Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  She did as asked and stood back to examine what he did with the blade. Shaving wasn’t something she’d ever witnessed. The blade looked very sharp. How could he run it across his face, removing the foam a bit at a time, without cutting himself?

  “Was there something else?”

  Clara ducked her head, her cheeks heating. Composing herself, she faced him once again. “I’ve never seen a man shave before.”

  The blade slid across from his ear to his jaw, scraping away more foam to reveal smooth skin. “Not even your father?”

  “He had a beard.” And he must have occasionally trimmed it, for it couldn’t have been more than two inches long, but she never caught him doing that either.

  Lucias grunted and ran his hand across the shaved side of his jaw. “I’d a moustache in my late teens.” One brow arched in her direction. “I could grow it again if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His face was intense enough now without adding the imposing touch brought on by an excess of facial hair.

  He chuckled. “Thank the Goddess. Thalia said it made me look far too sinister.”

  “I could well imagine.” Clara sidled over to stand at his back. “I thought you’d have someone else shaving you.” Surely the average nobleman did not tend to these matters himself.

  “Oh yes.” He tipped backwards, until his head nestled upon her breasts, and screwed up his nose. “Because I’d delight in the thought of having a stranger’s hand wielding a blade near my throat.”

  “Point.” She supposed for someone who customarily slept with a dagger close at hand, letting another shave him would be a problem. “But what of your men?” The soulless guards under his command couldn’t lift a hand towards harming him no matter how much they might’ve otherwise desired it.

  He shrugged. “I’ve been shaving myself for years.” His attention returned to the mirror before him. “It wouldn’t seem right having someone else do it for me.”

  Clara watched his hands, failing to find the slightest tremble as the blade’s sharp edge slid along his jaw. Was he not as nervous as she was about later? Of course not. Why would he be? He’d probably spent years learning his vows, even if there was little chance of saying them.

  Finally, he slid the blade over his face one last time before patting off the scant remains of foam with a clean towel. In the mirror, Lucias’ eyes flicked up. He frowned, then carefully finished running a hand across his cheek before wiping the blade clean. “You look troubled, my dear. What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing new.” She tried to smile, but her lips quivered something dreadful. “Just nerves, I guess.”

  He reached back, his fingers spread and seeking.

  She stepped closer and his hand clasped hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

  “You’ll do fine. Just don’t believe Thalia’s women-in-waiting. I’m sure they’ll be here once it’s confirmed I’ve left.” Releasing her hand, he returned to the mirror to twist his head this way and that. Likely checking for any lingering remains of stubble.

  “Why would they come here?” Thalia wasn’t even going to be able to attend. Not that Clara had expected the woman to be there given Thalia was still recovering and the midwife insisted on bed rest.

  “To help you get ready? To chat about whatever women talk about amongst themselves on the morning before the ceremony.” There was a certain twinkle in his eye that suggested he knew precisely the topic they generally spoke on.

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks, steadily marching across her face like an invading army. Gettie had prepared her as best as she could, but the old woman possessed only so much personal knowledge. And, to add to everything, she’d spent a somewhat unconventional night with her betrothed that no one would truly believe had transpired.

  “Now, if you could leave me to dress.” Swivelling on the stool, Lucias stood and examined the bundle of clothes. He separated them with meticulous care, pausing only to lift something slim from the beneath one article. “There appears to be a letter here.” He held up a folded piece of parchment, held closed by a green wax seal. “For you.”

  Taking up the letter, she broke the seal and scanned the words within. The words were brief, not entirely rude or commanding, but bereft of the flowery wording she’d come to expect from the nobility. “It seems Thalia requests my presence in her chambers once I’m adequately dressed.”

  Grunting, Lucias unfurled his undershirt from the pile with the flap of his hands. “I guess she wants to express her condolences for not being fit to attend the wedding in person.”

