“Rother, I don’t want things between us to be awkward. We’re to be under the same roof for some time.”
When he didn’t react, I realized I’d spoken to him as I would another Deilian noble. Working to maintain polite discourse rather than pollute the discussion with personal feelings.
I forced my lungs to empty in a rush, trying to corral my courage. Now was not the time for civil pleasantries. I needed to be less Deilian and more Marisolian right now or I might never resolve this issue between us. Rother made an effort with the meal; the least I could do was drop my own guard.
“I’m sorry I ambushed you the way I did after Vivian’s comments.” My face heated as I worked up some kind of acknowledgment. I was in yet another land of unfamiliar territory. “I should have had the nerve to ask you directly. Perhaps I was a bit judgmental. Unfairly, even.”
“Perhaps.”
It wasn’t a return apology, but I hadn’t expected much more. At least I knew he was listening. Now that I had his attention, I had my own point to make in my defense.
“And perhaps you’re expecting a great deal of sudden change I’m not prepared for. There’s an insane amount of difference between Deilian and Marisol customs. I’m trying to adapt as best I know how. It’s just not as easy as winding a clockwork mouse and sending it scurrying along on its way.”
Rother didn’t speak, but his posture softened. The sharp line of his mouth relaxed. Not actually a smile, but I suppose it counted as a meager sign of understanding. Clearly, I needed to accept this small victory. It was unlikely my alpha male would ever make some grand gesture and show his belly. It would be a waste of time wishing for it.
The mood lighter, Rother opened the wardrobe and pulled out a jacket and other accessories. I stepped closer as he buttoned his shirt up, shy of his throat yet more formal than when he’d walked out earlier. In short order, he tidied himself up with a stylish jacket and hat, accentuating the smart flair I was learning to appreciate.
“Are we going out tonight?”
Rother shook his head as he buttoned his cuffs. “No. It’s been decided Delaga House will be returning to business tonight.”
“Tonight?” My obvious confusion broke free. What kind of business dealings would be held in the evening?
“Yes, tonight.”
Trying to shrug off the odd working hours, I decided to help rather than hinder. “All right. Is there something in particular I should be wearing?”
“You’re not participating.” Without any vocal fluctuation, he adjusted his collar in the mirror.
“Why not?” I was more confused than ever. Hadn’t we made a breakthrough moments ago?
“You’re not acclimated well enough to the Marisol culture. That ‘sudden change’ you were referring to before. Until you are, you’ll stay up here during active hours.”
Tamping down my annoyance was difficult. I’d spent years as a prisoner to my father’s machinations, and now my husband wanted me to continue playing a similar role?
I steeled myself to stay calm and collected. “As your husband, I’d like to become part of your business.”
“It’s hard when you don’t know who to trust.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I couldn’t help but take offense. Did he mean I couldn’t be trusted? Or rather the others in his dealings?
“Another night, perhaps. You can keep yourself busy playing with the clock.” Rother’s voice wasn’t cruel or rude. It was simplistic. How one would speak to a child. The fatherly condescension made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
My voice pitched in shock. “Excuse me?”
Rother pulled his watch from his pocket. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’m running late. You’ll be asleep long before I’m back, so I’ll see you in the morning.”
Disaffected, he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on my forehead. Stunned, I watched my husband stroll out the door and close it behind him. He didn’t really expect me to sit up here all night, did he? A soft, mechanical snick answered the question.
I’d been locked in the suite.
Chapter 7
THINKING BACK, my home in Deilia was a prison.
My brothers were the guards and my mother the governess playing both sides, refusing to take either. My father was the warden, locking me away after I’d cast a shadow on his precious status. He exercised his authority and reveled in it. Whenever he wanted to ignore my presence—which was more often than I care to admit—he closed the door with me on the other side and turned the key.
Now my husband had done the same. It might have been more palatable if he’d made the slightest effort to sound regretful as he secured my cell. He was far too calm about the whole thing for my liking.
Whether I now had a choice in the matter or not, I was not planning to live out my days having traded in one form of imprisonment for another. I may have been surrounded by finery, but it was a cage of brass and silk. Perhaps there was something amongst the Marisolian people where this act would be seen as acceptable. I doubted it, but clung to the hope. Anything less chilled me.
When Rother left, I listened to his footsteps drifting away, convincing myself it was a poor joke, some Marisolian custom no one bothered to share with me in the pathetically short time I’d lived here. I stood there for far too long waiting for the door to burst open, Rother and his staff initiating me into their world. I didn’t hold the fantasy close for long.
My fury grew. I wanted to rage, throw myself against the door and beat it until my broken, bloodied fists reduced it to splinters. I wanted to track Rother down, shake him by the collar and shout in his face until he understood he couldn’t treat me this way. I wouldn’t allow it.
But I didn’t do any of these things, because I was born a Deilian lord. We didn’t stoop to such crude levels. Perhaps that was the problem. We had so little common ground between us.
