Courting the Witch

by M. J. Scott

She stood for a moment, gathering her wits. Not fast enough, because it gave him time to walk to her.

  "Lieutenant, good morning," he said. He looked almost as rumpled as she felt. He hadn't shaved, and his uniform was wrinkled. Hers was pressed and clean via the magic of palace servants who had managed the feat in the few hours she had slept, but she still felt disheveled and unsettled.

  "Good morning." The response was automatic. As was the smile that followed it. She had missed him. She’d wanted to talk to him last night but hadn't been able to figure out how short of sending Ikarus to find him. That might have been pushing her newly reinstated favor a little too far.

  "I know you said to stay away, but I wanted to make sure you—" He broke off, as though he was uncertain what to say, eyes searching her face.

  "That I what, Major?" she said gently.

  "That you knew that I know I behaved like an idiot at the ball. I was angry, but not at you. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. I apologize. I wanted to give you the space you asked for. And I will leave again and give you that space if it's still what you want, but Liane said yesterday that we all owed you an apology, and that is true. And I wanted mine to be the first. I didn't trust you as I should have. I told you I would protect you, and I didn't. There's no excuse. But I am sorry. And it won't happen again. I miss you. But I will go, if you still need time." He moved to step backward.

  Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm, fingers curling into the wool of his uniform jacket. "Don't."

  He looked down at her hand, hope breaking over his face. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

  She wasn't sure about that. But she was sure she didn't want him to go. "I'm thinking about it," she said, smiling.

  He smiled back, hope silvering his gray eyes. "What can I do to make you think faster?"

  "Not much. I have to be in the colonel's office in about five minutes."

  "I already spoke to the colonel. He said to tell you that he had something come up. He'll see you this afternoon."

  "That was very confident of you," she said, lifting a brow at him.

  He shrugged unapologetically. "I prefer hopeful. But even if you sent me away, I figured you might be as short on sleep as I am."

  "Do you need a nap, Major?" she asked.

  "Is that an invitation?" His voice did that low and rumbling thing that made her want to kiss him.

  "I haven't said I've forgiven you yet."

  "I could convince you if we took a nap." He wriggled his dark brows at her.

  A sound came from the driver that she thought might be a stifled laugh. A reminder they were having this conversation in broad daylight. While standing outside the place where she still would be working after today, Jean-Paul or not.

  She stepped back from him. "Perhaps we can compromise with a carriage drive? Find somewhere to talk."

  "Excellent plan," Jean Paul said. He reached past her and opened the carriage door again. "The empress won't mind if we take her carriage for a spin. She has several of them. And I would like to talk to you. About whatever you'd like to talk about." He held out a hand so she could step back into the carriage. "My father thinks I should definitely marry you," he said just as she put a foot on the step.

  She almost banged her head on the top of the door as she jerked in surprise but managed to recover and climb inside. Jean-Paul followed. Really, the man was far too nimble for his size. He was annoyingly good at too many things. The thought made her annoyingly happy.

  "I thought we were going to take our time about this?"

  "We may be," Jean-Paul said. "But I warn you, my father is impatient. And very good at getting his own way."

  "Like father, like son, it seems," she said.

  Life as a du Laq, she was beginning to think, would definitely never be dull. She might fit right in, in fact. She rather liked the thought of learning how to be very good at getting her own way when she needed to. Perhaps she should start practicing. Because she knew what she wanted. And that was the man sitting opposite her, grinning like temptation and trying to be on his best behavior. Every overly large, overly confident, aristo, brilliant, handsome inch of him.

  "You never actually asked me the question," she pointed out.

  "I was giving you time and space," he said. "Do you still need them?"

  "A little," she said. "I quite like this apologizing part. I may need a little more."

  "I can do that," he agreed cheerfully. "As often as you need me to. And then?"

  She smiled, charmed by him all over again. And hopelessly in love. "And then, if you ask very nicely, I think it likely I will say yes."

