by Renee Peters
His gaze lingered there — where the curve of her neck kissed flawless skin that had driven him to distraction for hours — before he willed his attention down the length of a slender arm to her hands where they rested. Despite the care given to her appearance, Joanna’s cuticles still bore the faint black stains from her inks, and she kept them curled in her lap as if to hide them from the world.
The special license he had purchased had secured an evening ceremony at the comfort of his estate, and the reception that followed had grown into a full soirée. He listened to Joanna’s music as the faces of the ton filed by to offer their congratulations — and to study the woman. The fledgling queen’s song had remained steady through the introductions and conversation, but as the night progressed, he heard the subtle slurs beginning to drag her flutes.
Not that she had allowed it to show on her expression, or confessed to tiredness when he asked. The corner of the Conde’s lips twitched. When his gaze brushed over the new, gold ring she wore, however, his expression diminished.
With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…
He could only keep two of his promises, even if his flesh remained at war with his intentions with the third. Worship at the altar of her body was not a part of their agreement.
That he had found Joanna beautiful and intriguing had been a given while he was visiting her in the shadow of a symphony. What he had not expected, was that alone in the privacy and distance of his manor, he would become plagued by an unrelenting desire for the queen. Her skin, her song and scent — everything about the fledgling with each passing day had consumed him more.
He had forced himself to limit his interaction with the woman to preserve both his sanity and her peace. What spell had she woven to affect him so? He was not inexperienced with the tricks of feminine seduction — Joanna used none of them. She hardly thought herself beautiful.
Perhaps it was simply for knowing that she would be his, and yet unattainable. Dorian was not a man unused to getting what he wanted — and he was honest enough to admit that he wanted the French queen.
Knowing that a single, unlocked door was all that stood between them — especially tonight, was his own private torment.
The Elder turned his gaze toward their guests where his siblings mingled among the mortals. Even Mathias had dressed up for the occasion — the Austrian was no doubt satisfied to have the last laugh. There had been little hope for disguising the moments when his music betrayed him, though he had taken great care for his bride’s sake to present an unwavering melody.
He turned toward her again. He had watched her all day. The way her aquiline nose — which he had learned she hated — wrinkled when her music skipped, and the way the green of her eyes seemed to glow with pleasure.
They were not as bright now.
“Your music betrays you, Cherie,” he murmured, and reached out to settle the weight of his hand over her own.
The queen started slightly at the contact, her flutes rippling like a shower of hot sparks over his strings, and he withdrew his touch. “You are tired, and we do not need to remain.” He kept his voice level, “Our guests expect that we should be… otherwise occupied if we choose to depart.”
It was her hand then, that shifted to curl fingers around his own, and a quiet study drifted over his features before the queen smiled.
“I confess, the names and bowing have made my head spin… but I am enjoying myself. I would not want it to end.” She released him and lowered her hand back to her lap. “And it would, oui? When we leave.”
Dorian breathed a soft laugh. “Yes.” he answered. “I am certain that Lian is less than enjoying the press — he has only so much patience for society.”
It would only need the gentlest of nudges from the mind of the Sovereign before their guests would suddenly find any number of reasons to make a departure — even if they were inclined to linger.
Then they would be alone.
Something in his bride’s music skipped, not quite a match for the smirk that flashed on her expression, and his violins lifted traitorously to answer it. If he didn’t know better, he would think she wanted to be alone with him.
Her flutes faded into an echo of the gentler slurs of her music in a heartbeat, and he assumed himself mistaken. She had given no indication during their courtship that she desired anything more than a convenient arrangement between them.
He lifted her fingers to his lips for a brief salute. “You have been flawless, tonight. I could not be prouder of my Condesa.”
That earned him a blush, and he counted down the seconds that passed before her free hand lifted to cover her face.
She was so responsive to him.
The thought threatened to lure him into waters too deep to tread, as his body stirred awake.
“That pleases me,” she murmured between her fingers. They were slow to lower. “No doubt William will be pleased that his lessons did not go to waste. I may have made him age.”
Before Dorian could answer, the length of thin arms fell over his shoulders, and a pale chin fit into his neck. “You two have been chirpin’ at each other all night.” Eden’s voice was chipper. “You gonna actually take a turn in Cock Alley for your honeymoon?”
“Eden.” Dorian’s voice was strained for his current state of discomfort. “Consider our company, Pet.”
It would not do for another to be seen draping over the Conde at his wedding table — especially when it was not entirely certain who it might be. And easier to think of that, than answer the question she had posed.
“C’mon, I’m dressed like a boy. Worst they’re gonna think is you like playin’ backgammon.”
“And that would not at all tarnish my new wife’s position in society?” His tone was dry, but hinted a warning. He would not have Joanna hurt for his family’s shenanigans.
“I guess it might, but given how you two have been moonin’, it might be already.”
Joanna’s flutes hit a high note for the queen's words, and she cupped her cheek in her palm, finding some place in the crowd to watch.
“Ma columbe, you are a little bolder than you should be out of the castle.”
