Shades of Empire (ThreeCon)

by Carmen Webster Buxton

  Paznowski bowed politely and showed him to the door. “I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve spoken to the Emperor.”

  “Do that,” Peter said grimly. “I’ll be at home.”

  “Of course,” Paznowski said, bland in the face of Peter’s severity. “I don’t recommend that you attempt to go anywhere else.”

  • • •

  Alexander woke with a start the next morning. He lay still for a minute, trying to remember what it was that was so important that he needed to remember it right away, and then he noticed the sleeve of his shirt sticking out from under the pillow. It wouldn’t have been remarkable except that he had gone to bed in just his underclothes.

  Alexander moved the blanket and saw Cassandra’s brown hair spread across his pillow like a fan.

  She was still asleep. Alexander crept carefully out of bed so as not to wake her. He washed and dressed in the bathroom, and when he came out, she was sitting up sleepily.

  “Good morning, Alexander,” she said with a smile.

  Alexander was disconcerted by the sight of a generous display of naked flesh as she stretched both arms out wide. She was still wearing his shirt, but just barely, as it was completely unfastened and had almost slipped off her shoulders.

  “Good morning, Lady Cassandra.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “Can’t you call me just Cassandra? I mean, now that we’ve made love?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She looked up at him in dismay. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I do it right?”

  Alexander sank down onto the bed beside her. “We need to talk.”

  She looked so worried that he took her hand and patted it reassuringly. “It’s all right. You don’t need to worry. I won’t touch you again.”

  She took his hand and kissed the back of it reverently, as if he had been a noble and she a retainer. “I want you to touch me. I told you that last night.”

  “You were lonely,” Alexander said, removing his hand from her grasp. “You were afraid of being alone.”

  “Yes, but I wanted to make love, too.” She glanced down at the sheets and blushed. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

  Alexander touched her hair gently. “Don’t worry about that. We can put the sheets in the fresher. Did I hurt you?”

  She nodded once. “For a moment. It wasn’t so bad, though.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. I enjoyed it, Alexander.”

  “My friends call me Alex.”

  “And mine would call me Cassandra,” she said brightly, “if I had any friends.”

  He took her face in his hands, pulled her close and kissed her tenderly. Cassandra drew the kiss out into something more than tenderness. Alexander tried to push her away gently, but when he put his hands on her, the feel of her smooth, naked skin under his hands made him suddenly lose interest in repelling her.

  Cassandra began to work on his clothes, and he was soon completely naked.

  “Cassandra,” he began.

  “Hush!” She put one finger over his lips. “I want to look at you. I didn’t get to see you last night. I’ve never seen a naked man before.”

  Alexander hid a smile and let her look.

  “Men are very different from women,” she said with a happy sigh as she pulled him down onto the bed with her.

  Alexander struggled to get away, successfully this time. “No! It’s my turn. Take off that shirt. I want to look at you, too.”

  She slipped the oversized shirt off easily and lay back against the bed.

  “Do you like what you see?” she asked provocatively.

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Good,” she said in a pleased tone. “Because if we’re stuck here alone for several days, it seems to me that you’re going to see it often.”

  Alexander didn’t answer her; having gone from a desire to look to a desire to touch, he was gently stroking her torso. Cassandra seemed to find this a pleasant sensation. She closed her eyes and began to explore his body. Alexander let out a groan of intense pleasure. His last rational thought was that they would have to be careful to watch the news bulletins, at least occasionally, or they wouldn’t know what was going on in the world.

  • • •

  Count Peter Barranca looked in the mirror and studied the decorations on his uniform tunic. They were all family orders, except for a small silver star on a red ribbon that he had been awarded for being wounded in combat, and another larger star, golden and more ornate, that hung from a blue and silver ribbon. He had won it during the rebellion, by killing several terrorists who had attacked his barracks.