  Epilogue

  He had asked very nicely, Imogene reminded herself as she surveyed yet another ballroom two months later. And she had said yes. She didn't regret it, not for a second, but, as she was learning, it took hard work to become the kind of duquesse-in-waiting she wanted to be. She had a lot to learn. Luckily, Jean-Paul's parents were determined to help her. As was the man himself. Who was the reason she was standing here, sipping water rather than campenois because she had been given strict instruction from both her mama and the duquesse that it would be unsuitable to become tipsy at one's own betrothal ball.

  The du Laqs had spared no expense. As many members of the court as could be squeezed into their ballroom were here. The house at Sanct de Sangre, their country estate, was large, but it wasn't as large as the palace. The emperor and empress were not here, but only because Liane had given birth two days earlier to a healthy baby boy. Liane had sent the extravagant sapphire earrings Imogene wore as an apology for not being able to attend. And the necklace that matched them as a betrothal gift. Imogene suspected the jewels were worth more than her parents’ house. They were extraordinarily beautiful, but she wasn't yet easy with wearing half a fortune around her throat.

  "Can you believe this is finally happening?" Chloe said, standing beside her. She sipped campenois happily, her brown eyes sparkling as brightly as Imogene's necklace.

  "What do you mean, finally? It's only been two months." Time had whirled by far too quickly for her. She'd barely had time to catch her breath, caught up in Jean-Paul and Ikarus and the changes in her life. "Little more than three since I met the man."

  "True," Chloe said. "But you've been doing duquesse school for weeks. Between that and wedding planning and the army, I’ll be glad when tonight is over and you have some time back."

  Imogene didn't have the heart to tell Chloe she wasn't entirely sure that was going to happen. Yes, they agreed to no wedding for a year. But duquesse school showed no signs of letting up. And she wanted to go on at least one more mission before the wedding. Somewhere warm this time.

  "I'll be glad when we get through the formal part and I can have some of that campenois you're downing."

  Chloe smirked and lifted her glass again. "Rank comes with responsibilities." She scanned the crowd, waving her glass at the assembled masses. "There's certainly a lot of them, aren't there?"

  "Indeed," Imogene agreed. Chloe had gone above and beyond to join Imogene at many of the parties and balls and gatherings Imogene was attending as part of her introduction to the court, but she still had her own responsibilities and couldn't be out every night. "I'm not yet convinced they don't multiply overnight." An effect only amplified by the Sanct de Sangre ballroom, which was walled in mirrors, making the crowd appear infinite. The effect made her vaguely queasy. It was hard enough to keep them straight without having to sort reflections from reality.

  She was starting to find friends amongst the court and to make sense of the information about its members being crammed into her head. But none of them would replace Chloe. So the court was just going to have to get used to Imogene's choice of best friend.

  "Do you know who that is?" Chloe asked, tilting her fan discreetly to her right.

  Imogene followed the direction of the fan and Chloe's gaze. The young man standing at the foot of the staircase, wearing a coat in a blazing shade of blue, was handsome in a wa
y that bordered on pretty in its perfection. His dark hair was artfully arranged, and his blue eyes flashed as boldly as his jacket. She was sure she had met him during one of the relentless series of dinners and parties she had been attending in Jean-Paul's company, part of the du Laq "bring Imogene up to speed" campaign. She searched through the list of names she'd been committing to memory, seeking to match it with his face. It came to her soon enough.

  "That's Charl de Montesse. He is nephew to the...Marq of Verneile, I believe." And good friends with the intense blond Truth Seeker who had questioned the Andalyssians. He, Imogene had been surprised to learn, was the heir to the Marq of Castaigne. And one of the many aristos Imogene had met in the last two months since she had saved the empress. Chloe wouldn't be particularly interested in who Charl was, but Imogene begun to grow used to thinking about where people slotted into the court. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

  Chloe grinned at her, head only turning briefly to meet Imogene's gaze before turning back to watch Charl. "He's pretty. Yes, please."

