A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  If he were a woman, he didn’t think he could do it. Live in service to someone else, forever. Then again, he could scarcely imagine being a woman in the first place. He’d been, and continued to be, profoundly grateful that Aria was willing to marry him but this was one area in which he expected more of others than he expected of himself.

  His father would undoubtedly argue, were the question put to him, that Kisten wasn’t doing anything of the kind; he fed Aria, and clothed her, and treated her with what kindness he was capable of mustering. He encouraged her interests, and gave her the freedom and means to pursue them. Whereas all of the responsibilities related to their family fell on his shoulders. It was no problem of hers if he spent all their money, or lost it in poor investments or, for that matter, lost his job.

  But what he couldn’t handle was not being in control.

  He found himself thinking, for the first time, about having daughters. He’d always assumed that he’d have sons, but most of the men in his family had, in fact, had daughters and gender was determined by the male line. Who would this hypothetical future child marry? Would she be happy? What if, like her father, she cared nothing for domestic pursuits and wanted to explore the stars? His firm belief that a woman’s place was in the home, doing whatever her husband told her to do warred with his entirely selfish desire for his own offspring to follow their dreams. No child of his should be balked, in anything.

  He wondered what Aria would think. His little feminist, who’d done her best to adapt herself to his world. They hadn’t discussed the subject of children, although he’d wanted to. He wanted very much to have children with her, and hoped that they’d be more like her than him. The idea of an adorable little girl who looked just like Aria both thrilled and terrified him. He knew exactly how revolting men could be; indeed, given his own proclivities the problem could hardly elude him. If any man treated his daughter the way he treated Aria, he’d cheerfully choke the life from the poor bastard with his bare hands.

  He turned his head as Renta appeared in the door. She looked radiant in a robe of sheer rose-colored silk that had been casually belted at the waist. Underneath, she wore very little. She’d disappeared some time ago to discuss something with a client about one of the girls.

  She smiled. “You haven’t moved since I left you.”

  “I missed you,” he said. He didn’t see her as often as he’d like, as he only had so much time in his schedule. Irrationally, he felt put out that when he was here, she had a life of her own.

  “I had to see to a client’s needs,” she said mysteriously.

  “I hope,” he replied, half teasingly, “that your solicitude extended only to helping him enjoy himself with other women.” He had no real concern on this front, as he knew she was loyal to him, but he couldn’t help a stab of irrational jealousy when he thought of another man seeing her in that robe. Or seeing her at all. “Even better,” he grumbled, “I hope he’s incapable of enjoying himself at all.”

  “Oh,” said Renta, humor sparkling in her eyes, “he is.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and trailed her fingers over his chest. She had small, delicate hands.

  Reaching up, he grabbed her and pulled her down onto the bed. Pinning her with his hands, he climbed on top of her. The rest of the bedding, including the pillows, slid to the floor. “Then I’ll imagine him as an aged grandfather with broad, hairy warts and an abnormally small organ of generation,” he said, kissing her. She giggled.

  He continued to kiss her and stroke her, enjoying the exploration almost as much as the reaction it was producing. Her lips opened under his as he divested her of her robe and, shortly thereafter, everything else. She was warm and willing and she trembled under him, her fingernails biting into his back as she wrapped her legs around him. She’d always been a skilled, enthusiastic lover and time had only ripened her considerable talents.

  He lost himself in her, reveling in the taste of her skin, the scent of her perfume, the hard points of her nipples pressing into his chest and how her hips rose to meet his. Her hand slid up the back of his neck, twisting in his hair, as she held his mouth to hers. She moaned softly as her pleasure overtook her, going limp under him. He held her close as, a minute or two later, he felt himself break apart into a million pieces.

  When he’d recovered himself, he rolled onto his side and pulled her with him, still trapped in his encircling arms. She let herself be moved, snuggling up against him with her eyes half-closed and placing one small hand on his chest.