I understood how difficult I found the differences between our cultures, but I was trained to be the organizing force behind my husband’s affairs. How to treat dignitaries and political figures and conduct social events was only a small part of my schooling since my orientation had been divulged publicly. Since arriving in Marisol, I’d suffered my share of shocks, but my facade was practiced. I was Deilian, after all. Rother’s lack of faith distressed me. Did he really believe I would shame him, that I would do anything to jeopardize his holdings or harm his successes? Rother had bartered for my hand with my father. He had to know this. I think I was more offended by his unwillingness to trust my skills than trapping me inside our suite.
His reasons for segregating me from everyone this evening may have been calculated, but his assessment was unfair. My wedding and arrival in Delaga House had all the hallmarks of being thrown into the deepest lake with a single swimming lesson to save myself. I struggled, but I refused to go under. I might not have shown it yet, but I was more than capable of adapting in a social situation, even connected to a business I knew nothing about.
My husband was in dire need of a lesson in what made up a Deilian lord.
I was still furious, but Deilians didn’t rant and make scenes. Deilians internalized their pain and performed acts of aggression of a more passive variety.
I pulled out my trunk and unpacked a smart outfit of fine wool. It didn’t have the flair of Marisolian couture, but it fit me well. Without Harston’s aid, I kept the chore of dressing myself simple. Forgoing the ascot, I left the top buttons undone, giving a glimpse of my chest, mimicking Rother’s casual air. I couldn’t choose one piece of jewelry, so I wore several. Multiple rings graced my fingers. Several pins glittered along the edges of my clothing. The excess seemed correct. Instead of slicking back my hair, I raked my fingers through my locks, sweeping them back yet leaving them loose. In front of the mirror, I made sure every piece of clothing accented me without telegraphing a Deilian rigidity. In such a short time, Rother had taught me well without saying a word.
My outrage was well in chec
k. It burned inside, fueling me into something more worthwhile. Filling me with purpose, it drove my hand without the slightest tremble. I was far more focused than I could ever remember.
I collected my tools from the chronometer and approached the door. Since the disastrous attempt to open my chastity belt, my father had confiscated my lockpicks. I protested of course, but it did little good. I had no power. He’d turned over my room so often I gave up trying to hide a set for years.
Fortunately, I didn’t need them to get out of here.
It took little skill to unscrew the door handle’s brass plate, exposing the lock and its inner workings. I made quick work of the rudimentary mechanics, dismantling the lock, tumblers, handle, and latch down to the smallest screw. Each part I gathered and placed on the table next to the clock in precise order, leaving an exploded schematic of everything inside the door to educate my husband once he returned.
And in case he didn’t understand that portion of the lesson, I took apart the hinges as well. I might not have been an alpha male like my husband, but I was strong enough to carry the door into the hallway and lay it on the floor. I considered pushing it over and letting it slam, but others might hear, ruining the surprise.
Once I was satisfied with my work, I dusted off my clothing, stood tall, and headed for the stairwell. It was time to learn more about Delaga House.
Since I had yet to learn the house’s layout, I went back the way I’d come up. I followed the rear stairwell, passing the occasional servant, all of whom stepped at a determined pace between floors. The deeper I went, the more my resentment at Rother twisted itself into nerves. I had no idea how Rother would react to my escape. Once I found the kitchen, everyone was far too busy to give any awareness to me. I walked with anxious steps, caution sharpening my observations.
I followed the growing layers of conversation into a hall leading to a vast sitting room. The gaslights lit whorls of pipe smoke, leaving the foyer hazed in amber. An ornate clockwork music box against the wall played a tinny tune, adding a playful atmosphere. A grand number of people, mostly men, milled between the expansive rooms, in and out of the foyer. Were these Rother’s customers?
They came from all levels of status, coarse to elegant. I could tell by their stance and bearing. What a strange mix of classes to do business with one another. I watched how they all interacted. It didn’t take long to differentiate Rother’s employees from the patrons. The men were all dressed with the rakish flair reminiscent of Rother’s casual yet smart attire, in open-collared shirts and suspenders. They catered to customers, chatting away like long lost friends. The women were something else entirely. They all wore dresses like my mother fancied, yet with far less material, and far more leg and cleavage showing as they traded giggles and sultry glances with their charges. My face heated with their unladylike behavior. Vivian trailed a brazen finger down the chest of a wealthy gentleman who grinned at the attention. She was so rapt in her task, she never noticed me pass.
I schooled my discomfort at the display. Clearly, this was part of Marisol’s customs and I needed to adjust. I was determined not to be offended so easily by things that were done differently here than in my homeland.
Trying to blend in, I followed along the wall, doing my best to watch without participating. A few of the staff I recognized served drinks to the crowd. I had yet to see Rother, Alexandra, or even Blythe, but given the number of folks present, it wasn’t surprising they were lost amongst them.
It didn’t take long for me to find my annoyance once again. Did Rother really think I’d embarrass him at a party? Managing social functions was part of my schooling. I realized my ignorance of Marisolian culture was a hindrance, but I wasn’t backward. I could have managed with a little coaching. With the exception of the ladies’ fashions, this wasn’t all that different from a Deilian soiree. Minus the wanton frivolity, of course.
An odd mix of soft cheers and other sounds I couldn’t place drew me into the adjoining salon positioned across the foyer from the sitting room. It took some time to weave through the people, as the crowd’s density increased the closer I came. Squeezing between a pair of gentlemen, I entered the room.