  "Very well." Imogene led Chloe across the room, performed the introduction, made polite small talk with Charl and Chloe until she was sure Chloe could handle the rest on her own, and then went in search of Jean-Paul. The formal part of the evening would commence shortly, and she wanted a moment to stand with him and remind herself why she was making this choice all over again.

  She found him eventually, in one of the side chambers, speaking to Barteau, the du Laqs’ seneschal. "Are you hiding from me, Major?" she said as his face lit at the sight of her.

  "From everyone but you," he said. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Lieutenant?"

  "You have, but you can tell me again." She turned slowly so he could admire the dress. Its design had been an act of diplomacy in itself, one that had taken weeks. Imogene’s mama, after her initial stunned surprise when she’d been told that her daughter was to become a duquesse, had risen to the challenge and wasn’t afraid to match wits with the duquesse fencing deftly over the details of the wedding as though she’d been born noble herself.

  Tonight’s dress seemed to be the topic of most debate. A fact which made Imogene nervous to contemplate how long it might take when it came to choosing her actual wedding gown. Both the duquesse and Imogene’s mama held strong opinions over what was appropriate. White for a betrothal, of course, but then there had been other colors to consider. The du Laqs’ were gold and blue, but the Carvelles didn't have any rank to warrant a crest or family colors. Which complicated deciding what needed to be incorporated into the design.

  The clothier had, after exercising so much patience that Imogene was going to have to get Jean-Paul to pay her extra, suggested silver to represent the metal of Imogene’s father's work and pale blue and green for her magic. There were tiny beaded cog wheels and quills to represent the words of diplomacy—amongst the rioting flowers embroidered over the bodice and spilling down the skirt. They made her smile every time she found a new one. Jean-Paul had promised to kiss every one before he let her take off the gown tonight. She was looking forward to it. Much as she was looking forward to wearing the ring Jean-Paul had chosen with her. Gold and silver weighed down with a multitude of perfect sapphires and diamonds, set into the band so she could wear it safely during her work. He'd promised her a second more ostentatious one for when they needed to dazzle the court. Just what he considered ostentatious was daunting to contemplate. But rings and dresses were minor details.

  The promise she was about to make was what was important. The promise and the man she would be giving it to.

  She came back to face him. Her future. Her heart. She hadn't been looking for him, and it might not always be an easy thing that she had found him, but he was hers.

  "You are beautiful," he said. "Always. I love you, Imogene Carvelle."

  "I love you, Jean-Paul du Laq." She stretched up to kiss him fast, then broke away before they could get carried away and ruin the dress or her hair or anything else. She kept hold of his hand, though. "So let's go tell the world."

  THE END

  Bonus epilogue

  She looked liked a duquesse, she just wasn't sure how long it might take before she actually felt like one. Or if, indeed, she ever would. Months and months of lessons from her future in-laws, and Jean-Paul helping wherever possible, and she'd begun to feel like she might have a grasp of the basics. But, like magic, the minutiae of court politics and court protocol was a process that took years of study to master. Which was why the children of the aristo families learned these things from birth, along with the more mundane matters of spelling and history and arithmetic and such.

  Memorizing names and lineages made her head ache worse than even the dullest lessons she’d ever endured at the Academe.

  But she wanted Jean-Paul, and so she had to take what came with him. That was the bargain she had made.

  Even if it seemed impossible at times.

  She sighed and took a step closer to the mirror, careful not to move too fast. Her satin shoes had heels that were higher than was wise when she had to steer a wedding dress that was structured and hooped and adorned to within an inch of its life and weighed nearly as much as she did. But the shoes had been deemed suitable and necessary to lessen the height difference between her and Jean-Paul at the altar. Given Jean-Paul was one of the tallest men at court, she didn’t think an extra inch of heel was going to help much. She wasn’t short, but her betrothed made nearly everybody look smaller than they were.

  Having survived the careful step, she fussed with her necklace. It would be a lie to claim that she hated the part of the bargain that came with a near unlimited budget for clothing and whatever else her heart might desire. Or that access to a collection of truly breathtaking jewelry acquired over centuries was unpleasant.

