| By: Gabriel and Miriam Cole |
Celeste froze on the third stair from the bottom, eliciting a squawk of disgust from Lilac, her
only younger sister. There was a rash of giggles from her cousins and friends as the girl stumbled
over the hem of her long gown in an effort to avoid colliding with her sister’s back. Celeste
ignored her; she was staring in abject shock at the man in the foyer below with whom her father
was shaking hands. She had only just seen him several candlepieces earlier, and he had been
engaged in a spirited wrestling match with a friend.
Now, though, Blair du’Winter was the picture of Lordly elegance. His straightened hair was
braided and tied back from his face in a style that was equal parts daring and conservative. His
clothing was perfect as well; a vest of green velvet over a ruffled shirt of black silk. His trousers
matched the shirt, but looked to be made of fine cotton, cut in a very youthful, brash style and his
legs were encased to the knee in gleaming sable riding boots. There wasn’t so much as a speck
of lint marring his appearance; Celeste felt a very brief flash of envy at the seeming effortlessness
of his form, but she quashed it as quickly as it had come. He was smiling, but his eyes remained
wolfish and mysterious and Celeste suddenly had an overwhelming urge to make him notice her.
She swept down the last three stairs with the same abruptness with which she’d stopped.
“What a pleasure to see you here, your young Excellency!” her father, Lord Roger was
announcing in his gruff, booming voice as she glide up to them. “I had thought your response to
the invitation made it quite clear that you would not be attending?”
“Let us just say,” Blair said softly, “That something of yours changed my mind.”
His eyes turned on Celeste and she felt a hot blush start at the roots of her hair and slide all
the way down her face, her neck and into her bodice. She had approached her father full of brash
feminine confidence, and was half dismayed, half delighted to find herself suddenly speechless
and looking away. It was obvious to her now that though his glance had been of the most fleeting
kind, he had noticed her as well earlier. The thought of it threatened to send her running from the
room in tears of blissful embarrassment.
“Aahh!” Lord Roger exclaimed gleefully, apparently noticing where Blair’s attention had gone,
and the reaction the younger Duke’s gaze had elicited. “You like this one, no? This is my
Celeste! My jewel! Celeste, this is Lord Blair du’Winter, Duke of Morestei.”
“I know,” she blurted. Immediately, she regretted her haste; the ever-so-slight raise in Blair’s
right eyebrow was enough to quite disarm her again, and she stammered, “Ah, that is to-to say we’
ve never met, but I-I saw him, just today-um, earlier, I mean, he was wrestling by the roadside when
I passed him in the coach while I was out with friends and sissy and my cousins.”
“Celeste,” her father offered jovially though with some concern in his eyes, “It is okay to
breathe during speaking. In fact I heartily recommend it.”
Her blush deepened and she looked away again, unable to meet either man’s equally amused
stare. “However, we were discussing business, when last we corresponded, no?” her father
directed to Blair after a moment. “The brandy, she calls to you!”
“Indeed,” the young Duke answered in a hauntingly pleasant tenor. “I have other interests, of
course, but the ruination of my father’s fortunes can best be repaired by investment in Durskan
brandy.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lord Roger responded earnestly. “But while we are at it, perhaps we
should also discuss how my Celeste can become your Celeste, eh?”
“A line of negotiation that suits me,” Blair replied, inclining his head ever so slightly. She
caught him looking at her and smiled down at her toes. She was perhaps not representing herself
very well and her mothers would be cross with her, but at the moment the delightful stirrings in her
lower middle lulled her into a dreamy bashfulness. They walked away, the two men heading in the
direction of her father’s large, airy study, and Celeste bit her lip and fought down the urge to stop
her foot in frustration. That had not gone at all the way she wanted.
“He’s very striking that one,” a smooth, sensual voice said from behind her shoulder. “Who is
he?”
Celeste turned to see her next-eldest sister watching her father and the young Duke
circumnavigate the crowd that was growing in the foyer.
“Blair du’Winter,” Celeste told her. “Duke of Morestei.”
“My, my,” her sister purred affectionately. “It looks like you may have caught his eye, little
Celeste.”
“I did catch his eye, Khiara,” Celeste told her. The grin that had been welling up suddenly split
her features and she laughed in spite of herself. “Father just asked him if he wanted to know how I
could be his.”
Khiara’s full lips turned up into their characteristic half-smile and replied, “And how did he reply
to that?”
Celeste thought for a moment, then answered, “Favorably.”
“Good for you, girl,” her sister replied with a bouncing squeeze of her younger siblings bare
shoulders. “When they come back for dinner and the dance, your make sure you let him know just
how grateful you are that he is entertaining the idea of possessing you. A Baron’s daughter can
never hope to marry so well.”
“Who said anything about marrying?”
This had come from Lilac, and the jealousy was plain on the younger girl’s face. “Celeste just
said he replied favorably to father inquiring whether or not Lord Blair wanted her. He could just as
easily be intending to send her with him for the night to seal a business arrangement.”
Khiara pursed her lips and looked at Lilac for a long moment before answering, “You are an
envious little twit who should learn some manners. Come, Celeste,” she beckoned, gliding toward
the open front doors and their four mothers. “We have guests to greet.”
The next candlepiece passed in a blur of faces, greetings, exclamations of joy over dresses
and jewelry purchased especial for the occasion. All of the glittering opulence was a pleasant
distraction, but when the word was passed for dinner and the guests began to filter into the
Moulinnay ballroom her thoughts turned back to Blair and her father. Neither man was to be seen,
but Celeste was gratefully encouraged to be seated next to an empty chair at the head of the table,
rather than between Lilac and Khiara, as was her wont. However, the aperitif came and went, as
did the first course. The second was served, and the sommeliers were pouring the third wine of
the evening, a beautiful blush, when Blair abruptly appeared at her elbow, ghostlike in his silent
approach.
“My apologies,” he murmured, touching her elbow ever so lightly. “Your father and I became
quite lost in our discussions.” His frost-colored eyes on her face were so penetrating that she
found herself immobile, much like a doe cornered by a ravenous wolf.
Which is what you are, isn’t it Celeste? a distant part of her mind queried. Prey for this young
wolf to take and do with as he pleases.
“Yes!” she blurted, giving herself a startled shake. “T-that is to say, er, I—um—trust that your
discussions went well?”
Blair merely twitched his lips into that almost imperceptible smile, but he said nothing more
about it. She forced herself to meet his rather intense gaze as he continued to study her face.
Her stomach made a funny sort of flop that made her both breathless and giddy at the same time,
and in spite of trying her hardest to keep under control, she felt the blush staining her cheeks again,
accompanied by a not-so-uncomfortable prickle at the base of her neck.