  He studied the array grimly and wondered whether what he was doing today brought dishonor to them or not. From there, he went on to wonder whether he deserved to wear his medals at all, considering the decisions he had made in his life.

  The door in the sitting room chimed in a distinctive series of notes. Peter wondered how long it would take him to get used to the chimes. He had been given a handsome suite of hastily-renovated rooms: a bedroom, a sitting room, a dressing room, and a bathroom. The bedroom had a door that led to the dressing room, which connected in turn to the sitting room. A second door in the far wall of the bedroom opened to the corridor by way of small vestibule. The vestibule also provided access to the Princess’ suite on the other side of his, but that door, Peter knew, was usually locked. As a married woman, Vinitra would be no longer obliged to live in the women’s quarters where she had grown up, but would now have the freedom of the palace.

  Peter had been told that when Princess Vinitra desired to spend the night with him, she would come to his room rather than asking him to come to her. Peter had made a point to learn the arrangement of the furniture in his bedroom, just so he could find the bed in the dark. He had also noted that the door locked from inside.

  “Come,” Peter said, stepping into the sitting room.

  A palace butler stood in the doorway, waiting to escort him. Peter picked up his gloves and followed the man, hearing the distinctive click of his own boots as he walked. The Emperor had been insistent that Peter wear his army uniform, even though he hadn’t been on active duty since his father died, almost seven years ago.

  The butler led him to the rear entrance to the ballroom that had been set up as a chapel. With the wedding following so soon after the recent attack, Antonio hadn’t wanted to risk Vinitra’s safety by allowing her to be married in the cathedral. Peter was thankful that this necessitated a more private ceremony. He had no desire to subject his friends to witnessing this farce; he was sorry that Ricardo was required to come, especially as all the guests would be obliged to stand the entire time. Only the Emperor would sit.

  At least Helena had got out of it, he thought to himself. It was a drastic way to avoid a social obligation, but two rooms in the attic at Barranca House were considerably more comfortable—and safer—than a jail cell.

  The butler directed him to stand near the back of the room until Vinitra made her entrance. Peter found it ironic that her brother would walk her down the aisle. He had his suspicions about this sham of a marriage, and if he was right, Antonio wasn’t giving her away at all.

  Peter studied the crowd of assembled nobles, all richly dressed. There would have been five times as many if the wedding had been held in the cathedral.

  He found Ricardo’s face in the crowd and smiled at him reassuringly. In spite of the expensive tailor the Barrancas patronized, Ricardo managed to look as if he were wearing a stage costume instead of formal clothes. He had grown so much in the last year that he had acquired a gawky, coltish look that the long sleeves of his formal jacket accentuated. He smiled back at Peter but it was a feeble attempt at looking relaxed. Peter was a little worried about Ricardo, who would be living at Barranca House with only their Aunt Cyn to look after him—unless of course, his mother chose to visit for any length of time.

  Peter glanced around, but he didn’t see Countess Ferruli anywhere in the room. His father’s third wi
fe, the only one entitled to call herself his widow, had been rather flighty since she had married again. Her second husband, well-to-do but frivolous, encouraged that side of her character.

  Aunt Cyn was there, though, standing next to Ricardo, her youngest nephew. His aunt looked rather grim this afternoon, Peter thought. But then, she had only that morning supervised her niece’s incarceration in their attic, and was now living in a house where there would always be at least four of the Emperor’s Own Corps on duty around the clock.

  Peter sighed and turned his attention to the other guests. He knew most of them by sight. There were representatives from every noble house in Montmartre and from most of the provinces, too. A few of them gave him measuring looks. Most likely, they were trying to determine how he would figure in palace politics, and if there were any way he could be manipulated to their advantage.

  The main doors opened, and the wedding procession stood there. A series of attendants advanced first—young women in gowns and flowered wreaths, young men in various military uniforms. And then a dozen members of the Emperor’s Own Corps of Guards marched down the aisle in two rows, with the Emperor and Vinitra between them. Everyone bowed or curtsied as they approached. Peter stepped forward and took his first opportunity to study his bride.

