by Renee Peters
She pushed herself from her writing desk, breathing across the pages of her journal until the ink lines dried. When they had, she closed her book and gathered Homer’s Odyssey to bring downstairs with her.
Dorian was already settled in the sitting room, dressed down in trousers, suspenders and a white linen shirt for the day, with a tray of coffee already waiting.
Her manner now was as shameless as it had become ritualistic, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold, then her husband opened his arms to make way for her. She sat down on his lap, with her back cradled against one chair arm, and her legs folded over the opposite. He obliged her, one hand raised to stroke idly through her loose curls and the other, drawing small circles along her ankle and shin beneath the folds of her dress.
Still, she could not help the treacherous little shiver through her song any more than she could the turn of her head to leave a kiss in the darkness of his hair. She opened the book, beginning to speak softly.
“In this book, Odysseus continues his tale, regaling Alcinoüs of his return from the shades to Circe’s island, and the adventures that lead him to his arrival at the island of Calypso, alone, on the mast of his vessel….”
“Any man who will arrive somewhere alone and tied to a mast must have somewhere encountered the woman who broke him,” her husband murmured, amused.
“Or several,” Joanna replied and breathed a laugh.
“Our hero would be well advised to return home where his true love awaits then,” he said drily. “I doubt she has a thought for putting him in chains.” He nudged his head toward the book. “Go on. It has been an interesting tale.”
Joanna read quietly of Odysseus’s last night with Circe and of the wisdom she shared with the hero to help him survive the trials that would mark his voyage home. Then she reached the verses that told of the sirens sweet songs and their promises for the future that threatened to lure Odysseus to a begging madness.
Suddenly, she pressed her hands on the pages. “I want to go to the publisher. The music — I am… a little too awake for being pleased with ladies inscribing Marji’s poems on pocket watches.” Her brow stitched, and she flicked a look toward her husband, thoughtful. “Not that it would likely stop them, but… Mathias might appreciate… it a little.”
Dorian’s touch stilled in its idle attention to her ankle. “You wish to publish under your own name? As a woman?” His voice did not betray whether he approved or disapproved of the idea, merely that he was interested to know what course she had determined upon.
“Oui. Only… I know, a Lady should not publish and make a salary on her own of royalties. It will… not do for you, Dorian.”
Her husband offered the careless shrug of an Immortal who found the vagaries of mortal protocols more a nuisance than a needed burden.
“There might be a scandal for it, but you are protected now by your station — and at the worst, it would not take much to convince our neighbors to suffer the revelation tolerably.”
He spoke of the abilities of the Elders to influence mortal society, but the idea of mesmerizing innocents for the sake of her pride left a sour taste on Joanna’s palette.
“Non,” she murmured and turned her head to face the Conde. Her hand slipped from the book to brush the back of her knuckles against his jaw, and he tilted his head into her touch. “I… would not wish for that. No doubt the editor will make the final decision, either way.”
Dorian grunted.
Her smile reappeared. “The worst I will be told is no, and if they will not publish my work, then it will only be another ten or twenty years and I will have the poems to try again as myself.” Joanna bowed her head forward, resting her brow on his. “But… you will have to come with me. They will not see me if I am not with respectable company.”
A man’s company, rather.
“Of course, Cherie,” he murmured and tucked his fingers beneath her chin to lift her lips close enough for a kiss that was meant to be chaste. It still warmed her lips for a beat longer than it needed to before his touch fell away. “You will have to help me mind my manners. I am not inclined to watch my wife be disrespected in my presence — mortal rituals notwithstanding.”
She laughed and settled down against her husband again. “I likely will be, but… I have made him enough money he should be kind to me.”
With her head tilted against Dorian’s shoulder, she set her mind back on the pages underhand and continued reading as though the perils of Odysseus’s journey home had not been interrupted at all.
Chapter 16
Mr. Holt gained her audience with her publisher in no time at all.
It had taken only five days; the amount of time needed for her letter to be posted and delivered to her publisher and the time it took for Ayla to return to Dorian’s manor with her mail. By the next day, past sunset, she was being helped down from the Vaughn carriage by her husband before the office of Mr. Martin Garvey; Easthaven Publishing Co.
She lifted her fingers to her throat where Marjolaine’s ribbon was not, only for them to flutter down to her chest where it hid in a silk pouch. Dorian took her hand, leaving a kiss against her knuckles before he touched his palm to her back to encourage her forward.
The office itself was papered in mustard yellow with diamond patterned floorboards and sparse furnishings. As the two entered, a snub-nosed man pushed himself up from his desk at the foyer entrance.
“Mr. Holt!” He cast a large smile toward Dorian, and then bowed his head politely toward the Lady in the Conde’s company. “Mr. Garvey will have you in his office right away.”
No doubt they had been kept later than their usual hours for Joanna’s condition.
She adjusted the bag at her hip, and her fingers closed around Dorian’s elbow. A smile was offered to the secretary and a dip of her head. “Thank you, I have been looking forward to the meeting.”
He could make of that what he would.