  Neither of them spoke, and once again he found himself thinking. He supported Renta financially, not because she needed him to but because it was simply what one did in these situations. Most women asked, at some point in the relationship, what the benefit was to them—which, considering their relative lack of power, he considered reasonable. Some were content with boxes of chocolates and dinners out; some merely wanted the attention. Some wanted apartments. Some wanted marriage. He made a point of being generous to Renta because, whatever the situation, a lady shouldn’t have to ask. And he wondered, too, uncomfortably, if he lavished gifts on her at least partly to make up for the fact that he didn’t love her as he should and couldn’t marry her.

  He thought, with a sigh, that he must be growing up.

  There was a certain kind of support that he couldn’t get from Aria and, moreover, didn’t want from Aria. All these years later, the memories of his imprisonment and what he’d been like after hadn’t faded. Although he pretended they had. Much as he hadn’t been a good person, then, he hadn’t been a good person before, either.

  He thought back to that now infamous orgy and cringed. It had only been one of many, especially memorable for being more drug-fueled than most. And because he was pretty certain he’d had sex with Jivaj, more than once, although he tried his best not to remember the details. Introduce enough drugs into any man’s system and, whatever his proclaimed sexuality, he’d stick his cock into whatever was on offer. Those who disbelieved this claim were either lying to themselves or hadn’t done enough drugs.

  He was a different person now, and he didn’t ever want Aria to know him as he’d been then: a callow, thoughtless child in a man’s body whose belief in his own perfection eclipsed his current narcissism to the point where he seemed positively self-effacing in comparison.

  He smiled slightly, the expression not reaching his eyes. That he was a pathological narcissist hadn’t escaped him, but at least he’d learned perspective. And he couldn’t bear for Aria to see him as the child he’d been before he was captured or the pathetic, vulnerable husk of a man he’d been when he came back from the prison camp. He couldn’t bear to lose her respect, which he’d worked so hard to gain.

  He wasn’t the first man whose former lover cherished some secret that his current lover didn’t know, and wouldn’t be the last. He stroked Renta’s hair, noticing as he did so that she was being unusually quiet. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My sister is pregnant again,” said Renta.

  “Your client told you?” She hadn’t mentioned anything earlier, so it was a simple process of deduction. She nodded, without looking at him. He knew how desperately she wanted children of her own. She’d be a far better mother than her hateful sister. Kisten liked women, as a general rule, but that sour-faced cunt was a disgrace to the breed.

  He would have disliked her anyway, but he hated her for how she’d treated Renta.

  “This is her third,” said Renta. As was so often the case, the woman who wanted neither husband nor children had both and in abundance. “It’s so easy for her,” she said softly. And then, a few minutes later, her voice small as she gave voice to the thought they were both having, “all she does is complain about how she doesn’t want them. It’s not fair.”

  “No,” he agreed, “it’s not. I wish I could give you children,” he told her.

  He’d be perfectly happy to have children with his mistress; he saw neither the decision nor the commitment it entailed as having any
thing to do with his married life. He could more than support two families, and had no particular qualms about illegitimate offspring. He’d almost been one, himself. Besides, it would make her happy and she’d had so little happiness in her life. And nothing that was just her own.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Your sister”—Kisten refused to use the cunt’s name, the very syllables gave him rage—”has few friends in Haldon.” Unlike Renta, who was beloved. Kisten wondered if her sister knew, or cared. Or if, perhaps, what her sister no doubt saw as the injustice of their relative positions was part of what motivated her cruelty. “And if she continues in her current vein, she’ll soon be out of a husband.”

  “Ramin is a good man,” said Renta, “but she hated him from the first, even before she met him. She blamed me, of course, for what she referred to as her failure to make a good match. Ramin’s lack of title could have been forgiven, I believe, if he’d had a suitable fortune.”

  But Ramin had been only the natural son, as bastardy was called in polite circles, of some cousin of Senator Gore. He was intelligent, able and well educated, as well as possessed of a pleasantly large private income, but he was not important. And however handily he was able to support his children, he couldn’t indulge in the kind of spending sprees that his consort believed were her due. And so she’d made his life miserable.