The moment was broken by one of the waiters slipping their plates deftly in front of them.
Blair made no visible notice of the man, but his hand shot out to cover his glass with long, slender
fingers when the sommelier approached and tried to fill it with light, fruity wine.
“None of that for me,” he maintained with soft authority, though his gaze never wavered from
hers. “Rot your guts, that stuff will—too much sugar. Brandy. Moulinnay—from the year she was
born.”
He made a slight nod toward Celeste, but the man must have known what he meant, for he
had already answered, “Of course, My Lord. Moulinnay la prima stampa sceglie il barile, year
2228.”
Celeste couldn’t help a giggle behind her hand at his subtle flattery. The servant reappeared
almost immediately with a proper tumbler and a dusty bottle. The sharp, sweet smell of fine
brandy erupted from the container the moment the man uncorked it; mesmerized—and unable to
continue staring at Blair—Celeste watched the burnt amber liquid swirl cyclonically in the decorative
crystal glass.
“Leave the bottle,” Blair ordered softly as the man stepped back. Dutifully, the servant wiped
the flagon free of dust with a small, amber towel and placed it just out of the way to Blair’s right.
“Um, the fish is very good,” Celeste said quietly, glancing sidelong at him from beneath her
lashes to see if he was still staring at her. As it happened, he was not; instead, he was intently
examining the contents of his glass. Held just so against the lamplight, and the tumbler seemed to
be full of flames rather than liquor. After his moment of consideration, he took a sip and
commented, “All around it was a very good year.”
He said nothing further as he leaned surprisingly low over his plate and began eating the
delicately poached fish that had been brought with an equally surprising gusto. Celeste became
distracted by the conversation of the woman seated on her other side and hardly noticed when the
fish was taken away and replaced by the main course; hearty stuffed pasta shells covered in a
cheese and sausage alfredo and dressed with sprigs of fresh parsley.
She had eaten about half of it when a light brush across the back of her hand startled her
somewhat and she turned back Blair’s way. Her father was laughing heartily, and she just caught
the young Duke muse, “The food is really quite good.” They had their heads together again; Blair
had obviously brushed against her when he turned to face Lord Roger. Their conversation was so
low she couldn’t quite make out what was being discussed but when she leaned closer she was
met by the fragrance of Blair’s cologne. He smelled very pleasantly of spices reminiscent of
sandalwood, and something unnamed and masculine that made her innards come unglued all over
again. Dreamily, she leaned nearer still, and promptly embarrassed herself by putting her hand in
her own plate of warm, gooey pasta.
“Blast!” she hissed, while her birth mother, sitting opposite her, gave her a very hard look and
scolded, “Celeste Moulinnay, you are a girl Cusped; try and act your age!”
“Sorry, Mamma,” Celeste murmured in a hangdog tone of voice, hoping her falcon-eyed
suitor had not noticed. She wiped her hand on her napkin, and looked up to see Blair staring at her
again. Startled and dismayed, she nearly upset his glass; he scooped it out of her way and
drained it in a single fluid motion. She couldn’t escape the force of his gaze and for a moment that
seemed frozen, they stared at one another. Lazily, Blair held out the captured glass to the servant
who had appeared to whisk their plates away; and the man dutifully refilled it.
“Those are some of the most engaging moon-eyes I’ve seen in years,” Celeste’s oldest
mother said warmly, leaning across the table toward them. “And how are you, Lord du’Winter? I
daresay I did not get a chance to welcome you to our home when you arrived.”
Blair’s focus slowly shifted and he smiled across the table at her and offered a polite, though
rather stiff nod. “I attended to Lord Roger upon arriving; I fear I did not make the proper
greetings. I am well, thank you,” he replied in earnest tones. “I find that I am,” he glanced
sideways at Celeste and then continued, “Rather more distracted than I had expected to be.”
Celeste’s four mothers emitted a chorus of chuckles. “Our Celeste is our gem,” the second
oldest told him, turning her blueberry colored eyes upon the girl at Blair’s side. “She’ll be a good
Voya to you, if she’s to be, ah, your permanent distraction?”
“Really, mamma,” Celeste scolded, feeling beads of sweat form at the base of her throat as
she tried to glare across the table at her grinning elder, “Try to sound more desperate.”
Lord Du’Winter said nothing; he merely raised his glass to the women across from them and
drained it in salute. Turning, he took the fingers of Celeste’s right hand in his own left and leaned
close to her. For a moment more he did not speak; but his face was close to her neck almost as if
he were drawing in her scent.
“Speaking of such,” he murmured finally, his breath against her neck offering to turn her
perspiration into gooseflesh. “May I offer my little distraction a dance?”
Beaming, Celeste placed her own lips next to his ear and answered, “Only if she may accept.”
Blair actually offered her a small smile and deftly if not abruptly guided her to her feet. The
floor of the ballroom had been kept clear during the meal, and couples were already making their
way onto the polished marble surface. Those dancing moved aside for the Duke and his young
partner. With a flourish befitting of the Royal Court, Blair du’Winter bowed to her. Celeste was
taken with his elegant poise, but she did not falter as she dipped the most formal of curtseys in
response. He held out his hand again and she reclaimed it, though she noticed that he used his left
again. She was unable to help raising her eyebrows as he drew her close against him.
“You dance then?” he queried in her ear. She realized with some surprise that he was only
marginally taller than she; the way he moved and carried himself made him seem much larger.
“None better,” she purred back with her usual brassy flair. “I dance so well that I was invited
to perform for the King this past Yule.”
“Hmm,” Blair replied. The song was a familiar one; a very traditional Durskan tune and he
glided through the steps with an ease that the onlookers obviously envied. Celeste’s smile
broadened; she followed his lead perfectly but could not help squealing with delight when he
suddenly lifted her above his head and then dipped her so low that her elaborately curled locks
brushed the marble.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he told her matter-of-factly as he
gathered her close again. “You are the reason I came to your mother’s ball this evening; I am not
usually so—social.”
“You flatter me,” Celeste told him, blushing again and having to bend back at the waist as his
arm squeezed around her tighter.
“No,” he returned immediately in the same kind of frank response. He took her chin lightly in
his long fingers and forced her to look back at him. “I tell you the truth. I am serious when I say
these things.”
And she could see that he was. Unexpectedly, she found herself to be speechless and caught
in the deep icy pools of his eyes; she swallowed hard and after a moment managed, “Well, all truth
told, I am quite taken with you as well, my Lord. I hope you do not think me forward for saying so.”