Her target was the portly man who sat in the more spacious office area at the rear of the first floor, surrounded by letters and piles of parchment. Mr. Garvey was well-dressed for owning a small publishing house, with a round face and a cloud of tawny curls that hovered inches over his head as if they meant to escape back into the sky. He stood, his smile warming his features.
“I would not have guessed the Conde,” he began, easing around the desk. His stomach bumped against it, sending one of his paper towers leaning precariously. A meaty hand extended Dorian’s way, and Joanna lifted her own, but did not take the publisher’s.
“But you might have guessed the Condesa, I assume?” The woman flashed a polite smile. “Joanna LeClair Holt is my maiden and first married name, Monsieur Garvey.”
The publisher’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, and he glanced from Joanna to Dorian, where his stare lingered for a beat longer than he might have meant for the politeness of his expression. “A Lady,” he said at last, lowering his hand to offer a subtle dip of a bow, first toward Joanna, then to Dorian. With that, however, Mr. Garvey returned to his seat and folded his hands professionally upon his desk. “It is not often the publisher is surprised by the sex of his author, I admit.”
“I’m certain that the recollection of his healthy profits is less surprising,” Dorian answered smoothly with a smile that only just curved the line of his lips.” He extended a hand to encourage Joanna to be seated before him, and she moved gracefully to oblige. “But that is only the opinion of a lay reader, as it were. You may conduct your business with my Condesa.”
There was a subtle emphasis placed on Joanna’s title as he settled into his seat and crossed one leg over the other. For the way his gaze remained fixed upon Mr. Garvey’s face, the French queen found it in herself to feel a spark of sympathy for the publisher.
To the man’s credit, he did not wilt nearly so much as physique and pastiness might have made him seem capable of. His eyes flicked from the Conde then, to rest on Joanna, thoughtful.
“We are hopeful they rem
ain healthy,” he said at last. “J.L. Holt’s last poetry book sold five hundred copies. We intended an expanded distribution with the release of the next. I have enjoyed the poems you have sent in the meantime.”
“Merci.” She bowed her head. “I have put more heart in this collection. It is why I wish to publish as Joanna.”
“Why?”
“Because the poems are mine. Mr. Holt has been dead for a long while. I loved him dearly, but he would not have been able to string a verse together if his life depended on a rhyme.” Her lips turned a smile. “It would please me entirely to be recognized as myself, Monsieur. I work with my blood in these books.”
“No, no,” he shook his head. “We have women who publish. Women who, as you have, use a nom de plume. Or a Lady. Your poetry is quite popular, but it is not a woman’s world. Please understand, my lady, those admirers would be quick to drop you and newspapers quicker yet to write such slanderous articles as to quite ruin your reputation. The damage to profits, aside, it is not done.”
The Conde, if it were possible, grew more dangerously quiet, and the polished boot on his crossed over leg began to tap the air in time to the darker melody singing across his strings in Joanna’s blood.
“It… is for myself, more than it would ever be for profits, Monsieur. Those who enjoy the work would —”
The publisher’s hand lifted, and she had still not finished speaking before he spoke over her. “I will not damage the reputation of this publishing house nor my own for putting your name on display. You have been a popular writer and one I would be sore to lose. I will gladly continue to publish your work, but it will be done under J.L. Holt, or if it is your wish, perhaps some smaller volumes in a limited run by a Lady.”
Joanna’s hands closed over the fabric on her lap, but she did not break her smile, even if a net of Dorian’s chords caught the dip in her flute song. “It is not the answer I wanted.”
“I do apologize, truly. Life will ever be more difficult for the pioneers in this age. I will be pleased to see a day when women can publish freely.”
“But not here,” Joanna countered and eased herself to a stand. “Thank you for your time. I do believe that we shall not be having a public reading of my work as was your wish, Monsieur.”
“I am afraid not, my lady. It was delightful to meet you and yourself, Lord Conde. Shall I see you both to the door?”
Joanna’s husband rose at her side, his expression cooly polite as he stepped aside and offered her his hand to guide her through the furnishings to his side.
“That will not be necessary, Mr. Garvey. The times are indeed unfortunate. I also look forward to the time when my wife can be recognized for the talent she is.”
Despite the weight of her disappointment, the French queen knew the warmer stirring of pleasure for his compliment. It had taken much for him to hold his peace in the face of Garvey’s rejection; she knew. With a subtle press of her fingers over his, she communicated her silent thanks for his understanding of her need to own the moment for herself.
Mr. Holt could not have the first collection from her heart. She knew she could not allow that much, not for the way she had woven her music into the words. There was a part of her, one that bore a trace of venom, that did not want to see Mr. Garvey’s pocket lined after his refusal — polite though it had been. She kept her expression set, even as she stepped up into the carriage to lean against Dorian’s side.
As the carriage began to roll forward, Joanna was not entirely sure she would publish any more of her poems at all.
Chapter 17
As far as Dorian knew, Joanna had kept writing — her fingerprints had continued to gather dark stains. Yet, she had brought no more drafts to the drawing room with her for their afternoon readings since their visit with the publisher at the beginning of August.