  “It’s a shame,” said Kisten. “He’s a good man.”

  “And you?” asked Renta. “Your mother must be pestering you for an heir and a spare.”

  Which, indeed, she was. “I haven’t discussed it with her. With Aria, I mean.”

  “I hardly thought you were proposing to impregnate your mother.” Renta made a face.

  Kisten smiled slightly. “I’d like to embark on that particular project, but I don’t think Aria does.”

  “You’re assuming this based on…?” She left the question hanging.

  Kisten made a noncommittal gesture. “Things are going well, and I don’t want to risk….” He trailed off, unsure of how to frame his thoughts. Risk what, exactly? That the first few months of his marriage hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing was hardly news to Renta, who’d generally sided with Aria in her views on the subject. Much to Kisten’s extreme vexation.

  “You love her and she loves you,” Renta said practically.

  “So she says,” Kisten replied darkly.

  “Has she given you reason to doubt her?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then don’t be an ass. You owe it to her to be honest about your wants and needs. That’s how relationships work, you know.” Time had not blunted Renta’s willingness to call a spade a spade.

  “I…can’t.”

  “You haven’t told her.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. Renta sounded vaguely disapproving.

  Of course he hadn’t! What did she think he was, mental?

  “You have to, you know.” Renta propped herself up on one elbow, and her eyes met his. “She’ll find out eventually. They always do.” She smiled slightly, softening the blow of her words. “Take it from someone who’s had a good bit of experience placating angry women, one of whom threw a vase at my head. A vase, can you imagine that?” She shook her head at the memory, smiling slightly. “Aria will find out, Kit, and I think you’d rather have her find out from you.”

  Kisten didn’t respond.

  Renta didn’t understand. She was a woman, and therefore an idealist. As practical as she was in some respects, her heart was full of foolish notions like love conquers all. And as admiring as he was of Renta’s resilience, and pleased that her experiences hadn’t embittered her as they would have so many other women in her place, he found her persistence in being so goddamned feminine annoying. He’d concealed certain aspects of his life from Aria because he was certain that, if she knew the truth, she’d leave him.

  FORTY-NINE

  Aria stepped onto the silent verandah from the garden, where she’d been caught in a sudden downpour while walking with Lei. As Lei had an afternoon engagement and Aria had been charged with providing tea for Setji, they’d agreed to go their separate ways. And by go, Lei meant run. Aria pulled off her gloves, shaking her head in amusement at the unpredictable weather.

  She was well familiar with the problem, having grown up on a lake in a part of the world where the weather was also unpredictable. And lake weather, she knew, was the most unpredictable of all—anywhere in the universe, apparently! She laughed. She was in good spirits, despite the drops of water that clung to her like a thousand tiny jewels. Soon they’d soak in and the enchanting effect would be gone, replaced by a bedraggled thing that looked like a drowned rat. She stepped inside, passed through the library and hurried down the hall, determined to change before that happened.

  The past few months had been busy ones, with official functions taking up much of her time. She’d visited hospitals and shelters and soup kitchens, listened to litanies of grievances and tried to represent her husband’s interests to the best of her ability. If only her family could see her now, she thought with a rueful smile. They wouldn’t believe it. They’d always, especially her mother, thought her completely useless. Teasing her about her supposed lack of grace, lack of beauty and lack of abilities, they’d fully expected her to join in. When she’d refused to find her supposed failings as funny as they did, she’d been labeled obnoxious and dull.

  She doubted that discovering her change in station would affect their opinion of her overmuch, but a girl could dream. Not that, of course, they’d ever speak again. She thought about that, sometimes. She did wonder how they were doing, particularly Zelda. She’d always loved her sister, even if Zelda was a stone cold bitch and entitled to boot.