  He had never even met her, as Sergei Paznowski had told him that she was so busy with her preparations that she had no time to spare for social visits, not even to meet her groom. Peter hadn’t believed this excuse, but then he admitted to himself he had had no idea what Vinitra’s preparations could include. He noted that she clutched her brother’s arm as if she never wanted to let go, holding it with both her hands as if touching him brought her reassurance.

  The Princess wore a heavy, shoulder-length veil that shrouded her head completely. Her gown of imperial purple was trimmed lavishly with gold, an ensemble matched in garishness only by the Emperor’s black and gold uniform, topped with a purple cloak. As they approached the makeshift altar, Antonio leaned his head close to Vinitra’s and whispered something that seemed to hearten her, as she loosened her grip on his arm and only stroked his sleeve. When they reached the front of the altar, Peter stepped forward, bowed deeply to Antonio, and offered his arm.

  Vinitra took it slowly, almost reluctantly, but she didn’t look back as she followed Peter to the altar.

  The ceremony seemed interminable, and Peter was weary long before it was over. The woman who held his arm so lightly seemed tired, too, although she made her responses in a clear voice. Finally, it was over. Peter lifted Vinitra’s veil, almost gasping from surprise when he saw how much she looked like her brother, and bestowed an ephemeral kiss on her lips, barely brushing them with his own.

  The reception was held in a series of rooms on the same floor as the ersatz chapel. Peter danced one dance with his new wife and then surrendered her to the first of many nobles who would claim this opportunity of grasping the Emperor’s sister by the waist, and telling her how loyal his house was to the Imperium, while he whirled her around the room.

  Peter occupied himself with eating and drinking, mostly drinking. He didn’t allow himself to get drunk, but as the party lasted well into the evening hours, he had plenty of opportunity to drink steadily.

  Halfway through the evening, Aunt Cyn approached him and looked him over from head to foot. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be too drunk to fulfill your husbandly duties.”

  He smiled cynically. “I don’t think my bride will complain.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “I’d always hoped to see you married, Peter, but I have to tell you, that this was not what I had in mind.”

  “It’s not what I had in mind, either,” Peter agreed, tossing off the last of his drink.

  She studied him overtly, not hiding her scrutiny. “There wasn’t ever anyone special, was there? I mean, was there someone else you wanted to marry?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’ve always been too cynical to fall in love, Aunt Cyn.”

  She snorted with disbelief. “Nonsense. Your father was the most cynical man I ever knew, and he was constantly falling in love.”

  Peter smiled with genuine amusement. His father had been known for his roving eye. His first marriage had survived longer than either of his other two only because Peter’s mother had refused to leave her small son at Barranca House in his father’s custody, no matter how many mistresses her husband flaunted in her face. She had stayed married to Hugo Barranca until after Peter’s twelfth birthday, and then she had departed to obtain a divorce. She had stayed involved in Peter’s life even after her second marriage to a man whose estates were in far-away Shugart, and Peter was still very fond of her.

  Count Hugo Barranca had celebrated his freedom by marrying again, very quickly. His second wife had produced Helena within a year of the wedding. Unfortunately, their daughter’s first birthday was soon followed by her parents’ divorce. This time Hugo Barranca had waited several years before again testing the waters of matrimony, and as he had died when his second son was only an infant, he hadn’t had enough time to truly alienate his third wife. She enjoyed a brief, tragic season as the Dowager Countess Barranca before marrying Count Ferruli, the wealthy but capricious noble who found her mourning clothes incredibly erotic.

  “I often wonder if Father was ever really in love,” Peter said.

  His aunt took the question seriously. “Perhaps it would be fair to say that Hugo loved all his wives and mistresses as much as he was able to love at all?”

  “Perhaps,” Peter conceded. “Considering he was your brother, the two of you were nothing alike.”

