Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  She eyed him, half expecting to find Lucias grinning like an alley cat that’d made off with a whole fish. He was indeed smirking.

  But, curse him, he was also right. Even if the guards at the gate didn’t natter amongst their peers. She’d fallen right in front of a huge crowd. Small chance of the court not discovering that. “As you pointed out, I could do with a wash.” She took up Sable’s reins. “Lead the way.” Whatever was said about her actions, she vastly preferred getting rid of the filth clinging to her hair as quickly as possible.

  Chapter Nine

  Most of the fond memories Clara had of home were of the tales her father would tell as she drifted off to sleep, lulled by his voice. A handful of those stories involved nobles and balls. On those nights, she would dream of peeking through the window of a huge room glittering with candlelight to watch as people swarmed the floor, all moving in unison.

  In all her life, she’d never dared to dream of attending such an affair.

  Now she lingered in the doorway to a room dedicated to them, admiring the warm glow. Candlelight glittered upon everything, from the polished metal adorning the ceiling to the white stone underfoot. The room was a strange shape; the walls were too many for it to be a simple square and lacked the curves that would make the area circular. Music drifted through the air, the notes flowing lazily from wood and string. Already, couples danced to the tune.

  “Keeping the court gossiping about your adventures today by being fashionably late, I see.”

  Clara turned at Lucias’ voice to find him walking up the hallway, grinning.

  He halted before her, the faint gleam of concern creasing the corner of his eyes. “You look no worse for wear, all things considered. Are you certain of being all right in doing this?”

  Nodding, she patted her hair—all very much clean and still slightly damp—checking every curl was still in place. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Sitting out her first ball hadn’t even been a consideration. Although, spending most of the afternoon soaking in a private pool at the bathhouse, before returning to the castle in fresh clothes, had left her with precious little time to prepare for tonight’s festivities.

  Lucias, on the other hand, seemed rather less dishevelled than she would’ve expected. It always amazed her at how nicely he cleaned up. Like the previous night, the practical leather she’d grown used to seeing him in was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was almost a shadow in a black jacket and breeches. The only alleviation to this darkness was his deep red vest, which showed a flash of embroidery along the hems, and the silver glitter of the sword he still wore at his hip.

  “Am I to take it by your staring, that my attire meets your approval?” He spread his arms wide and twirled for her. Whoever had tailored his jacket had certainly been fond of the current trend to emphasise a man’s shoulders and backside. Fortunately, he’d the frame for such flattery.

  Clara nodded. “My dad would’ve approved.” If there was one thing she remembered correctly about her father, it was his appreciation for a well-made outfit. “And you certainly look less barbaric in that attire.”

  A question lurked in the twitch of Lucias’ arched brow.

  “You rather frightened me the first time we met,” she clarified.

  “Are we referring to our more formal meeting or the time before, when you caught me unawares in naught but a towel?”

  Heat flooded her face upon the recollection of him dripping wet in the candlelight with only a flimsy length of cloth wrapped around his waist. “The former, when you were in your…” She fluttered a hand before him, trying to find the right words to describe the attire Lucias had donned the morning he’d chosen her as his mistress. “Leather ensemble,” she finally settled.

  Clasping her hand in his, Lucias bowed low and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “My utmost apologies, my lady. I will endeavour to not startle you in such a manner again.” Straightening, he offered his left arm. “Shall we?”

  Clara glanced over her shoulder to peer through the gap in the door. Everyone else waited for them to make an appearance. “I didn’t have a chance to find out,” she murmured as a new thought came to mind. “Did the children from the market square make it here all right?”

  A small smile lifted the corners of Lucias’ mouth as he escorted her to the ballroom entrance. “They are here, I made sure of that. Arrived in the afternoon, apparently. Last I heard of them, Thalia was in the middle of ensuring they’d been bathed and ushered off towards the kitchen. I think the worst we might hear of them tonight is that they managed to empty the castle larders.”

  She nodded. “Good.” Not that she hoped they’d devoid the whole castle of food, but that they were at least getting a decent meal. Probably the first in a very long time for several of them, if not the first. “I’ll want to see them later.”

  “Of course.”

  They stepped through the doorway. The man standing just on the other side of the opening stiffened. Already standing tall, Clara couldn’t see how he managed to stand taller, but he seemed to find another inch or two.

  She winced in anticipation of the bellow she knew was to come in their presence. It’d been enough of a shock to have her entry into the Great Hall met with such yelling. Last night, she’d arrived after most of the guests, but there would certainly have been more ceremony made of Lucias’ entrance than hers.

  “And now, presenting: his esteemed lordship, Great Lord Lucias Dark. Great Sword of the South, vanquisher of our western enemies, protector of the eastern seas and defender against the savages of the Ebony Court at Ne’ermore…”

  Clara’s attention drifted off, half-hearing the rest of the man’s talk. Would she be saddled with so many titles upon their marriage? Becoming the Great Lady was more than enough for her.

  “And accompanying him: Mistress of the Great Lord, Clarabelle Weaver.”

