Sometime before Wintersday…
The last of the red wine swirling about in his glass seems to be a familiar color. His wrist swings back and forth and the deep crimson catches the candlelight from overhead. He has never been so interested in the hue of his wine before, almost entranced, trying to place the visual that continues to flicker across his mind.
A curl of hair splayed across a sheet before him, with the moonlight too dark to show its true shade. The shadows crowding across the strands, so the lock appears as a thin trail of spilled wine.
The glass is set down next to his cleaned plate and he lifts his attention to the woman sat at the far end of the table. Thankfully, there is no one else present in the room to hear her petty speeches, no one sat between them. Rue is gone to dinner with her family, and Lemon, he had made sure had very little contact with Lady Victoria. She was dismissed from all dinners his mother bothered to attend. They would not see the low-cut dress, wildly inappropriate for a woman with two children grown up and a husband confined to a moving chair. No one would see the elaborate style of her hair, pinned and piled atop her head, threaded through with glittering crystals.
Lady Victoria looks barely older than her son.
“… thought perhaps the Count might still be unattached, but it appears he has run off with two or three nobodies. So, I don’t know what I’ll do when your father dies.”
It is quite strange, how immune he has become to his mother’s jabs. Almost apathetic to the thought of his father’s death where a few years ago when he suffered the collapse there was the weight of fear. Lady Victoria only speaks to try and draw a reaction, he knows this.
“The Reach has not thrilled me particularly during my stay. All of my old friends are more interested in catching husbands for their daughters, not for themselves.”
“Perhaps Ebonhawke suits you better.”
Their eyes meet across the long stretch of table between them. The dark blue he got from her seems lighter against the sapphire fabric swathed across her breast. Her mouth is curved and although there are similarities in their appearance he does not reflect the smirk.
“Perhaps,” is thrown away and she leans back in her chair. He can still see the amusement plain in her features, even sat so far away. A tightness begins to grow at the base of his throat.
“Many of my friends’ daughters have wealth ready to drop into their laps.”
“I’ve only heard a few things here and there about the slip of a thing you keep to warm your bed. It really isn’t in your blood to settle for something beneath you and what’s she to bring to the family?”
There is a crack of something, a silent thrill that rises through the air about the dining hall. Perhaps it is the challenge in his mother’s eye, the loose smirk she wears, or the tightness ascending to his jaw, but he sits forward in his seat. The Lady Victoria does not move.
“I’ve considered that,” he grinds out.
“Have you? And what is it? Money? A legacy? I’ve heard of a Countess in the family, but it is not as if she has a title of her own to share, is there? Why didn’t you go after the head of the family?”
“She is with someone else.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
His nails bite into his palm at the cavalier tone his mother uses, and his own stupidity at letting his fury get the better of him. He did not have to reply, but he did. He did not need to fall into the trap so graciously laid out before him, but he did. He feels his jaw tick.
“I think you will find that Lady Rue may be quite an improvement to the family,” he says, trying to give his voice a tone of finality. It only works to have his mother lift her brows.
Startling silence descends upon them and he can only shift in his chair, leaning forward to pick up his glass again.
Lady Victoria speaks, something dangerous lurking about the edges of her voice, “I shall forget the injury to myself, your sister, your father, your poor brother. How you think we may be improved by a frightened nobody, I have no idea. But it is very clear she has filled your head with such notions.”
“Oh, my darling, perhaps not to your knowing. She only need smile sweetly and you would have given her everything. Why, doesn’t she already have private rooms in this house for her own particular use? She has much to gain from this marriage; her own home, a husband to do her bidding, the Larkspur name – and I have seen that uniform of hers, perhaps it is all for the Crown? Who knows? Oh, Mercutio, you look so much like your father at the moment.”
He is grinding his teeth together, his brows tightly knit as he stares his mother down.
“I th—” Something catches in his throat and he’s forced to clear it. Forced to see the pride that flickers across Lady Victoria’s face as he does so. “I think it is time you leave Roumare.”
She does not look shocked.
“I thought the same. I do so want to be back in Ebonhawke to give your father his presents.”
Her chair scrapes back before he can even consider leaving the room. She takes her time in wandering up the length of the table, in laying a delicate hand upon his shoulder. Then she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek, far too close to his mouth. It comes along with a wash of strong perfume, too sweet and tart. He feels her fingers brush along his tense jawline, almost motherly.
“Goodnight, darling. Do wish me farewell in the morning.”
And her personal maid seems to materialize from nowhere. The old gruff woman gives him a terrible glare as she follows her mistress out into the hall.
He lets out the breath of air beginning to sting his lungs.
