I narrow my eyes at him, intrigued by the number of lines he insists on crossing.
“You wish to converse in further detail about my betrothed in his absence?” I prod, unwilling to remain discreet about his repeated impudence. “Please, enlighten me with what business might justify your not wanting said in front of His Grace.”
“My Lady,” he replies awkwardly, with a hesitant smile, “you paint such light conversation as almost treacherous.”
“Have I?” I suggest, with an innocent pouting of my lips, “Or might the notion merely be resonating in your conscience?” The slightest downward curve of his lips reveal a crack in his frozen composure, my first successful chip in his composure.
“Alright,” he raises his brows, pausing to realign his aim at my trust. “Perhaps,” he offers, with held up palms, “I should be more forthcoming in my purpose.” His attempt to remain unassuming falls flat at my listless stare, much to his discontent. “As the eldest son of House Hendriks, my marriage, likened to those before us,” he clarifies, “was based in nothing more than politics.” “Pretell, how soon were you made aware of your engagement to His Grace?” he asks, seemingly setting the stage for my volunteer.
“No sooner than yours to the Lady of House Campbell, I presume,” I quip, apathetic to his assertion of my given role in this dialogue.
“And outside of your debut upon the announcement of your engagement, how long have you been acquainted with His Grace?” he prods with a tone of foreboding that I struggle to place. Acquainted? Most unions between houses rarely facilitate prior meetings; rather, the tradition of a courtship tends to follow a proposal. This far into our discussion, I’m at a total loss. I passively furrow my brows at him, more dumbstruck than curious.
“My Lord…I have only ever had the pleasure to speak with His Grace during formal events such as this,” I offer, gesturing to the ball, with a wave of my hand. “As I’m certain you are aware, prospective couples do not meet in advance.” The tension he harbored appears to subside upon my lackluster response, as though having finally caught a respite.
“Of course,” he says, relaxing his shoulders. “Which is why I must congratulate you on your upcoming marriage! I must admit, it’s fascinating how both you and His Grace forego first pleasantries in favor of unabashed authenticity, almost as though you were kindred spirits.” I surmise he’s referring to the spectacle that was our first dance. Though his words pose as a compliment, I’m not certain that they hail from a place of admiration.
“Yes, well I merely followed His Grace’s lead,” I reply, not too keen on agreeing with him any further.
“But it’s more than that, My Lady,” he prods, with an implied guilt, “You two seem very close, which is so very rare for a couple this early on in their relationship.” Ah, yes, perhaps when the young duke so graciously held me in display of my migraine.
“Well, My Lord, it’s as you previously said,” I insist, averting my gaze in search of His Grace, “Perhaps we are but kindred spirits.” My indifference seems to trigger him, noting the slightest narrowing of his eyes.
“But of course, such bliss often comes at a cost, right?” His sudden change of tone taunts me, beckoning my attention. With pursed lips, I turn to address him.
“I will ask that you refrain from further eluding your purpose,” I say with sharp poise.
“My Lady, I would never dare insist on wasting your time,” he assures, having already wasted much of my patience. “In truth, I merely know all too well, the reality behind the farce of a marriage,” he says wistfully, as though the notion weighs heavily on him. I narrow my eyes at him, unconvinced of his proposed empathy. “Allow me to elaborate,” he offers, attempting to subdue my doubt. “Being a man, myself, I often struggle to see past a lord’s practiced decorum to bear witness to their…” he tilts his head, considering his next words, “…less refined dispositions.” I glare at him in contempt; however, in spite of this, he continues. “Often concealed within the confines of their private lives, their wives are unfortunately the only ones who ever see this side of their husbands,” he says, especially nonchalantly.
“And yet, you seemed very informed about the matter,” I scoff, not taking kindly to his berating.
“Only because of my wife, who confided in me the woes of other women,” he’s quick to assert.
“Well,” I affirm pompously, “Though it’s awfully considerate of you to take an interest in my affairs, I can assure you your concerns are misplaced.” Although I couldn’t deny the reality for some women within the aristocracy, any lady would be foolish to consult his aid.