  She flinched at the address. They’d said the same words the previous night. Even with them officially betrothed, being his mistress was still considered the higher title until the wedding. Four more days. She could weather it until then. It was only a word and soon others would take its place in the people’s mind. Great Lady Clarabelle Dark. What a mouthful that was going to be.

  The crowd filling the room had stilled, their attention swinging to Lucias. To us. Clara’s cheeks heated and she tried to convince herself it was due to the warmth of the room.

  She turned her gaze upwards, eyeing the large and heavy-looking chandeliers hanging over the dance floor, their gilt curves glittering like everything else. A flush of wonder suffused her bosom, cooling her cheeks and heating her core.

  It truly was beyond anything she’d ever dreamt.

  “Do remember to smile, my dear,” Lucias whispered. “Some of these people have come a long way to see you.”

  She slowly pulled her gaze back to his face. For someone who’d admitted to not being all that fond of these sorts of gatherings, Lucias seemed very much at ease. More so than he’d been back at the Citadel. “I confess, I didn’t expect you to be so relaxed around all these people.” He hadn’t even attempted to grasp his sword hilt once since entering.

  A faint smile tweaked one corner of his mouth. “Your presence makes all this bearable.” He gave her fingers a little squeeze, drawing her closer. “And I wouldn’t want to pass up the chance to dance with you before our wedding.”

  They’d done a lot of dancing during their time in the Citadel. Most evenings would end with him teaching her the steps of several dances popular within the court. That’s when he hadn’t been teaching her how to use a blade, both equally necessary skills in his opinion. “You mean you want to show me off,” Clara needled.

  He chuckled. “What man could possibly resist such a temptation?” He toyed with a lock of her hair, gently curling it around his finger. “Like it or not, you will become the jewel of my court. I intend to ensure you glitter amongst the other gems.”

  Resisting temptation. That was his excuse in teachin
g her how to wield a sword; that they either duelled with their tongues or a blade. Ever since the attack on Lucias, they’d spent barely a waking moment apart in the months before he left for Endlight, be either within or without the Citadel’s walls. True separation came only when it was time for them to sleep.

  But this was the first time he’d referred to her as a jewel. “About the children—”

  “Social duties first, my dear,” he murmured, deliberately turning her towards the edge of the dance floor where clusters of noblemen and women lingered. “Then we may speak of other things.”

  Clara’s stomach bubbled at the sudden prospect of mingling. She’d been aware of it, but it’d been a dim thought, a dream not quite remembered in full. Such duties hadn’t been required of her since the impromptu banquet in the Citadel, and never with the entirety of the kingdom’s nobility. The possible poisoning she’d suffered at last night’s dinner had stalled any chance of that then.

  Now?

  Her gaze swept over the room. It was a lot of people. Far more than she’d ever imagined. That had to mean even the lowest of the noble ranks was in attendance. To see me. The little common woman who’d saved the Great Lord from death, and the kingdom from doom.

  Clara took a deep breath and silently prayed that the Goddess would aid her in not making a fool of herself.

  The first group they stopped at greeted them with bows and mumbled pleasantries. Lucias accepted all this with the gentle nod of his head, a gesture Clara copied. They spoke, briefly and on frivolous things—admiration of her gown, a titter of wonder over Clara, and an invitation to their estate in the summer—before parting ways to another group to be greeted by similar words.

  It seemed hours trickled away as they moved through the room, fluttering from one cluster of nobles to another. Names were spoken, titles too, she was certain of it. But the powdered faces and polite smiles blurred into such a muddle that she couldn’t remember a single one.

  Nevertheless, she clutched Lucias’ arm, responding to every bow and curtsy with a soft smile. Sometimes, the people would attempt a little more than idle small talk, often in hushed, flustered tones that she barely took in. Not that it mattered, for Clara seldom replied with anything beyond a nod or shake of the head. It seemed enough for them.

  Sadly, she could not get away doing so with the current pair of noblewomen. They continued to chitter away, their heads bobbing to and fro like sparrows along the eaves, following as Lucias pointedly guided Clara towards the dance floor.

  “It’s so very brave of you to join us, my lady,” gushed one of the women, laying a gloved hand on Clara’s elbow. “It must’ve been dreadfully frightening.”

  “A little,” Clara replied, somewhat relieved someone had mentioned something beyond politics and fashion. At any other time, she would’ve been more than willing to gossip about dresses, and learning the state of the court would be useful towards helping Lucias mend whatever upheavals his father had caused, but not whilst surrounded by the glitter of candlelight on gilt and the melody of angels. “Still, Lucias is quite capable of—”

  “That was such a wicked fall to have,” the other woman blurted. She also laid a hand on Clara’s arm. “Especially in your condition. You must’ve been awfully concerned about the baby.”

  “What con—?” Clara cut herself off as Lucias squeezed her hand.

  “Consideration you give your future Great Lady,” he hastily continued in her stead. “Of course, what mother wouldn’t be alarmed? But if you two ladies would excuse us?” he enquired of the pair, gesturing to where a good dozen couples danced in the centre of the room.

  The pair graciously accepted, although they continued to titter away to themselves as Lucias escorted her onto the dance floor.