Eden tsked, loosening her arms, and Dorian heard the shuffle of fabric moving behind him. She did not drape over his back again. “It isn’t like I leaned on you dressed like this. Dori’d have to fight me on principle.”
“And he would win, no doubt.” Ayla’s dry tones lifted as the High Queen approached the head table. She extended a hand in indication that the girl return to her side. Not that Eden obliged.
“You came to a wedding dressed for a funeral, Ayla,” the girl murmured, and sighed before relenting to step around the table to settle into Ayla’s shadow. “I thought we MIGHT see some color.”
“If she had, I would have impaled her for an impostor,” Dorian said drily, but he held the dark-eyed gaze of the woman he had once called wife as he offered her a ghost of a nod for her rescue. There would have been no easy cure for the consequences otherwise.
A smile flickered on the Widow Queen’s expression, but it was gone again by the time she touched a hand to Eden’s shoulder to encourage her away.
Dorian barely contained his exhale, before his attention returned to Joanna. “We are being discourteous hosts, regardless.” Turning toward his bride he extended his hand in an invitation for her to rise. Shall we take a turn among them? If we are forced to sit any longer beneath their looks, I will not be accountable for my manners.”
Her fingers slipped into his before drifting higher to find a place in the crook of his arm. She was a perfect fit against him, and the rise of her flute song in answer to his own nearly halted his progress again. He forced a first step, and the rest came easier.
The Conde and his Condesa made their slow rounds; though Dorian took care not to linger long with the members of the ton who flocked to the pair now that they showed signs of socializing. It was the sound of a feminin
e voice nearby speaking on a familiar subject, that drew them toward the space where a small crowd had gathered.
“... that you shall be working on a new poem? I clipped out the last published in the papers —” the woman’s voice floated above the low hum of conversation with the gushing breathlessness of admiration.
Mathias stood leaned against a wall with his pipe gripped between his teeth, ignoring the gathering onslaught. Three women and two men, each of such a high standing in society that even the Austrian’s fine garb should not have lured them to his presence, had crowded him.
“Ah… here it is, Mr. Holt,” the woman was saying; her feather bobbing in her cap as she plucked a silver pocket watch from her dress. “I’ve had darling Edwin inscribe this line just so:
"First you were a stranger
But when I held you I knew”
Joanna’s fingers clamped down on Dorian’s arm with all the strength of an Immortal she was before she realized and offered a quiet apology.
Dorian’s touch lifted to cover Joanna’s hand where it gripped, his thumb making an idly distracting circle on the smoothness of her skin. He was rewarded for his efforts by a betraying skitter of her flute song — and a loosening of her hold.
The woman’s voice continued on a sigh.
“Nothing would endanger
the love I have for you.”
“I’m not Mr. Holt,” Mathias said, sticking his hands in his pockets and away from the glint of the metal. His eyes lifted to touch on Dorian, before flickering to Joanna. “The Conde can be more convincing if you’re not inclined to believe me.”
“I would not think a maestro so keen on maintaining his privacy would collect his own royalties, madam,” the Conde said quietly. “And only imagine his displeasure should it come to his attention that another was receiving his praise. We should perhaps, be more discreet in our persuasions, mhmm?”
The woman, Mrs. Trowebridge, he believed, hesitated, her lips pursing. It was the second, unseen and unheard brush of persuasion from Dorian’s mind that seemed to melt her shoulders with a fog crossing her gaze.
Sighing, she replaced her pocket watch. “I suppose so.”
It did the trick. When one moved to depart, they all did, and Mathias was still staring at Joanna as she threatened to wilt.
“It was not… a love poem. Not as she meant it,” she managed weakly.
“Of course not. I’ve heard those —” It was Lian’s voice emerging from behind them as the Earl and his silver-haired Countess made their own approach. The Arch Lord’s expression softened. “Enough tonight to ponder the font from which the inspiration flows. Words about fires and smoke and ash.”
The French queen pressed her free hand to her face before turning it into Dorian’s arm as if to hide there, though she recited the poem he referenced quietly.
“At night I dream of you and fire
Of smoke and ash that skyward soar
And as years pass I still desire
To hold you close as I did before…
That was not… meant to be a romantic love poem either….”
“Truly?” the Earl offered with a raise of his brow, before his expression gentled. “I had not realized you were so prolific, Joanna.”
She dug her face deeper into Dorian’s arm, and her flutes skittered.
“J. L. Holt is prolific,” Dorian said dryly, “But perhaps while she moves among society, my wife will endeavor to claim her own praise.” He hardly realized how easily his own claim slipped past his lips.
“Our Joanna is past due a season out of the shadows.” The interjection came from the Earl’s silver-haired escort who was also watching the bride, a soft smile playing over her lips. “As perhaps are we all,” she added quietly.
Dorian’s gaze rested on the Countess — Celia, Anowen’s Arch Queen. Of them all, she had suffered most for their Arch Lord’s self-imposed exile. It appeared with the songs flowing again that they were revisiting their bond. The wedding was the first time they had been seen together in public for centuries. He would be pleased to see their love safely home.