“And how grateful I am to hear that,” he insists with a lingering stare, not at all intending to sound pleased at the state of my engagement. “Well, I’m certain you will enjoy the rest of tonight's festivities,” he adds, seemingly concluding our conversation. He then tears his gaze away from me and I take the liberty to assume he has ultimately relented. As my guard begins to settle, however, I notice the sudden halt in his steps. His hesitance forebodes a final hurrah, consequently displacing whatever relief I felt. “But before I leave you,” he starts, flicking his head in my direction, “have you ever had the pleasure to accompany His Grace to the courtyard?” His question strikes a chord with me, flooding my memory with visions of my past indiscretion.
I try to remain composed in my thoughts, assuring myself that such panic is excessive. To his knowledge, His Grace and I are a seemingly happy couple. I merely have to remind myself of that.
“No,” I reply haughtily, “In truth, I have yet to go there, myself.” He tilts his head at me in taunt, furrowing his brows.
“Really?” he prods, as though that wasn’t the answer he had been preying on. “You know, I recently visited the area. It’s a very quaint place.” “Especially beautiful at night,” he adds, the dip in his tone building on my terror. My apprehension prompts me to relive our moments in the courtyard, beckoning the memory of His Grace peering past me. He was seemingly focused on some matter beyond the hedges, but I struggle to recall what it was exactly. To my disappointment, all that comes to mind was how hellbent I was on escaping his clutches. Having neglected to consider its worth beyond that of a distraction, I’m uncertain. I surmise he was looking at something…but perhaps it was someone.
My silence seemingly humors His Lordship as a smile creeps over his lips, not intent on waiting for a response. Bringing a hand over his arm, he continues. “It’s quite a shame, though; while I was residing in the courtyard…” his voice trails off as he begins massaging his wrist, seemingly injured. “It’s the oddest thing, I must’ve pulled my wrist,” he says, happily piercing my gaze.
My resolve trembles under the harsh weight of his remark, a frightful depiction of His Grace’s hand around my wrist. He must’ve seen us. He could’ve likely been alerted by my shriek. Unless…he was already following me. My heart shudders at the possibility he had heard my speech prior, intending to use my words against me. How much did he hear? Could this be why he’s remained so nonchalant in my ranking… this being the leverage fueling his presumptuous demeanor?
In the wake of His Lord’s remark, I’m forced to reassess the true nature of the man standing before me. I’m certain now he had sought me out, likely having waited for a moment in which I was alone. Could he have been stalking me? I can feel my nerves attempting to overwhelm me, giving way to quick breaths.
“Avalor?” I whip my head behind me to see Nikkolas standing amidst the crowd of nobles, holding our drinks. He narrows his eyes at Vincent and he begins his stride towards me.
“Nikkolas,” I sigh and for once, I’m relieved to see him. I find myself rushing to be at his side when a dark presence over my shoulder reveals to me his temporary farewell.
“I look forward to more of our conversations, Lady Avalor,” he whispers, revealing to me his temporary farewell. I glance back at the callous voice, only to watch as His Lordship strolls into the crowd. Inconspicuous among those in attendance, he takes with him the truth of my engagement, leaving me visibly shaken by his threat.
“Avalor, you seem troubled,” Nikkolas consoles, motioning to hand me my drink. I take the glass, pinching its stem. The bubbly liquor stares back at me, prefacing its lack of permanence before I decidedly down it. He affectionately glides his hand over my upper arm, curiously tilting his head at my abrupt craving for the alcohol. “Did something happen?” he asks tenderly, still caressing my arm. Peering over at his touch, I pause.
“You know, Nikkolas,” I interject as a weak smile takes form across my face, “I wouldn’t mind sharing this next dance with you.”
“Are you certain, Avalor?” he questions, motioning to set down our drinks.
“Of course,” I insist, clasping my hand in his.
“Alright,” he replies, setting his hand along my waist, “It’d bring me no greater joy than to share this dance with you.” In our waltz, I allow myself to take comfort in the warmth of his hand at my side.
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