  Aria’s riding had improved, too. She’d been astonished, the first time she’d seen Kisten mount his own horse. Grabbing the pommel, he’d swung himself upward into the saddle in a single fluid motion. The upper body strength necessary to accomplish such a feat must be phenomenal, and he was as graceful as a gymnast. In response to her praise, he’d commented only that the technique was easier on the horse. But he’d been pleased. And they had gone on several interesting rides, exploring the countryside and seeing what there was to see. One ride in particular had doubled as a picnic, and had ended with them half naked on a bed of moss by a brook.

  She smiled to herself as she fixed her hair, and touched up her makeup. Having changed into dry clothes, a lovely blue blouse, underskirt and sattika that matched her eyes, she felt much better. Even her underwear had been wet. She slipped her feet into a pair of embroidered slippers and turned toward the door, deciding to spend her last hour or so of freedom curled up with a book. She was reading a doorstop of historical fiction on that most beloved topic, honor. Most Bronte reading material, from literature taught at universities to the grimmest potboiler, was about roughly the same thing. Some stories had more sex, was all.

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard the voices. They had a visitor, by the sound of it, and that visitor was very upset. The strident tone of her demands carried, as did their steward’s placating responses as he fought increasingly to be heard.

  Aria drifted to a halt, so absorbed in what she was hearing that she’d forgotten to walk.

  “His Highness is not at home!” the steward insisted.

  Their guest’s snort was patently disbelieving. “He goddamn well is,” she said.

  “Please, madam—”

  “Don’t you madam me. I will see him, and I will see him now!”

  “But madam, he isn’t—”

  “I’ll wait in his office.”

  “A thousand apologies for your suffering, but no one is allowed in His Highness’ private rooms without his express permission. If you’ll please—”

  “Why you obnoxious, snot-nosed little man, I’ll—”

  “Madam, I shall be forced to call the guards.”

  “I’ll guards you, and tell His Highness—”

  Recovering herself a
t last, Aria hurried forward to prevent what now sounded like certain disaster. All conversation stopped as she appeared in the arched entrance to the hall. “It’s alright, Ananda,” she said distractedly, addressing the enraged steward without looking at him. “I’ll see them. Please have something suitable sent to the smaller of the two sitting rooms.”

  Ananda glanced at her questioningly, and she nodded her confirmation. He could go; she’d be fine. His concern for her welfare was touching; she liked the fat, effeminate little man. With a last mistrustful glance at Aria’s guests he withdrew, leaving them alone. She was sure he’d be watching from the wings, though, just in case she needed him. The expression on his face, as he’d departed the hall, had been one of extreme dubiousness.

  The three regarded each other in deafening silence.

  Because there had, she’d seen immediately, been a third.

  A third she hadn’t expected, hadn’t even known existed, but had nonetheless recognized. His mother—the woman had to be his mother—was a tall, statuesque creature who hid the fact that she’d seen her best years with artfully applied cosmetics. Aria guessed her to be somewhere on the other side of thirty-five, which was hardly old; what had aged her wasn’t years, but experience. A certain hardness encased her eyes and mouth. She’d seen what there was to see, and hadn’t been moved. She was beautiful, though, insofar as an ice goddess could be beautiful. Where Aria knew herself to be obliging and fun, like someone’s younger sister, this woman was as unapproachable as the stars. Her slim, perfectly formed legs were encased in black leather pants and she wore a man’s collared shirt, opened up sufficiently to reveal a vast expanse of perfectly round bosom. Not, Aria thought uncharitably, of the kind found in nature.

  Her son was wearing an equally unpleasant expression, his lip curled upwards in a fixed sneer, but there the resemblance ended. Where her skin was the honeyed tone of caramel, his was exceedingly pale. Raven black hair fell in his eyes, eyes that regarded Aria with hatred. They were intelligent, and far too knowing for a boy of his age; Aria had little experience with teenaged individuals, but guessed his age to be somewhere around twelve. But what arrested her most was their color: a brilliant warm violet, just like his father’s.