Lian lifted Celia’s hand to his lips for a kiss that lingered. When he spoke again, it was over his bond’s skin.
“I will not be off without ensuring you did not need my aid in securing your estate’s privacy. It seems the event is to last for as long as you might be inclined to allow.” The Arch Lord’s expression flattened. “I should hate to be so popular with the ton.”
Dorian felt a prickling of awareness lift the hairs of his nape for the reminder. He would soon be alone with his wife. The stirring in his bride’s song, like leaves disturbed by a breeze, was enough to indicate that she was aware as well.
“Joanna tires and I am not so fond of their company that I do not wish them gone,” he said quietly. “We will take our leave and leave our guests in your capable hands with our thanks.”
The Sovereign nodded and extended a hand for Joanna to slip her own into for a kiss against her fingers. “You look beautiful, Joanna. I am pleased for your happiness this evening.” He released her, and offered a final, shallow sketch of a bow. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Dorian answered the Earl with a bow of his own, and a pointed effort not to think of the night ahead.
“This may not be the last we request your company,” he informed his sire. “Joanna will need support as she makes the rounds of the summer parties.” The Conde turned toward his bride and saluted her fingers with a kiss. “Till then, we will take our leave.”
It served for Dorian’s farewell to his family as he guided Joanna into the promenade that would take them from the salon. With every step they took away from the crowds, she consumed his every sense.
It would be a long night.
Chapter 13
Joanna sat on her singlet bed, behind the diaphanous material of the sheers that hung overhead. As she fingered her ringlets into the looseness of curls, she tilted her head toward the floorboards, listening as the last of the sounds from below began to fade into silence.
What was less silent was the traitorous uptempo of her flutes, pulsing through her blood like the racing of a heartbeat. It did not help that Dorian’s violins were there to greet her song at every stanza, curling between her notes with a fluid stroke of a bow across the strings.
Her knees closed together beneath the fabric of her nightgown, and she set her heart and her resolution to bed down quietly. It did not stop the glances paid toward the doorway that separated her suite from Dorian’s, despite her best efforts.
He was maddening, and she was worse for the wanting. She knew the arrangement, the meaning behind it. Her sense and shame had fled on a few well-timed notes and chords played through her blood. Notes and chords that slowly approached her space before a knock sounded against the wood between them.
For a moment she considered feigning that she was already at rest but knew that her music betrayed her — and that it was cowardly. There would be no denying that she had hoped that he would come, even if she could not know what would come with him.
“Come in, Dorian.”
The door that separated them swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing the High Lord in its opening. With a flicker of disappointment, she noted that he was still in his evening wear. Only the freed fastenings of his satin vest and the absence of a cravat betrayed that he had begun to disrobe.
“Joanna.” His greeting was quiet as he offered a ghost of a bow in the opening before crossing the threshold into the room. “It was not my intention to disturb you.”
Her laugh was as soft as it was unexpected, even to herself. “I fear that you are too late to avoid this oui? The music….” Her fingers fluttered to her throat, as if to seek comfort from the ribbon that was not there. “Does not care for our wishes.”
He had closed none of the distance between them, at least not with his feet. But even through the deep gloom in which she kept her room, she could see him and feel him reaching out to her with his
senses. The darkness of his gaze found her fingers where they rested against her throat, then drifted over her face to find and hold her eyes.
Beneath the hem of her gown, Joanna’s toes curled.
“That would seem to be the case,” he admitted, and she found a measure of vindication in the unnatural tightness that roughened his voice. “I came only to be certain you fared well after your day.” He took a step closer. “That you do not… regret your decision.”
His lips twisted slightly, and with the movement she could not help but notice how sensuously they curved.
“Though if you continue to look at me in quite that manner,” he continued, “I will be hard pressed to remember my intentions.” His music had fallen by several octaves, and a dangerous stillness seemed to pool around the Lord where he stood.
“Perhaps….” Joanna licked the dryness of her lips where she sat. “Perhaps I do not want you to remember your intentions,” she said and knew that she was treading in dangerous waters. Dorian was not a man of half measures, or a toy to be played with. “I have no regrets. I am your wife, Dorian, and it is my wedding night.”
When he moved, it was without warning, and with all the fluid power of a big cat. One moment she was perched on the edge of her bed, and the next she found herself in a crushing embrace against the hardness of his chest. The dark perfection of his features was a chiseled shadow above her; his eyes, the searing heat of red-gold amber. She had prodded the man and awakened his beast.
“It is because it is our wedding night that I will not take what you offer, Cherie,” he growled. “If you give yourself to me, it will not be under the sway of a Fae tale. But I am a man — and I cannot deny myself this.”
Curling his fingers into her hair, he lifted her higher against the hard lines of his body and claimed her lips in a kiss that branded her soul. Immediately, Joanna was lost in a haze of need, melting against him as shivers of dark excitement raced down her spine. Between them, their music lifted into a climbing spiral that sought to find some elusive perfection of harmony that stayed just beyond reach.