“How very forward,” he said immediately, but the twitch at the right corner of his lips gave him
away. Her blush deepened and she cursed her own skin for consistently betraying her every effort
at self-control. She gasped as he spun her, but her feet were far too nimble to falter and she was
brought back against him so firmly that she could feel the lithe muscle beneath the silk of his shirt.
The funny, fluttery feeling low in her middle rapidly became an impassioned flame and she leaned
up toward his lips. He dodged her as deftly as he danced, leaning away at the last moment the
place his own mouth against the lobe of her ear.
“Plenty of time for that later, my gem,” he told her, though he pressed his nose to her neck
and inhaled deeply. “We must maintain a certain level of propriety, after all.”
“Why?” she pleaded, but his seductively low chuckle placated her.
“No need for such haste,” he murmured against her skin as it broke into thousands of goose
bumps. “There will be plenty of time.”
The tempo of the dancing had changed—in fact the song had changed, and Celeste frowned to
herself and wondered when that had happened. But the music—much like everything other than
Lord du’Winter—was of a very secondary concern this evening.
Blair knew the steps to the slow dances quite as well as he did the more energetic ones; three
more songs passed with her gliding about the floor, sealed to his body; their feet were never
uncertain nor hesitant nor ungainly. In spite of the length of their dance, Blair had said nothing
more to her; he seemed content with her presence and the movement. Occasionally, Celeste
caught the envious look of another of the noblewomen present at her mother’s fete; she kept her
face smooth and poised, but an impulsive and admittedly very girlish part of her wanted to stick out
her tongue or make faces at them.
Finally, though, one of them became bold enough to approach. Celeste felt the light touch on her
shoulder at the end of the third slow song; she turned and experienced a wholly irrational flare of
irritation when she saw that it was her own younger sister Lilac who had interrupted them. She was
about to tell the sniveling little twit where to go and sit, but she caught sight of her father and two of
her mothers watching them.
“If I may, Lord Blair?” Lilac asked in a dripping tone of simpering aspiration, dipping a curtsy
nearly as perfect as Celeste’s had been.
“Of course,” the young Duke replied slowly, though his eyes and voice had become quite
disengaged. He made an elegant, oddly formal bow and accepted Lilac’s proffered fingers in his
left hand. They danced slowly away as the music resumed leaving Celeste flushed and fuming at
the edge of the floor. She felt her jaw set firmly as her sister nattered away at Blair; though she
took some measure of comfort from the Lord’s very obvious annoyance with her. He was not by
any means holding her with the same possessiveness with which he had enveloped Celeste; in
fact, he looked as put out as she felt. Lilac seemed unperturbed—the little mierda was even so
saucy as to reach up and toy her fingers about his onyx braids as they danced. At the same time
Celeste couldn’t help but note that again his behavior and mannerisms were a tad bit
unconventional. Durskan men were well acquainted with the custom of taking more than one wife,
and as a Duke, Blair should expect to take at least three. Celeste knew this and as long as she won
the title of Prima Voya, she actually welcomed it. However, her sister Lilac would not be a
candidate she would even consider for him if she was to hold that position in his life; and since the
decision of subsequent marriage partners were for the most part up to the Prima Voya, she felt
herself relaxing a bit. Besides, multiple wives aside, the fact that Blair was apparently wholly
unreceptive to her sister’s amorous advances where most men would bask in the feminine glow of
attention seemed to suit her just fine this night.
Celeste was just getting ready to cross the room and reclaim her partner when Khiara deftly
slipped between Blair and Lilac and forced the younger girl away.
“He’s a dreamy dancer, isn’t he?” her younger sister asked as Celeste approached, the girls
cobalt eyes dancing as she mimicked having her arms about the young Duke. “He smells nice,
too. Not like some of these other sweaty brutes.”
“I’m surprised you could smell anything,” Celeste told her through a thin lipped glare. “Poca
Mierda.”
Lilac’s eyes widened and her cheeks reddened in outrage. “How dare you! You act like he’s
already your Marito! You’ll be lucky if he even courts you, a Baron’s daughter!”
“He has already told me that I am the reason he came here tonight in the first place.”
“A man that silver-tongued would tell you he lived in a castle among the clouds with stars for a
personal staff if he thought you would swallow it. You probably would too, knowing you sister,”
Lilac snorted, smoothing down the gossamer folds of her evening gown with dramatic
perfectionism. “Maybe he wants an energetic tumble—I’m sure you could get that right at least.”
“I am far and away a better dancer than you, Lilac Moulinnay,” Celeste nearly snarled. “You have
the grace of a swine.”
Lilac balled her fists and leaned close, “This from little miss pasta fingers, the resident trollop!”
At that moment Celeste truly intended to strike her, but Blair had abruptly appeared at her shoulder,
with Khiara trailing slightly behind.
“If you will excuse us,” he said to Lilac, and Celeste was pleasantly surprised as he draped his silk-
lined riding cloak about her shoulders and added, “I require your sister’s presence while I take
some air.”
Celeste glowed to the roots of her hair and immediately forgot her quarrel with her younger sibling.
“Oh, of—of course, Lord du’Winter,” she gushed, absently pulling the fragrantly male garment tight
about her as her sister’s eyes narrowed. She turned her sapphire eyes up at him and found his icy
gaze staring back. “I thought we could walk down to the edge of the vineyards and back,” he
continued as he led her toward the front doors. “And, call me Blair, if you please.”
“Certainly, my Lord,” she agreed hastily. “Oh! I mean, that is, Blair. Certainly, Blair.” She could
distinctly make out a loud clucking from Lilac as they neared the doors leading outside but she was
far too busy enjoying the feeling of him guiding her with a long-fingered hand against the small of
her back to concern herself with protocol. They stepped out into the cool, pleasant summer
evening air. All three moons were in the sky; their combined light cast the landscape in that
peculiar violet hue known as Moonglo. Blair enfolded her arm with his and set off down the lane at
a measured pace, but he kept his other hand at her waist and did not let her stray too far from his
hip.
“So you and my father have business?” She asked him as they walked into the sleepy twilight,
caressed by warm, inviting night breezes and serenaded by the gentle ebb and flow of insect
lullabies. “Brandy, am I right?”
“And why would you concern yourself with the business I have with your father?” he asked after a
moment, though his steps did not slow. “Surely it is of no concern to you?”
“It isn’t,” Celeste agreed amiably, though slightly caught of guard by his questions. “But I must
offend you with my curiosity—,”
“You already have, but please continue.”
“Wha—I—oh?” she fumbled at his unexpectedly blunt answer. “I—I mean, I just had a question, is
all.”