Several tables cluttered the space, and everywhere I looked, they were filled with men playing games. A group of men sat focused on the cards in their hands, ignoring the cacophony around them. At another station, a group watched intently while one player threw dice down the banquet-length run. Mounted on the far wall, a large wheel spun, painted into pie sections, each containing a number. Players appeared to be betting on which number peaked on each turn of the wheel. People cheered and groused depending on how each round finished and how much money changed hands.
The more I watched, the more uneasy I became.
They were all gambling.
Everything going on in this room was illegal. Men went to prison for this sort of behavior, and nobles were not excluded.
My husband was running an illicit business, and bound by marriage, I was a part of it. Did every piece of artwork and decoration in Delaga House come from criminal funds? Now I understood why Rother didn’t want me down here. He knew this wasn’t right and I wouldn’t approve—couldn’t approve. Rother didn’t want me to know how sordid his dealings were. I knew nothing of this kind of life, and now I lived in the middle of it.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I needed to speak to Rother. I needed him to explain it all, but I couldn’t see him through the crowd. All my previous fury and intention to adapt were swept aside as my stomach twisted. The determination to be more accepting of Marisolian cultural elements fled me in an alarming rush. Too many people dealing in scandalous activities, far too close together. I felt confined, surrounded by something I didn’t understand. Laughter and mirth from each and every person mocked me, smothering me in decadence. My chest tightened, pulse pounding, and every breath became labored.
I needed a safe place. Back to the bedroom. Pushing the irony aside, I turned around.
How had the throng of people become so much thicker? Getting out of the gaming salon was harder than getting in. I struggled not to shove men aside as my panic took hold. I needed to reverse my path.
An exhale of smoke burned my eyes as I navigated through the room’s center. I couldn’t risk taking the time to trace along the outer border again. I knew my reaction was irrational, but I couldn’t quash it. Only my Deilian veneer kept me calm and polite enough to prevent me from plowing down the middle of the group.
Get to the kitchen, go to the bedroom suite, and wait for Rother to explain this whole debacle. Rother was many things, but I didn’t get the sense he’d lied to me so far. Kept silent and vague at times, yes, but what he’d shared had been truthful.
The crowd parted as my destination approached. I slipped into the kitchen, and my pace was brought to a screeching halt by a hand gripping my arm.
“Where are you running off to, love?”
The hand on my arm spun me, facing me with a stranger. Towering over me, the man was unshaven, with the clothing of a local businessman—less than a lord, but more than a peasant.
“Aren’t you a pretty one?”
Without releasing me, he took a step forward, which I matched, shifting away. I was already unsettled from being slapped with the reality of Rother’s business, but now a new kind of wariness began to take hold. His lidded stare raked me from top to bottom as he licked his lower lip.
His coarse chuckle made my spine shiver. “No one said Delaga House had acquired new stock.”
I was still reeling from the knowledge of my husband’s illegal gambling house, and this wasn’t improving the situation. Everything about this man made me feel like skittish prey. Nothing felt safe, and his lock on my arm instilled a growing need to flee. I couldn’t find the words to respond. My skin crawled from the proximity of his body heat. He kept advancing and I kept retreating. So intent on creating some distance, I hadn’t realized he’d herded me into the kitchen pantry. Its tight confines did noth
ing to ease my fears.
His dirty smile grew as he groped himself with his free hand. “C’mon, boy. Let’s you and me head upstairs where I can give you a proper rogering.”
Excuse me? I wasn’t clear on the vulgar term, but his actions said all I needed to know. The unease flared into unparalleled disgust. Furious, I wrenched my arm out of his grasp. The practiced sneer on my face couldn’t be taken as anything but offense.
I scoffed. “Even if I had such an inclination to do that with anyone here, it certainly would not be with the likes of you.”
He snarled even as his backhand smacked me across the cheek faster than I could track. My head jerked to the side and struck something hard. Pain flared across my face and temple. Jars rattled on the shelf as my legs buckled and I collapsed to the floor.
“Fucking cocktease!”
Only my father had ever struck me so hard. My first instinct was to curl up and take my punishment. It would all be over soon if I was patient. The memory of lying bruised and battered for hours on cold stone tile welled in me. I recalled the first time my father vented his fury on me after my failed attempt at removing the chastity belt. I could still hear my mother’s feeble advice: Weather out the storm. It can’t last long.
But my father wasn’t here anymore. Lord Arthur Valencus lost his power over me the second the vicar pronounced Rother and I wed. Never again. I no longer needed to accept it. Dazed and disoriented, I refused to lie back and take this abuse any longer.
A swift kick lifted me briefly off the floor, stealing my breath and stalling my revival.
“You think you’re so much better than me? Agh!”
The stranger’s scream startled me. I threw my arms over my head to protect myself as a series of shouts and crashes rained above me, making me flinch. Head swimming, I froze, each inhale stuttering as I struggled to make my lungs work.
The noises settled as my gasps relaxed and I found breath once again. I opened my eyes and when the world stopped spinning, I was stunned by what I saw.
Innocence and Carnality Page 9