her. It occurred to her presently, however, that among the last of their conversations, she had finally confessed to Damien that she was not like the females of his world. That she did not come in season. Her cycles were monthly. His response had been that he would give some thought to what he could do to protect her.
Hurt and anger surged through her when she realized, at last, what that solution had been. He’d become her lover.
She thought for some moments that she would not be able to retain a facade of unconcern, but her years in the orphanage came to her rescue once more. She had learned, at a very early age that the surest way to be tormented was to allow the tormentor to see that he’d made his mark.
Sucking in a deep, relaxing breath, she forced all of it to the back of her mind. She could examine it later--if she wanted to--when she had at least a little privacy. She couldn’t allow herself to think about it now.
She was relieved when the interminable diner ended at last--until she discovered that it was to be followed by dancing and that she was not to be allowed merely to sit and watch. As her uncle had so gleefully pointed out, many of her suitors were in attendance. It could be potentially dangerous to snub them and retreat to her room like an empty headed, thoughtless child.
She danced with all of them as they were presented to her. The youngest was barely more than a boy, fresh faced, earnest, clumsy and eager to please. The oldest looked to be about her uncle’s age. Within a very few minutes with him, she had learned far more than she wanted to; that he had been mated many years earlier, but had lost her to child bearing; that he was brother to the queen of their closest ally; and that he was a lecher of the first order.
Damien danced with virtually every unattached female--except her.
She was relieved when she’d finally worked her way through the list. The moment she did, she excused herself and retired for the evening.
She found as she strode toward her apartments, leaving most of her attendants behind, that she’d reached the limit of her endurance. Standing in the door of her suite, she ordered everyone out. The maids and ladies in waiting merely gaped at her as if she’d lost her mind. She glared at them for several moments and finally stepped outside and looked up at the two guards standing at attention on either side of the entrance to her apartment. “Remove them.”
The guards exchanged a glance. Saluting her, they turned and marched into the room, each grabbing two ladies by the arm and escorting them from the room. The others shrieked and fled.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Khalia closed the doors behind them, pulled the elaborate headdress she was wearing from her hair and tossed it aside. The robe followed and behind that the jewelry and the heavily embroidered garments. She wanted nothing so much as to remove the taint of this corrupt, dissolute palace from her … and to remove herself from it, but a bath would have to suffice.
The trill of birdsong penetrated her abstraction and she glanced at the little sheashona fluttering about the gilded cage in one corner. It was only one of the many gifts that had arrived for her to celebrate her coronation, but it was the only one that had really touched her. Generally, she spent time talking to it, feeding it, watching it flutter about its cage when she retired for the evenings, enjoying it as much because it reminded her of Damien as for its own sake.
Tonight, she wanted no reminders.
Swallowing with an effort, she turned away from it and headed toward her bedchamber.
He stepped out of the shadows near her bed, startling her. She stopped abruptly, her heart hammering uncomfortably in her chest. “Damien? How did you …?”
She saw then that his face was a mask of carefully controlled rage. His eyes glittered with it and with something else that made her heart beat erraticall
y, crushed the air in her lungs so that she had to struggle to breathe.
“I used the passage … the one that links the queen’s chamber to that of her consort.”
Khalia merely stared at him, trying to make sense of his comments. A passage? She hadn’t even known there was one, let alone that she’d been installed in the queen’s apartments. It occurred to her after only a moment, however, that there was accusation in his voice and manner. It resurrected the hurt and anger she’d been working so assiduously to subdue.
“Did any pique your interest?”
Khalia’s eyes narrowed. “Any what?” she asked tightly.
“Any of the hopeful males vying for your favor.”
How could they when she could think of no one but him? “I don’t believe that falls under the heading of your business. Unless you’re suggesting that we’re such great friends we should share our darkest secrets with one another? You go first. Which of the females fondling you tonight gets to share her bed with you?”
She’d been so caught up in her hurt and anger, she hadn’t realized that he was stalking her as a cat stalked its prey, moving slowly and unthreateningly closer, inch by inch.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t deny the accusation. “You’ve changed.”
“You changed me,” she countered before she even considered the implications, but then the comment had thrown her off guard. It had seemed a suggestion that he was displeased with the changes he sensed in her. It was as grossly unfair and hurtful as everything else he’d done. She knew it was true, though. She was even more distrustful, if possible, than she had been before, harder, angrier with life.
“I tried to stay away,” he said after a moment, some of the anger leaving his face.
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