Blair offered her that barely perceptible smile and she realized that while he appeared to be teasing
her; there also seemed to be some genuine truth behind his rather cutting remark. She bit her lip
and lowered her eyes, unsure of how to continue. Certainly, she had been invited to dance for
Dursk’s newly chosen king the previous Yule, but she had never mixed with the loftiest of the nation’
s nobility. Blair was as far above her own rank as she was above a peasant. Still, though, she
couldn’t ignore the obvious attraction they had for one another; nor was she willing to ignore that
he had asked her to come on a walk with him.
“Actually,” she said, recovering after but a moment. She turned her face up at him and noted him
watching her. “I was just making talk in the dark when I asked you about your business with my
father. What concerns me most is your intentions toward, well, me.”
Blair’s brow furrowed slightly; a change which seemed magnified in the darkness. “I thought I had
made my intentions perfectly clear,” the Duke returned quietly, lacing his fingers with the fingers of
her hand he was cradling in the crook of his arm as if to accentuate his point.
“Well, you seem quite interested in me,” Celeste admitted quickly, blinking at him in the gloom. “I
was merely curious whether I was to be the cement for your business with my father or whether
you had more permanent plans for me.” She paused, then hastily added, “Either way, I’m
content—I—oh!”
The last came out as a startled squeak; Celeste had just noticed a shadowy figure trailing them
down the lane. Blair cast an irritated glance in the direction she was staring, then visibly relaxed,
his small smile returning as swiftly as it had gone.
“Nothing to fear,” he assured her with a slight hint of amusement in his reply. “That is just Pierre,
my—manservant.”
Celeste took in the other man’s appearance and frowned. He was surprisingly youthful—or rather
what she could see of him appeared to be—with a shock of curly black hair that blended into the
twilight. He was wearing a long sable duster with the collar buttoned up around the lower half of his
face, much in the manner of the Highwaymen in the storybooks she had read as a young girl.
Pierre’s eyes were steady on her face in a way she found far too frank for a manservant and she
forced herself to look back up at Blair.
“He looks a bit—unsavory—to be a manservant,” she confided uncomfortably, shuddering against
his side as she considered what an imposing figure he cut.
To her enormous surprise, this comment caused the Duke to throw back his head and bark a
startlingly loud laugh. “Unsavory?” he asked. “Do you hear that, Pierre?”
“My Lady has wounded me,” Pierre answered softly at their backs, his low, even voice sounding a
bit hollow in the deepening eve. “Please assure her that I am but a humble hairdresser.”
Blair shot his man a look, but with a cough, he regained his composure. “Don’t mind him,” he told
her. “He’s always about when I am, but he usually does a good job at remaining unobtrusive.”
“I see,” Celeste replied, giving one last wary look to the shadowy manservant. Blair must have
noticed, because he asked, “Do you not have a proper Lady’s Maid who attends you?”
“Oh! Well, yes. I do, as a matter of fact,” she responded, feeling her chest tighten slightly as a
small amount of embarrassment crept in. “I—I really hadn’t thought of it that way.” She tried to
recall whether Garibaldi went everywhere with her father, but Blair’s eyes were just so pale and
searching in the moonlight that she became somewhat lost in his gaze and quite forgot what it was
that she had been trying to remember.
“To answer your question, Celeste,” he said slowing, and she had to give herself a slight shake to
free the cobwebs from her mind. “I cement my business with a handshake and perhaps some
coin.”
With that he set off toward the vineyard again, leaving her to glow in the promise of his intimation.
She walked briskly alongside him, held close now by his strong right arm around her waist. He
seemed in equal parts eager and tense; Celeste smiled to herself. Many young lords visiting her
father had much the same attitudes when they arrived to see the place where Moulinnay Brandy
originated.
The lane leading to the vineyard was bordered on one side by Lord Roger’s horse pasture and the
other by the orchard where he grew the peaches and apples that would later be fermented with the
grapes to make different flavored brandies and wines. For Celeste the walk passed with dreamy
quickness—they had reached the vineyard gate and in the darkness she almost didn’t realize
where she was. Blair had stopped and was looking intently out over the shallow valley where grew
the grapes of the Moulinnay Winery and Distillery. Even now, Celeste’s eyes could catch the
steam rising from the stills on the distant hilltop opposite.
“These center acres,” she said quietly, pointing a finger back and forth. “One hundred twenty in all
are Durskan Dewdrop vines; the base of my father’s prized spirits.”
Blair cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. “You know something of brandy, then?”
“I should hope I do,” she giggled and then straightened importantly. “Being Lord Roger’s
daughter.” She then laid her head on his shoulder and pointed away to her left. “Over there in the
easternmost sixty acres are Red Regents, and to the far west are thirty acres of Black Norumund
and thirty acres of Lady Caterina’s Catawbs.” She turned to look back up at him as she finished,
unable to keep the proud beam from her countenance.
Blair was silently regarding her with a single eyebrow slightly elevated. Lightly, he raised her
fingers to his lips and pecked them, then stated, “You talk too much.”
She giggled again and daringly, though somewhat nervously, placed her forehead against his and
whispered, “Kissing me shuts me up.”
Blair kissed her.
With the fingers of his left hand gently cupping her chin and the strength of his right arm still about
her waist, he brought their lips together and Celeste nearly swooned from the electricity of it. His
lips were unexpectedly cool, and tasted ever so lightly of the brandy he’d finished the meal with,
but he had such an insistent, yet gentle passion that she melted against him and folded her own
arms around him so that she could capture his fine, thin, side braids in her fingers.
How long their affection went on, she could not say—it seemed at once too brief and yet
pleasantly languorous. When he at last separated from her, he stared for a long moment into her
eyes and remarked, “We should return; we wouldn’t want anyone to think I’ve absconded with you.”
Celeste blinked and promptly humiliated herself by saying, “There’s a hayloft nearby that you can
abscond me to.”
“Now, now,” Blair half scolded, half grinned, “That would hardly be gentlemanly. Or sanitary.”
Blushing but unapologetic, she allowed him to lead her back toward the house and the distant
strains of music still emanating from the open front door. Halfway there, Celeste put her own arm
around his waist and a moment later gave him a hearty pinch on his very well formed backside.
“Oohhh!” the young Duke abruptly yelped in a mockingly girlish fashion. “You brute!”
And with that he skittered off the road and into the trees, flapping the hem of his doublet as if it
were skirts and leaving Celeste to gape at him in shock.
She recovered in a heartbeat and, laughing incredulously, followed him into the low, leafy orchard.
He had ducked behind the notch of one of the older peach trees; she could just make out the top of
his head and his eyes peering at her from between the sloping v of an old peach tree.