  Clara’s thoughts darted back to the image of the woman giving birth. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut in hopes of banishing the memory back into the darkness. “There truly is no need. It’s quite understandable that she wouldn’t be capable.”

  “Knowing Thalia, she will be upset nevertheless. But if you could please?” He gently wiggled his hands at her in a half-hearted shooing motion. “Standing here in just my undergarments loses its appeal after a while.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, the gleam of his gaze barely visible through the loose strands of his hair. “Unless you plan on watching me get dressed.”

  Clara retreated back into the other room and set about garbing herself. She snatched up her knee-length bloomers, hauling them on before fishing out a pair of dark stockings from her clothes chest—along with a set of red, heeled shoes—and plonked herself on the end of the bed.

  She paused in tugging the stockings on, stretching a leg to admire the curiously diaphanous weave. Done, Clara hopped back onto her feet and slipped into the shoes. With the aid of a little hook she was most grateful for Gettie gifting her, she made short work of the tiny buttons running up the sides.

  With her lower half appropriately clothed, she strode behind the screen where the rest of her garments awaited. The heels forced her to set each foot down with purpose or risk toppling. However was she going to make it up to the altar in these, let alone dance afterwards?

  Breathe. All she could do was hope her balance would adjust or pray Lucias caught her if she stumbled.

  Her fingers fumbled with the laces as she set about donning her corset, a knot she’d tied a dozen times just within the last few days eluding her like a fickle alley cat.

  The creak of a door alerted her to Lucias’ nearing presence. The gentle tap of his boot heels on the bare floor, then muffled as they trod the rug, spoke of him walking across the room.

  Clara held her breath, waiting for him to pop around the edge of the screen.

  “You’ve been quite a while behind there.”

  Grumbling, Clara continued her battle with the accursed corset laces. What was wrong with the blighted thing? She’d been doing this on her own during her time here and even through the journey beforehand.

  “Do you need my help?”

  “Not at all,” she muttered, finally able to tug the errant lace back into position and secure them into a bow. Getting into the rest of her clothes was a far simpler matter, requiring the tying of a few light, soot-coloured petticoats around her waist. They swished about as she turned to collect the next layer, tickling her legs through the fine stockings.

  The blood-red skirt, whilst heavy and long enough to sweep the floor behind her, was modestly decorated with black lace. She bounced on the spot, shaking all the layers into place before turning to garb her torso a little more thoroughly.

  With the chemise and bodice cut wide enough to expose the beginning curve of her shoulders, she opted to forsake her corset cover. It’d been made in a rush by the woman back at the Citadel and she rather feared the sleeves would slide further down her arms than designed. Having one less layer would be better for dancing in anyway.

  The bodice easily slipped on and she made swift work of tightening the laces at her back. There was a small splash of embroidery down the front. She’d spent a fair few nights stitching the design; the flame of the Great Lord picked out in black and gold thread with wisps of smoke cree
ping up to the neckline.

  A massive sash was the last thing to add. Clara eyed it distastefully as she secured the bodice lace. It was a heavy thing of velvet, designed to be supported by a cage. By rights, her skirts should also be draped over a crinoline. However, after so many horror stories of women being burnt alive because of them, she refused to wear one.

  Finally garbed as was considered appropriate by the current fashion, she stepped out from behind the dressing screen. “No comments,” she warned. “I’m not yet done.”

  Lucias froze, his foot still half off the floor. “Not done? You look as heavenly as always.”

  Clara stroked her hair, trying to ignore her steadily warming face. “This still needs brushing and styling.”

  “Perhaps Thalia’s ladies can help you there.”

  They likely could, and probably better than she was capable of. “There’s also this.” She held out the sash. “I can’t tie it myself.”

  “Allow me.” He swiftly wrapped the length of velvet around her middle. It took more time than she’d figured, much of it taken by Lucias fussing with how the massive bow he’d made from the fabric draped across the rear of her skirts. “I hope I’ve done it justice. Dressing people isn’t exactly a skill I’ve—”

  “The children!” Clara gasped, his words jolting the task from the forgotten depths of her mind. “I must get them ready.” Hitching up her skirts, she strode towards the door. Did they even have anything to wear beyond the few hastily thrown together garments they’d worn yesterday and their tatty street clothes?