  She smiled at this, clearly taking it as a compliment. Lady Cyndia Barranca had never married, having fallen in love in her youth with a young man whose family was so low on the social scale that neither her father nor, later, her brother would countenance a marriage. Lady Cyndia had bowed to their authority as far as marriage was concerned, but for twenty years she had spent several days of each week in a small cottage with her lover. The affair had ended only when the man died in a skimmer crash, and Lady Cyndia had never formed any other attachment.

  “You could still find someone you really care about, Peter,” Aunt Cyn said gently. “It’s very noble of you to save Helena like this, but you’re entitled to some happiness.”

  Peter looked around the room and saw his wife of a few hours dancing with her brother. Everyone stood at a respectful distance as the Emperor and the Princess whirled around the room, their faces like a mirrored reflection, not only alike in features, but in the intense look of love each had for the other.

  “I’m not sure anyone will be happy in this new Imperium,” he said in a low tone.

  Aunt Cyn nodded and dropped her voice to match his. “That’s dangerous, that is. It wouldn’t be healthy even if it weren’t incest.”

  Peter sucked in his breath. “Be careful!”

  “I will be,” she said, quietly but calmly. “But I’m not a fool. I can see just from looking at them together why the man wants a shadow husband for her. I expect she’ll be pregnant within a year.”

  “A shadow?” Peter said wryly. “That about describes me.”

  “Don’t denigrate yourself, Peter. You’re doing what you have to do to save your family.”

  “Yes.” Peter scanned the room to find Ricardo. He frowned when he saw his young half brother surreptitiously sipping a glass of wine. “Take the boy home, will you, Aunt Cyn? I don’t want him here any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “All right,” Cyndia said with a sigh. “I’m only sorry you can’t come with us.”

  “I’m sorry, too. You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes.” She reached up to give him an affectionate kiss. “It’ll be difficult for him, though. You’re more of a father to him than Hugo ever was.”

  “I know,” Peter said, kissing her back. “But I have Helena to worry about, too.”

  “Drat that girl!” Cyndia said in annoyance.

/>   “I don’t blame her. At least she was trying to improve the world.”

  “She must have gotten that from her mother,” his aunt said as she turned to go. “Hugo never worried about the future in his life.”

  Peter watched as his aunt collected his brother, scolding him when he hastily discarded his wineglass, and bearing him off remorselessly on the grounds of the lateness of the hour. Peter sighed and helped himself to a glass of lurnana punch. It would be better to have a clear head this evening, and he could feel his earlier excesses catching up to him.

  After another two hours, the other guests began to trickle away and, eventually, Peter found himself alone with the servants, Sergei Paznowski, the Emperor, and Princess Vinitra.

  My wife, Peter thought to himself. He would have to remember to refer to her as his wife. It would be difficult, under the circumstances.

  They acted the farce out to the bitter end, forming something of a procession, with the Emperor leading Vinitra by the arm as they walked through the corridor toward Peter’s suite. Peter walked behind them, along with Sergei Paznowski. Several guardsmen and a woman servant trailed after them. When they came to the door that opened onto Peter’s bedroom, the Emperor kissed his sister on the cheek and waited while her maid accompanied her inside. After the door closed, Antonio smiled heartily at his new brother-in-law, admonished him to be a kind husband to his sister, and left, his escort marching along behind him.

  It appeared that it was Sergei Paznowski’s job to explain the logistics of his marriage to Peter, as the smile the adviser gave him was perfunctory rather than hearty.

  “We’ll go back to your sitting room now, Count,” Paznowski said, “while the Princess prepares herself for you.”

  Not for me, Peter said to himself. He said nothing aloud, however, but followed the imperial adviser back to the front door to his suite.

  There was a bar in the sitting room, and Peter offered Paznowski a drink. The adviser accepted and Peter poured him a glass of brandy.

  “Now,” the older man said pleasantly, “you do remember the terms of our agreement, Count?”