“Stay back, brigand!” Blair warned her, his brow narrowing dramatically. “I’ll—I’ll scream if you
come closer!”
Giggling almost uncontrollably from both humor and residual astonishment, Celeste spread her
arms wide, holding the edges of his cloak up like wings. “Y-you can’t esc-cape m-me, my lovely!”
she stammered through a put on bandit voice and her own spastic chuckles. Blair darted deeper
into the orchard; hiding sloppily behind another tree. “I—I intend to ravish you!”
“Ho!” he gasped spectacularly, his head popping up from behind a thick, low-slung branch.
“Scandalous!”
She chased after him, faintly aware of Pierre’s haunting laughter, but no matter how close she got,
the young Duke always managed to evade her clutching fingers. He lead her zigging and zagging
through the trees, from peach row to apple and back again until she finally collapsed to her knees
in the cool damp grass at the edge of the lane, her arms about her middle while she laughed and
struggled to catch her breath.
“Oh, my, what a delightfully odd diversion!” she finally exclaimed. “Oh, I fear I’m all out of sorts!”
“Well, isn’t that what you wanted?” Blair asked, his voice schooled back into its seemingly
characteristic guilelessness as he stepped over and lifted her easily back to her feet. “To go back
looking flushed and disheveled?”
“I—,” Celeste protested, amazed that he appeared as smoothed as if the entire romp had never
happened. “That is—,” The whole act had caught her off guard with its charming strangeness and
she couldn’t keep the grin from lifting her full lips upward. “You are quite a character, Blair du’
Winter!”
“Oh my,” the Duke said with a stuffy dignity that superceded his years, “I do so hope that’s not
catching?”
Nonplussed, Celeste laughed merrily again and looped her arm through his. She suppressed a
flash of irritation as she watched Blair’s man Pierre loop slowly around behind them; crunching
down a somewhat unripe peach from one of her father’s trees. Forcing unconcern for the rude
servant, she again returned her attention to the young Duke. Blair might be odd, but he was unique
in an attractive, very refreshing way. He was so very different from other young noblemen she
knew that she found herself to be irresistibly drawn to him in spite of having only just met. Some
pre-formed bit of womanly conscience warned her not to fall too hard, but she blithely crushed it
and gave no more thought to rejection. Instead, she allowed her curiosities to re-emerge; having
heard the awful rumors from her friends, cousins, and sisters, she thought it best to ask him a
much more neutral question.
“How is your father? I had heard he was living in Khathia these past years.”
“Ah, he is deceased, I am afraid,” Blair told her plainly. “That is how I came to be Duke of
Morestei.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Celeste mumbled, her face pinched now with mortification, “How very stupid
of me to ask.”
“Not really,” he replied in the same bland tone, “It is quite unusual for a man’s youngest son to
inherit his lands, title, and fortunes. Such happenstance throws everyone off a bit.”
“That’s right,” Celeste recovered with an almost overdone straightening of her person. “I
remember someone saying something about your eldest brother. Is he alive?”
“As far as I know,” Blair answered with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “He left when I was a
very young boy and I fear we don’t have occasion to speak much these days. He lives in Arinon.
A very successful man, truly self-elevated; unmarried. Our letters, when we have them, remain
cordial.”
“And you have another brother as well, don’t—,”
“Let’s not.”
“Ah—quite right, then,” Celeste stammered carefully. She walked on in silence for a moment
more, before thinking of the safest of all possible questions. “So where do you live?”
“Morestei Manor,” Blair answered her with a tone of pseudo-tranquility. “It isn’t far; perhaps an
hour north, just outside the Caer. It’s on a good piece of land, though the gardens are in need of a
woman’s touch. My mother was not particularly fond of the outdoors so the grounds have been
somewhat neglected since my father and his other two wives went to stay in Khathia some years
ago.” He paused a moment, then went on, “It’s a large house, with a library, solarium, two parlors,
a score of bedrooms. Too much, really, for a bachelor.”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced over at him. He was not looking at her; instead his eyes were
fixed on some point far away, as if gazing at something only he could see. His past, perhaps?
Celeste wondered. Their feet crunched along the gravel road slowly and she was about to make
another query when he continued, “The staff are quite diligent and integral to the household. They
have kept the place up for me since my mother was killed.”
There was something in his tone when he said the last bit that made Celeste’s hair stand on end.
She remembered the rumors of Hellysa Touravarin’s death; that her young son had killed her and
hidden the body. But such was gossip; she had honestly never thought to be walking and fooling
about on a summer’s eve with the subject of such dark stories. Blair was unconventional and
mysterious to be certain, and while he seemed possessed of the capability to do murder, Celeste
just couldn’t reconcile that idea with the man in her company. Surely, his air of menace came from
his wealth and power; he was, after all, her own father’s direct liege.
No, if such a dark deed had been done, it would likely have been that Pierre fellow. Celeste cast a
somewhat timid glance over her shoulder at the man walking four paces behind them. He offered
her a very respectful nod when he caught her looking; somehow that helped put her at ease. She
wasn’t quite certain what she had been expecting. The flash of a dagger in the dark, her thoughts
supplied, Or perhaps a menacing leer?
Your brain is full of silliness and cotton! Her own mental voice abruptly became her mother’s
scold. Your father would not have sent you on a walk with a pair of killers. Stop being a ninny.
They were approaching the dooryard, and she did not want Blair to mistake her silence for
recalcitrance. “Come inside, Blair,” she urged, taking hold of his hands. “They’ll be serving the
desserts!”
“I do not partake of sweets, as a rule,” he told her absently, though allowed himself to be led.
“Celeste, I think I shall take my leave soon. I will, however, come in and have another brief word
with your father.”
Crushed, but trying hard not to let it show, she gazed down at the hem of his doublet. A rush of
somewhat desperate wickedness overcame her and she gently pushed him back against a nearby
elm. Obviously taken by surprise, Blair allowed this; though his eyes had suddenly become wary.
“Well, if you are leaving,” Celeste quipped playfully, “Then I want to test the tree.”
She grabbed his crotch firmly and planted her best kiss on his cool, brandy-flavored lips. To her
delight, Blair made a soft grunt, then chuckled deeply against her mouth and wrapped his arms
tightly about her. Celeste had thought their kiss in the vineyard had been passionate; Blair seemed
to have a different definition of the word. When he finally released her she was tingling in the most
peculiar places and her knees felt as though they might give out. It was his turn to look devilish; he
returned his arm to its place at her waist and steered her toward the door.
“I’d best get you in, lest you wind up swooning in the dooryard.”
