His hair is now long enough to brush along his well-defined jawline. The urge to lean forward and tuck it behind his ear is strong. Is his hair as soft as it looks? Did I run my hands through it last night?
He continues to ignore me. I pick up my coffee and take a sip. Pale winter sunlight is streaming through the windows. It’s far warmer than Lucien Mallory is. Cold. Aloof. Looking down his nose at everyone. I’ve always known he doesn’t think I’m a good enough match for him, but now the deed is done, surely he can make his peace with it? Or is he going to sulk at me for the rest of our lives?
The silence stretches. I sigh. Sulking it is. Old-fashioned fools say a vessel should not speak unless spoken to, but not even Lucien Mallory is that traditional. And he greeted me first. Though he would likely claim that was some exception to the stupid rules.
“Lucien Mallory, are you going to give me the silent treatment for the next sixty years?” I ask.
His entire body tenses. The knife pauses half-way across the bread.
“Lucien Colville, Count Consort Felford,” he says softly.
Fuck. So he is. He is my consort. My vessel. He bears my name now, however strange it sounds.
Even so, being corrected at my own breakfast table is a piss take. My coffee cup hits the saucer a little too forcefully.
Lucien flinches. “My apologies, my lord husband.”
A growl escapes me. Is this how it is going to be? Snide comments quickly followed by sincere seeming apologies? I fucking hate bitchy, passive aggressive shit like that. My mother has it down to a fine art. I’ve been subjected to it more than enough for one lifetime.
“Knock it off!” I snap.
He goes ramrod straight. “Of course, my lord husband. I’m sorry.” A quick flash of wide green eyes and then he is looking down again.
I frown. He looks awfully pale.
“It’s fine,” I mutter and I pick up my coffee cup.
Lucien nods and reaches for the marmalade. His movements are stiff. The faintest of winces flashes over his pretty face.
Shit. He would have been technically a virgin until last night. Fooling around with whatever lovers he has had, is not quite the same. I don’t even know if he has taken anything up the ass before. Apart from the True Phallus. The rules of what is and what is not allowed for unmarried vessels are a confusing, contradictory mess, in my opinion.
“Are you…um well?” I ask. “Down there?” I add while nodding towards his general groin area.
He flushes a beautiful shade of pink. “Yes, thank you, my lord husband.”
“For gods’ sake, my name is Drew!”
“Yes, Drew,” he nods nearly frantically.
I sigh heavily and dollop some yogurt into my bowl. I’m not a complete bastard. Not even when high on whatever blasted herbs they put in Husband’s Tea. I would have been gentle and taken my time. And vessels these days are pretty much virgins in name only, I’m sure of it. Lucien is fine. He is a snide and conniving snake, definitely not an innocent, wilting wallflower. I don’t know what I was thinking. There is no need to be concerned for him.
He finishes his single piece of toast, and then just sits there. Arms neatly folded in his lap. Looking down, and not at me. Waiting for something.
“What?” I bite through gritted teeth.
“Forgive me, my…Drew. Is the formal tour of the house and meeting the staff scheduled for later today?”
Oh that. I bite back my groan. I don’t want Mr. perfect here to know I completely forgot about a very pertinent part of this whole fucking wedding package of formalities and traditions.
It is times like these I’d give anything to be a mundane. Imagine being free to marry someone you love? And then just lounge around on your honeymoon, basking in each other’s company. Feeding each other cake, or whatever the hell you fancy. No rules. No expectations. Just happiness.
It’s twenty-twenty-four, for flips sake. The twenty-first century. A marriage of choice shouldn’t be so far out of my reach. Yet here I am. Shackled to Lucien Mallory, due to duty, expectation, and my cowardice of saying no. Lucien fucking Mallory, the bastion and poster boy for everything I despise about society.
Lucien Colville, my mind quietly corrects, and fuck does that sour my mood even more.
“Let’s get on with it then,” I say as I get to my feet and stride away.
Lucien scurries after me. He hovers just over my shoulder as I walk down the hallway. Keeping a few steps behind me. It is like having a snake at my back and it is making my skin prickle.
“Goddammit, Lucien! We are married now and in the privacy of our own home. There is no army of chaperones to report on you and absolutely nobody to impress with how perfect you are!”
“Sorry, my…Drew,” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“Just walk beside me like a normal person!”
He hurries up to me. “It’s not proper,” he all but whispers.
His voice sounds strained. Panicked even. Almost overwhelmed. Something about it almost tugs on my heartstrings. My friend Henry says he loves the rules of our society. They give him an anchor, something to follow. He claims he’d be adrift without them. Lost.
I look over at Lucien’s beautiful profile. He doesn’t meet my gaze. He pretends I’m not here and walks along with his unnerving grace.
I don’t think he needs rules. He likes them. They give him an excuse to be aloof and show his disdain.
“For fuck’s sake!” I snap. “A few months ago, you met with me in the middle of the night in your gatehouse. That wasn’t very proper.”
A flash of outraged green eyes, and then he is looking away again. Surely it is a good thing to remember that we are not complete strangers?
“Nothing happened!” he protests. “Don’t make it sound salacious. You just wanted help with your ridiculous plan!”