  Her feet left the floor. Not by much, but enough to halt her forward progress.

  “I’ll see to them,” Lucias said as he set her back onto the rug. “But first…” He held up a necklace that was a chain of silver ovals and squares with garnets set into their centres. One of the first pieces of jewellery he’d gifted her. “I do hope you weren’t thinking of leaving without putting this on.”

  She wordlessly held up her hair, idly rocking back on her heels as he fastened the clasp. Icy metal stole her breath for the moment it took for her skin to adjust.

  “Now go.” Lucias opened the door, indicating she exit first with a bow and the sweep of his hand. “See what Thalia wants.”

  Clara entered the hall, turning only at the sound of a door shutting to find Lucias at her back. He waved her on, but not before blowing a kiss in her direction. She touched her cheek, swearing she had felt the fleeting pressure and warmth of his lips against her skin.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clara ducked her head as she walked through the doorway into Thalia’s bedchamber, not quite sure what she’d be confronted with. It had taken a little wandering, some asking and, finally, an escort to find her way here. The servant who’d arrived earlier with Lucias’ clothes had probably been sent for that very reason.

  A gasp from the opposite side of the room had Clara lifting her gaze from the green and gold rugs dotting the floor.

  “Why, aren’t you just stunning?” Thalia gushed. The woman sat primly at the head of the bed, propped up by a small mountain of frilled pillows. “Isn’t she?”

  As they had in the solarium, much of the younger nobility drifted around the room. Like a flock of disturbed chickens, they babbled and clucked out their agreements.

  “I didn’t expect you to come so soon,” Thalia continued amongst the noise.

  Clara halted halfway across the room. Even seeing how at ease Thalia seemed, the recent events that’d occurred to the woman did not easily slip from Clara’s mind. “I can come back later.”

  “No, no.” Thalia all but threw her cup and saucer at a nearby lady whilst simultaneously attempting to sit straighter. “I called you here because I wished to speak with you and speak, we shall.” She patted the mattress. “Sit.”

  Clara obeyed. Her stomach churned a little as she walked to the bedside. So much blood. Such marks would be gone from the solarium now, scrubbed clean by the castle servants until the only remnant was in her head.

  She wished she could wash the sight from her thoughts as easily.

  “Forgive me if I falter, my lady,” Clara said, choosing her words carefully. “I am uncertain if you mean to follow a particular tradition.” They’d a few customs back home revolving around weddings, but the preparation of the bride was reserved for relatives. She wasn’t certain if this was yet another diversion of the tradition she knew or if Thalia actually considered her as family despite the lack of ties.

  Thalia clicked her tongue. “I am no priest judging how you adhere to convention, girl. Although, I do hope you’ll forgive me for not getting up. Abby gets quite cross with me when I try.” She shot a smile in the direction of the far left corner and Clara belatedly realised the midwife stood there, carefully lowering a small bundle into a cot.

  “Of course, you need time to recover.” Clara settled on the edge of the bed. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been better, that much is certain,” Thalia quipped, looking mighty pleased with herself. “Never fear, Abby says I’m improving. But how are you?” Those brown eyes seemed to grow twice their size as Thalia peered at her. “I heard there was another attempt on your life.”

  Nodding, she swiftly filled the woman in on Lieutenant Dean’s treachery to the accompaniment of horrified gasps and murmurs from various women around them.

  “How ghastly,” Thalia said once Clara had finished speaking. She patted Clara’s hand. “But we mustn’t let that mar the day. Their failure will only make us stronger. Have you eaten yet?”

  Clara shook her head. Food had been a distant thought.

  “Goodness. Brenna?”