“Aye,” she managed, still euphoric. “Are you certain you cannot stay?”
“Quite,” he answered. “But as I said, I do need to speak with your father before I go.”
“Yes, of course,” Celeste returned promptly, though she knew she was not masking her
disappointment well.
“Mia bella,” Blair patronizingly made a moue and stroked her chin with his long fingers. “I will
return.”
They were met just inside the door by Gio, Celeste’s youngest sibling. He was Lord Roger’s
second son; the baby the rest of the family doted on even though he was just past his fifth birthday.
“Lord Snow!” he exclaimed, bowing elegantly. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
“It’s du’Winter,” Celeste corrected with more irritation than the boy deserved. “Gio, please don’t
be rude. Lord Blair needs to talk to papa.”
“Lord Papa is waiting for him over there,” Gio said, pointing toward the table where they had eaten
dinner. He turned back to Blair with innocent slate colored eyes. “So did you tumble my sister?”
“Gio!” Celeste exclaimed, mortified. Blair on the other hand seemed to find him fantastically
amusing; he laughed broadly and said, “Why do you ask, young Lord Moulinnay?”
“Cause,” Gio said, looking as though he found himself to be quite important. “I heard mamas
talkin’ about it and I figure she needs someone to pound the snot outta her.”
Blair laughed again, this time for a good deal longer, and although the sound of his laughter was
intoxicatingly pleasant, Celeste had lost all patience with her youngest brother. With an indignant
scowl, she shot forward to box the young boy’s ears soundly but just as quickly Blair caught her
slim arm and held her in place against his side.
“Is that so?” the young Duke asked, more animated than Celeste had yet seen him, wearing a
genuine, if slightly unnerving smile on his face. “What makes you say that?”
“Cause she talks too much,” Gio grumped, kicking at stray cobble with the toe of his shiny, albeit
already scuffed dress boot. “She’s always too busy talking to play with me.”
“She does talk too much, eh?” Blair asked Gio, giving the boy a gentle pinch on his cheek. “You
are very entertaining.” He turned to Celeste with that unsettling grin still plastered on his face.
“Charming little lad, your brother. Is he always so astute?”
“I wouldn’t know, Lord du’Winter,” she drew herself up and told him with all the dignity she could
muster. “I did not find him to be as astute as you did, apparently.”
Blair did not reply. Instead, he shared a small and knowing smile with Gio who hid a chuckle behind
his small hand. Celeste felt the urge to swat the boy return full force but at that moment her sisters
Khiara and Sophia swooped in and took her arms. “Excuse us, Lord du’Winter!” they chimed.
“We’ll return her to you in a moment!” He gave her a roguish wink and a mock salute as they
dragged her away.
“Well?” Khiara asked in a high, breathily excited voice when they had dragged her bodily to the
opposite side of the hall. “What is he like?”
“You were gone awhile,” Sophia said musingly. She batted her long eyelashes at Celeste and
simpered, “Did he take our little Celeste for a turn?”
“No, no,” Celeste told them, laughing. “He is unfortunately very proper—though,” she looked
guiltily between them, “I might have offered to let him.”
“You little tramp!” Sophia laughed. “Well, he is quite the attractive one, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Khiara agreed. “But what is he like, Celeste?”
“He’s charming,” Celeste admitted honestly. “A bit odd—unusual, I mean. We had a lovely walk
down to the vineyards, talked of grapes for a moment, and then we came back.”
“And there were no diversions along the way?” Sophia asked pointedly, arms crossing her chest.
“No romantic interludes?” She and Khiara giggled but a third voice chimed in with, “Maybe he just
doesn’t like you all that much.”
The three of them turned toward Lilac, who had come over from where the dance was still lingering.
“What are you slobbering about, little tart?” Sophia asked sufferingly. “He obviously likes Celeste
enough to have spent the entire evening with her alone.”
“Celeste shouldn’t even be spending so much time with him,” Lilac snipped, “Khiara is older and
so is Sophia. One of you should marry the Duke.”
“Oh, would you take your green envy and scoot!” Khiara scolded, waving her delicate hand in front
of Lilac in a dismissive gesture. “I am happy for Celeste! Lord Blair came here and asked for her
specifically—after originally refusing Father’s invitation. He told Papa that Celeste is the only
reason he came at all.”
“That and Papa’s brandy,” Lilac snorted, smoothing the long, sable drapes of her hair petulantly.
“You are such a little mierda!” Celeste growled and stepped toward her. “Sophia’s as good as
promised to Lord du’Stefflinni.”
“Khiara’s not promised,” Lilac retorted wickedly, looking gleeful as she recognized the nerve she
had hit with her sister. “How long have you been courting Lord MacKorgyn?”
Khiara’s slightly flushed and cheerful face fell and Celeste, for her older sister’s sake, resisted an
urge to slap Lilac soundly. Sophia had no such restraint; she gave the youngest Moulinnay
daughter a hard shove. “Go sit with the children little girl,” she snarled. “You are just mad because
you are too young and undeveloped to be of any interest to anyone!”
“I’m Cusped!” Lilac bawled indignantly. “I could court if I wanted!”
“You could court if you were asked,” Celeste spat back harshly. “But your face has turned so
green that no one would bother!”
“As if you are any better, Celeste,” Lilac bleated with childish fist-balling . “Easy as you are, you
couldn’t even get the Duke to lift your skirts. Why, I’ll bet—,”
“I’ll bet that you have just earned yourself an exit from the party,” a stern voice said from behind
them. Two of Celeste’s mothers were standing there with equal looks of displeasure on their
faces. Letizia, Roger’s youngest wife and Celeste and Lilac’s Blood Mother was particularly
thunderous, but it was Jovanna, the eldest of all their mothers who had spoken.
“You may go to your chambers, Lilac,” she continued without sympathy. “The night is more than
over for you.”
Lilac looked as though she was going to protest but Letizia stepped forward threateningly, hand
raised, and she quickly thought better of it. Grumbling under her breath, she fled; careful to evade
her two eldest sisters who were standing in conversation at the bottom of the steps.
“We should have waited to Cusp that one,” Jovanna remarked to her Vow Sister. “I think we have
created something of a monster.”
“She is just jealous of her sister,” Letizia replied casually. “And you, my Celeste! How did you
fare?”
“Well, mama,” Celeste answered, trying hard to keep the girlish ardor out of her voice. “Lord Blair
and I had a pleasant walk.”
“How pleasant?” her mother asked, her lips curving up in a slow grin.