  Clara flashed him a relieved smile. The part of her that would vastly prefer seeking out her bed had grown substantially stronger. She didn’t think she could stand any more of the saccharine chatter dribbling out their mouths. Not after everything else that had happened today.

  The gentle beat of the music drew her feet and, after a quick check to see where the other woman stood in relation to their partners, Clara took up her position at his side.

  Lucias bent close, his palm nestled upon the small of her back whilst his other hand clasped her left. “Now, what was it you wanted to speak about?” he asked as they begun their first circuit around the dance floor.

  “Hmm?” Her gaze jerked back from where she’d been idly watching the musicians with their gleaming instruments. After all the talking, she’d almost forgotten what she’d said at any given time, never mind who to. Clara eyed the neighbouring dancers. Out on the floor, with everyone twirling to the music, anything she said would be lost. “What’s this about my condition?” she whispered into his ear.

  Lucias smiled as he guided them between the other dancers. “The current rumour is that you’re carrying my child, especially after last night.”

  “I’m—” She faltered in her steps, and scrambled to regain her footing before it could be noticed. She covered her lips with a hand, trying to stifle any hint of mirth.

  He drew her tighter, twirling her, and, as he tipped her backwards, Clara became aware of his magic’s gentle pressure cradling her torso. “Are you laughing, Miss Weaver?”

  She fought to keep her face neutral, hoping it would be enough to convince him. “Of course not.”

  His lids lowered, but not before she caught a shimmer of light in the depths of his eyes. Not the silvery-blue power of the Great Lords, but an insidious gleam that sprang to life whenever she dared to speak anything beyond the truth. “You’re a poor liar.” He straightened and Clara bounced upright.

  “My apologies.” She’d found ways around his strange ability of catching lies—talking in a roundabout way, saying plenty without actually answering the question served the best. Doing so was also draining and scarcely worth the effort most times. She cleared her throat. “I meant to say that the rumours are quite preposterous and, from our knowledgeable standpoint, could be considered amusing if one has that sense of humour, which I may or may not possess.”

  He frowned. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

  The musicians changed to a different melody. Lucias moved her haphazardly across the floor whilst people adjusted to the new steps, giving Clara time to compose herself. She focused on the music, the delicate flurries and wandering lows that was the beat of the Golden Path. She’d barely grasped the intricate steps required for the dance before he left for Endlight and hadn’t repeated them since.

  They completed a circuit of the room in silence. The twirling motions weren’t as difficult as she recalled. Learning the footwork involved in a swordfight had made her surer in her steps, more aware of where or how her feet landed and sprang off the floor.

  What it didn’t help with was the annoyance of dancing the Golden Path with a train, even one so short that it barely deserved such a name and wasn’t designed to be lifted. Coupled with the quick backwards movements required of the dance, the heavy fabric swished with each twirl. Always at the wrong moment, threatening to tangle her legs.

  Clara found herself having to focus harder on the steps, kicking her skirts whenever they tried to wrap around her. If there was one thing she couldn’t risk tonight, it was tripping and making a fool of herself.

  And my apparent unborn child. She hesitated midway through one of the twirls, giving her skirts another kick only to find her balance upset by the swish of fabric and having her almost trip over her own feet. A squeak of surprise left her lips before the subtle caress of magic tightened around her waist.

  A gentle chuckle shook them. She glanced up from untangling her feet to the sight of Lucias’ grin. “Careful,” he murmured, one hand brushing the hair back from her face.

  The tune of the Golden Path finished and, after a brief pause, the musicians started a dreamier melody. Her feet followed suit. Clara laid her head on Lucias’ shoulder and let him gently sway her to the m
usic. She’d missed this, the suppleness of his touch, of the sure way he led her around the room and the reassuring brush of his magic whenever her feet happened to fumble. Light enough to let her right herself, but there should she fail.

  The melody finished all too soon. Her legs wobbled, the ache of the day’s ride and subsequent fall digging deep into her flesh. Still, she clutched at his jacket as another slow-paced piece of music started up, hoping he would heed her silent wish to remain on the floor. It didn’t matter her feet grew tired of carrying her, nor did she care about the many times she stumbled at even the simplest of steps until she was relying entirely on her dance partner’s ability to keep her upright.

  Lucias wrapped his arms around her. The cool touch of his magic cinched her waist, lifting her ever so slightly until her feet barely touched the ground. “Don’t you think you should rest for a while, my dear?” he whispered, his breath skittering down her neck.

  She grunted her disapproval of the very idea. The last thing she wanted was anyone drawing his attention, even for a moment. What an utterly selfish and childish thought. She was still allowed those, wasn’t she? Out here, the other dancers were as distant as stars. Resting meant letting the waiting world take hold. She wasn’t ready to give him up to that just yet.

  He directed her in gentle, sweeping steps to where others mingled near the edge of the dance floor. “We can retire for the night, if you want.”

  Clara desperately wanted to take up the offer, for they must’ve been here for several hours already. At least, if the tenderness of her feet were to judge. “Nonsense.” Except she’d left early last night and doing the same thing again would only invite gossip she was in no mood to deal with. “I just need to rest for a spell.” Clara huffed as she ambled at his side, searching for a spare seat. “Providing I can find a place not swarming with people.”