  There was a grunt from behind the gaggle of ladies and Brenna trotted into view. She curtsied before the much older woman, as much as her gravid state would allow, at least. “How may I be of assistance, my lady?”

  “There should still be some food in the solarium,” Thalia continued with little indication that she’d seen or heard her daughter-by-marriage. “Do see that our future Great Lady has at least something in her belly.”

  Thoughts of venturing into the solarium after witnessing the woman giving birth there had Clara’s stomach roiling. “I’m really not hungry.” Eating was one thing. Keeping it down might be a far bigger issue.

  “Now, my lady.” Thalia shook her finger as if admonishing a child. “It simply won’t do to have the bride faint before the altar. Nerves are a poor excuse to starve oneself.” Her gaze swung to Brenna. “See to it.”

  Inclining her head, Brenna wordlessly indicated for Clara to follow her with a twitch of her hand. Other women trailed them in their departure of the bedchamber.

  Rather than lead the way to the castle’s solarium as Clara had expected, Brenna headed for a nearby entrance. Soft morning light crept through the open doorway, illuminating the room in the pale glow.

  The room itself wasn’t anywhere near the size of the other solarium, maybe a quarter. A fireplace, its flames licking forlornly at a charred log, sat opposite of the doorway. Two chairs sat either side of the mantle. One long table, still laden with a healthy selection of food, took up the length of the right wall whilst floor-to-ceiling windows broke up the monotony of the grey brickwork on the left.

  Brenna guided her to the head of the table whilst one of the ladies, who seemed to be the leader of the gaggle, loaded two plates up with a little piece of everything. One was placed before Clara, the other set at a nearby seat that Brenna swiftly claimed.

  The fare placed before her seemed more in line with what her mother would offer than anything the kitchens had cooked for her over the past week. Beans and what she hoped was scrambled eggs, alongside a few thick slices of bread and a small chunk of cheese. All good foods for someone still recovering.

  “Sorry about the leftovers,” Brenna said, dipping a piece of bread crust into some sort of brown sauce. “There was chicken, but Thalia’s cooks nicked off with that over an hour ago. I can send for something else, if you’d prefer.”r />
  “This is fine.” If she could manage to keep down this simple food, then she might consider taking Brenna up on her offer.

  The rest of the women slowly settled along the table as Clara ate. Some picked at the remaining food whilst others chattered and giggled about what was to come. They nattered on about past weddings, either theirs or someone close to them. A daring few delicately asked her how last night had been.

  Clara tried to answer as well as she could. Outright lying no longer came naturally to her and these people likely saw nothing wrong with their enquiries. She stuck with simple answers between bites: “Yes, he spent the whole night” and “No, he was gentle”. Her face still heated with each word.

  They stopped trying to pry answers from her only once Brenna had cleared her throat one time too many.

  Once Clara was finished with her meal, Brenna tucked her arm beneath Clara’s and guided her upright. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “They’ll calm down soon enough.” She flicked a curl of Clara’s hair out of the way. “We really should do something about this.” She clapped her hands twice.

  The group surrounding them seemed to close in on Clara like a pack of wolves around a humble little fawn. She was towed towards a stool standing before a mirrored dresser.

  The world became a flurry of hands. Her hair was combed, styled, pinned and perfumed.

  She dared attempt a peek over one woman’s shoulder. Alas, the mirror’s angle was tilted too far back. Straightening her back allowed her a view of the very top of her head and nothing more. If she was just able to stand and see what they’d done.

  The balls of her feet had barely taken her weight before someone at her back laid their hands on her shoulders. “Close your eyes,” Brenna said, the tone more in line with a suggestion than a command. “You wouldn’t want powder in them or to be reciting your vows with them all red.”

  Clara followed the simple request and swiftly found her face bombarded by something impossibly light and fluffy. Two somethings. Whatever they were, they bounced across the face like little wisps of unspun wool. She held her breath, fighting the urge to wrinkle her nose.