“Pleasant enough,” Celeste told her airily, looking away with a self-satisfied expression as the
gathering responded in chuckles. She hastily recounted her walk with Blair and to their amusement,
but her Mothers were less interested in her tale and more interested in getting her back into his
presence.
“He is leaving soon,” Jovanna told her urgently. “Go and sit with him; make him struggle to think
about anything but you. That is how you capture a man.”
“You might be his first Voya,” her Blood Mother added. “If you tie your knot about his heart.”
Celeste needed no second urging. Grinning unabashedly, she pecked each of her mother’s on the
cheek, kissed both her sisters noisily and scampered across the dance floor to where Lord Roger
was sitting at a long, deserted table with Blair. The young Duke was listening, his eyes fixed and
unmoving on her father’s face. Celeste did not need to be close to know they were talking
business again.
She rounded the end of the table, and suddenly her father beamed up at her. “Ah, Celeste!” he
boomed. “Come, sit with us a moment. Lord Blair must take his leave soon.”
“Yes, papa,” she readily obeyed. Risking embarrassment, she gently pushed Blair’s shoulder back
and settled herself in his lap. To her relief he seemed to welcome her, looping an arm around her
middle to rest his hand on the top of her leg. Thrilled beyond measure, she buried her face against
his neck, breathing in the sandlewood and indescribable masculine scent that was so uniquely him.
Lord Roger laughed at her antics, remarking, “Got yourself an admirer, there, lad. Best kind of
woman, that.”
“I did as you suggested and walked down to your vineyards,” Blair began without
acknowledgement when her father’s chuckles died away. “I saw what you described of the layout;
the rows as you have them would not work at Morestei.”
At that moment Celeste felt a somewhat raw twist of disappointment in her middle as they droned
on. Such a lovely walk, just to look at grapes and vines in the dark? She tried not to let it show in
her countenance and manner, but Lilac’s words played in her mind and turned her skin cold. What
if he really is interested in Father’s brandy more than me? What if I truly am just a wax to be used
as the seal on an arrangement?
Had Blair not told her himself that he sealed business with a handshake and perhaps some coin?
Then again, with the current conversation burning in her ears, she began to wonder if perhaps her
younger sister was more than accurate about his silver tongue.
A pinch on her rump made her jump a little; to her Father’s great amusement. “I said, up girl,” Blair
repeated. “It is time for me to leave.”
“My apologies,” Celeste muttered as she climbed off his lap. He made no immediate reply, but as
he grasped her father’s hand, he said, “I’ll call again, soon. Celeste will walk me out, no?”
“Certainly!” Roger crowed, flailing his arms into the air about his curly head. “I look forward to
your return, Your Excellency!”
“It has been a pleasure,” Blair told him contentedly. “Celeste?”
He had extended his left hand and was looking at her with expectant blue eyes. With a smile, she
took it and found that even that small touch melted her all over again, regardless of his intentions.
He drew her close and started for the door with his unromantically determined strides.
Celeste had to hasten to keep up. Blair did not slow until he came to the open front door. There
he helped her down the steps into the dooryard with an almost careless grace. With a flourish, he
swept his cloak off her shoulders and fastened it around his own neck. Her eyes widened and she
smiled in spite of herself—she had not realized she was still wearing it.
“I must take my leave now,” Blair told her. He took her shoulders in his hands; the gooseflesh that
resulted had nothing to do with the cool air, but the Duke did not seem to notice. He leaned
forward and gave her a very chaste kiss, smiled his unusual smile, and nodded once, briefly. “I
want you to know, Celeste, that I have entered into an agreement with your father to pursue your
hand.” Celeste’s knees nearly failed her and Blair instinctively and rather nimbly tightened his grip
on her, as if maidens swooning in his presence was simply commonplace. She was suddenly
unaware of anything except a giddy desire to throw her arms around his neck, but she sensed that
such an act would not be well taken by her suitor. She was forced to settle on a somewhat
gushing, “Oh, my! I’m honored, truly!”
Blair nodded encouragingly, and continued, “I intend to court you over these next few months. If all
goes as well as I predict, we’ll be wed in late summer.”
“I—I’m—I fear I’m speechless, Lord du’Winter!” Celeste stammered, pressing her hands to her
cheeks and shaking her head back and forth helplessly.
“That must be a first,” he remarked dryly. When her mouth opened momentarily, and then shut just
as quickly he actually chuckled. The sound of horses approaching distracted her from any retort,
however; Blair’s man Pierre and her own brother Gio came around the edge of the house from the
direction of the stables leading a pair of horses, one the color of pearls, and one a deep ruddy
chestnut.
“Quite a good hand, for a little lad,” Pierre called out, with a gesture at Gio. “Got a way with
horses, this chap.”
The small boy handed the reins of the handsome, white gelding to Blair, and piped. “Here you are,
Lord Winter. Brought your horse round for you.”
“Molto Bene,” Blair complimented, reaching down to ruffle the boy’s dark, unruly hair. With a great
show of dignity, the Duke reached into his doublet, withdrew a leather purse, and dipped his hand
inside. Celeste caught a flash of gold between his fingers a moment before dropped the coin into
her brother’s small, open palm. “For your troubles, kind sir,” Blair told the lad over his shoulder as
he swung into the saddle. With that, and a last seated bow to his newly intended, he clicked his
tongue and the gelding danced into a trot.
“You rode?” she asked after him, surprised. “You didn’t bring a coach?”
“I like the air,” he shrugged, bringing the horse back around in a slow, lazy circle in front of her. “I
don’t care much for coaches, if I’m honest.” Her look of consternation must have been beautific
because his lips twitched upward and he said, “No fears, my little girl. It really is not far to
Morestei. And I am good for a ride.” He glanced in Pierre’s direction, noted that he was now
grinning, mounted and ready, before turning twinkling pale eyes back to Celeste. “I shall call again
soon. Good night.”
“Good night,” she returned, feeling heat creep across her flesh, but he had already steered his
horse around and had kicked him into a purposeful gait. Pierre followed suit and within moments
had moved to his side. When they reached the lane, they urged their horses even faster, and
Celeste would almost swear she had heard them laughing raucously.
“Look Sister!” Gio exclaimed brightly, waving the large, gold coin wildly under her nose. “Lord
Winter gave me a whole Bigat!”
“It’s du’Winter,” she corrected absently. “That’s nice, Gio.”
And it was nice, she thought. It took a moment to process what had taken place that night, but in a
matter of moments, Celeste was wearing a grin that reached all the way to her ears. The
happiness of his stated intentions was threatening to burst her; she grabbed her little brother’s
hand and dragged him back toward the door.