The annual visit that he made to London with his sire had come a little later this year, for all the distraction between a Fae-blooded girl in Lian’s care and Joanna.
It was now the last week of September, and the vibrant colors of the summer flowers had long faded. Only the trees in their sepia scarlets and browns offered a carnival of colors to the city of Easthaven. The wind had dragged a chill from the Humber, carrying it through the streets and across the rolling estates. With it, the scent of earth and decaying leaves mingled with the brine of the water and the air had grown crisp with the cold.
The Conde expected it would be warmer in London.
Joanna had stood by the door of his room while Dorian packed, and the feel of her eyes on his back and the brush of her music against his own had been like an anchor keeping him at harbor.
The three weeks absent of her company that his travel and business would require, would be their longest parting since their marriage, and an irrational desire to request that she join them had consumed him. This, despite the fact that he would have little time to show her the delights of London that she deserved to experience.
Instead, he had accepted the chaste kiss and smile of farewell she offered, and Dorian had forced himself to leave then, lest he not bring himself to do so.
London did not have the same smell as Easthaven. The crowded city stank of feces and manure from the multitude of horses that passed through and the populace both. The Pulteney Hotel where he and Lian stayed was of the finest in the city, but even within its walls there had been no peace to be found.
At all hours, the rattling carts and cries of the various vendors and city workers echoed in the streets. It made him almost pleased for the opportunity to visit the Royal Bank and their various business partners indoors. That, and when he stayed still, he could more easily make out the flute song that was fainter in his blood for the distance between them. He was searching for it even now as their carriage rolled and bumped across the paved roads of the city.
“... Isn’t that so, Dorian?” Lian’s voice broke through his reverie, and the High Lord glanced his way.
“I suppose.”
The Sovereign's lips twitched with a smirk as the carriage eased to a stop. He was the first to stand, beating their footman to the door to hop down. “You do not know what I said.”
“Something about steam engines?” Dorian offered, following suit to find they were just inside Hyde Park’s Grosvenor Gate. “Did we not just have this discussion?”
“I was uncertain you heard any of that either.”
Dorian had the grace to admit he might have deserved the jibe. “My apologies. I have been less than what I should be for a partner this trip.” He spared a look across the park where rows of trees mostly bare of foliage reached branches across the flat walking trails. “But I doubt that even Joanna might have the presence to make wearing a peacock cap a la mode,” he said drily. He’d heard that jab.
“So, you do hear me where she is concerned.” Lian breathed a laugh and adjusted his gloves as he began to walk. The cold had cleared the park of the bustling busyness that it endured in the summer when they usually made the trip, and save for a few passersby stamping their feet against the chill the Lords were mostly alone. Lian’s music seemed to relax by degrees into a mellower tune as they fell into step.
The Sovereign cast a glance over his shoulder. “Would that your attentiveness had been so focused when Honeyfield tried to slip by with a two percent return on properties in London. It is a good thing your Condesa would not wear such a cap. We’d not be able to afford it this year.”
Dorian’s hands slid into his pockets and his brows furrowed slightly. He was distracted — almost disinterested in the affairs that had guided their fortunes this year, and in sampling any of the offerings of London’s social season. The echo of the queen who was his wife in every way but one haunted almost every thought that came to mind, especially because she seemed determined to remain settled in that comfortable estate.
When he had denied himself of his desire to claim her, to possess her entirely for his own, it had only been to permit her time to find her confidence — to kno
w herself his equal in every way despite her years. His was the power and allure of an Elder of the Aegeans. Had he freed himself to summon her, he would not have been denied. Their souls already sang a medley — that was undeniable, but it was a duet he craved.
A craving that could not be satisfied without a breach of her trust. Joanna would have to come to him of her own free will, and she showed every sign now of being content with the companionship that they had built.
“I find that I have more care for my wife than our arrangement should dictate,” he admitted bluntly after a few minutes of silence. “And that our circumstance puts limits on my ability to act upon it.” His lips twisted. “It is… frustrating.” He avoided looking in the Arch Lord’s direction and instead counted the leaves that clung stubbornly to the boughs overhead. “Moreso when the music is flowing. I do not know how you manage your distance from Celia.” He was blunt about that, too.
“She is mine and I am hers, and I know our bond.” Something darkened a pitch in Lian’s piano song, but then it settled again. “I did not make Joanna only for the sake of cruelty. She is either yours or she is not, Dorian. Do you believe you could last beyond the season of your marriage without the need to confirm the potential of your bond?”
The Castilian found that he could not answer the question. Not with clarity.
Immortals were capable of forming pair bonds of both romantic and platonic nature with another of their choosing. If their music harmonized well enough, it could be a potent source of life that would sustain a pairing far more efficiently than the collective symphony of a family alone. He did not doubt that he could bond himself to Joanna for their mutual advantage.
What the Sovereign spoke of was something deeper. The Bond Eternal. It was almost impossible to know if a potential bond-mate was that perfect match for one’s soul until they attempted to forge a bond. Once begun with the intentional and mutual exchange of blood, for a fated bond-mate, the process was unstoppable — and irreversible.