  The design negotiations over her wedding gown had been as bad as the betrothal dress. She’d assumed it might be simpler, given the betrothal dress had dealt with issues of family symbols and colors. But the marriage of a duq-to-be was a matter of state, and the wedding dress had to shine. She’d never been to a coronation or an Imperial wedding, but she’d seen the paintings of the dresses Empress Liane had worn for both those occasions, and they weren’t so far removed from the one she wore now.

  A stark reminder that it didn't really matter what she and Jean-Paul thought about their wedding, they had little control over the formal parts of today.

  She was trying not to think about it. Better to focus only on Jean-Paul, who would be waiting for her when she reached the temple’s altar.

  Of course, to reach him and the safety of his hand over hers, she had to walk past about a thousand guests—most of the court—and then even more family connections of the du Laqs. Her own guest list accounted for maybe fifty. Which seemed far too few friendly faces to get her through the day. Chloe was her chief attendant, so that was one ally close, but it was still two against hundreds.

  All those aristo eyes watching her. She'd gotten a little more used to it over the months of practice, but it was still a daunting prospect, knowing some of those watching didn't wish her joy of her day. Rather, they were hoping she might make an idiot of herself, or at least commit some small blunder that would give them even the smallest political leverage over Jean-Paul or his father.

  That was why her dress had to be perfect, and her hair, and the jewels that turned her into a fair semblance of a glass ornament. The dress was embroidered with metal threads in the same colors as her betrothal gown, mingled with hints of the du Laq blue and gold. But the heavy satin was also scattered with pearls and small brilliants that echoed the priceless fire from the diamonds she wore. The tiara woven into her hair and the earrings and necklace were exquisite but hardly subtle. If a stray sunbeam hit her during the ceremony, she might well blind unwary onlookers. The thought made her giggle. It was one way to defeat the scrutiny of the court.

  She flexed her hands, which were, apart from her betrothal ring, unadorned. She'd put
her foot down on the matter of additional rings, insisting that she would wear Jean-Paul's and no other.

  But even his ring felt weighty and unfamiliar now that she was standing alone in the dressing room at the temple near the palace. The largest one in all Illvya. Where Domina Francis herself, the head of the entire temple in the Empire, would marry them.

  Imogene had never expected her wedding to be a public spectacle. Truthfully, she hadn't thought much of a wedding at all, her focus on her magic and her career she’d worked so hard for. All that time and effort. Jean-Paul had promised that she would still be one of the Imperial mages after they wed. Indeed, she had been on several shorter missions in the last few months. His parents had tried to protest at first, but Jean-Paul had overridden their concerns.

  He was sincere in his support, she knew, but she wasn't sure that his will alone would be enough to shift the weight of royal tradition and protocol that would also expect her to become a fixture at court. Thank the goddess that Jean-Paul wasn't actually the duq yet. There'd be a far smaller chance of her escaping any of it if he’d already held the title. Which was why she needed to make sure she started now and established herself in the mages while his father was still alive. Privately she wished her father-in-law to be a very, very long and happy life.

  If she worked from the beginning, then by the time—far in the future—when Jean-Paul took up the title, her career would be just part of who she was. Unusual perhaps, for a duquesse, but she could live with being different. She was different to the other duquesses. For a start, she had a sanctii.

  "Ikarus," she whispered. "Are you here?"

  "Yes," the sanctii said, appearing beside her. His black eyes studied her for a long moment. "Worried? Why?"

  He was sensing her nerves. Their bond was growing more complex every day.

  "It's a big day," she said. "Lots of fuss."

  "Humans," he rumbled, tone somewhat dismissive. As far as she could tell, sanctii seemed to find humans largely entertaining, their day-to-day concerns largely unimportant. Perhaps they bonded with human mages purely so they could observe more closely? Or maybe they liked to have the chance to be part of the entertainment.