“Come, Gio!” She bubbled excitedly. “Let us go and tell our family just how good Winter is going
to be for us this year!”
only younger sister. There was a rash of giggles from her cousins and friends as the girl stumbled
over the hem of her long gown in an effort to avoid colliding with her sister’s back. Celeste
ignored her; she was staring in abject shock at the man in the foyer below with whom her father
was shaking hands. She had only just seen him several candlepieces earlier, and he had been
engaged in a spirited wrestling match with a friend.
Now, though, Blair du’Winter was the picture of Lordly elegance. His straightened hair was
braided and tied back from his face in a style that was equal parts daring and conservative. His
clothing was perfect as well; a vest of green velvet over a ruffled shirt of black silk. His trousers
matched the shirt, but looked to be made of fine cotton, cut in a very youthful, brash style and his
legs were encased to the knee in gleaming sable riding boots. There wasn’t so much as a speck
of lint marring his appearance; Celeste felt a very brief flash of envy at the seeming effortlessness
of his form, but she quashed it as quickly as it had come. He was smiling, but his eyes remained
wolfish and mysterious and Celeste suddenly had an overwhelming urge to make him notice her.
She swept down the last three stairs with the same abruptness with which she’d stopped.
“What a pleasure to see you here, your young Excellency!” her father, Lord Roger was
announcing in his gruff, booming voice as she glide up to them. “I had thought your response to
the invitation made it quite clear that you would not be attending?”
“Let us just say,” Blair said softly, “That something of yours changed my mind.”
His eyes turned on Celeste and she felt a hot blush start at the roots of her hair and slide all
the way down her face, her neck and into her bodice. She had approached her father full of brash
feminine confidence, and was half dismayed, half delighted to find herself suddenly speechless
and looking away. It was obvious to her now that though his glance had been of the most fleeting
kind, he had noticed her as well earlier. The thought of it threatened to send her running from the
room in tears of blissful embarrassment.
“Aahh!” Lord Roger exclaimed gleefully, apparently noticing where Blair’s attention had gone,
and the reaction the younger Duke’s gaze had elicited. “You like this one, no? This is my
Celeste! My jewel! Celeste, this is Lord Blair du’Winter, Duke of Morestei.”
“I know,” she blurted. Immediately, she regretted her haste; the ever-so-slight raise in Blair’s
right eyebrow was enough to quite disarm her again, and she stammered, “Ah, that is to-to say we’
ve never met, but I-I saw him, just today-um, earlier, I mean, he was wrestling by the roadside when
I passed him in the coach while I was out with friends and sissy and my cousins.”
“Celeste,” her father offered jovially though with some concern in his eyes, “It is okay to
breathe during speaking. In fact I heartily recommend it.”
Her blush deepened and she looked away again, unable to meet either man’s equally amused
stare. “However, we were discussing business, when last we corresponded, no?” her father
directed to Blair after a moment. “The brandy, she calls to you!”
“Indeed,” the young Duke answered in a hauntingly pleasant tenor. “I have other interests, of
course, but the ruination of my father’s fortunes can best be repaired by investment in Durskan
brandy.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lord Roger responded earnestly. “But while we are at it, perhaps we
should also discuss how my Celeste can become your Celeste, eh?”
“A line of negotiation that suits me,” Blair replied, inclining his head ever so slightly. She
caught him looking at her and smiled down at her toes. She was perhaps not representing herself
very well and her mothers would be cross with her, but at the moment the delightful stirrings in her
lower middle lulled her into a dreamy bashfulness. They walked away, the two men heading in the
direction of her father’s large, airy study, and Celeste bit her lip and fought down the urge to stop
her foot in frustration. That had not gone at all the way she wanted.
“He’s very striking that one,” a smooth, sensual voice said from behind her shoulder. “Who is
he?”
Celeste turned to see her next-eldest sister watching her father and the young Duke
circumnavigate the crowd that was growing in the foyer.
“Blair du’Winter,” Celeste told her. “Duke of Morestei.”
“My, my,” her sister purred affectionately. “It looks like you may have caught his eye, little
Celeste.”
“I did catch his eye, Khiara,” Celeste told her. The grin that had been welling up suddenly split
her features and she laughed in spite of herself. “Father just asked him if he wanted to know how I
could be his.”
Khiara’s full lips turned up into their characteristic half-smile and replied, “And how did he reply
to that?”
Celeste thought for a moment, then answered, “Favorably.”
“Good for you, girl,” her sister replied with a bouncing squeeze of her younger siblings bare
shoulders. “When they come back for dinner and the dance, your make sure you let him know just
how grateful you are that he is entertaining the idea of possessing you. A Baron’s daughter can
never hope to marry so well.”
“Who said anything about marrying?”
This had come from Lilac, and the jealousy was plain on the younger girl’s face. “Celeste just
said he replied favorably to father inquiring whether or not Lord Blair wanted her. He could just as
easily be intending to send her with him for the night to seal a business arrangement.”
Khiara pursed her lips and looked at Lilac for a long moment before answering, “You are an
envious little twit who should learn some manners. Come, Celeste,” she beckoned, gliding toward
the open front doors and their four mothers. “We have guests to greet.”
The next candlepiece passed in a blur of faces, greetings, exclamations of joy over dresses
and jewelry purchased especial for the occasion. All of the glittering opulence was a pleasant
distraction, but when the word was passed for dinner and the guests began to filter into the
Moulinnay ballroom her thoughts turned back to Blair and her father. Neither man was to be seen,
but Celeste was gratefully encouraged to be seated next to an empty chair at the head of the table,
rather than between Lilac and Khiara, as was her wont. However, the aperitif came and went, as
did the first course. The second was served, and the sommeliers were pouring the third wine of
the evening, a beautiful blush, when Blair abruptly appeared at her elbow, ghostlike in his silent
approach.
“My apologies,” he murmured, touching her elbow ever so lightly. “Your father and I became
quite lost in our discussions.” His frost-colored eyes on her face were so penetrating that she
found herself immobile, much like a doe cornered by a ravenous wolf.
Which is what you are, isn’t it Celeste? a distant part of her mind queried. Prey for this young
wolf to take and do with as he pleases.
“Yes!” she blurted, giving herself a startled shake. “T-that is to say, er, I—um—trust that your
discussions went well?”
Blair merely twitched his lips into that almost imperceptible smile, but he said nothing more
about it. She forced herself to meet his rather intense gaze as he continued to study her face.
Her stomach made a funny sort of flop that made her both breathless and giddy at the same time,
and in spite of trying her hardest to keep under control, she felt the blush staining her cheeks again,
accompanied by a not-so-uncomfortable prickle at the base of her neck.
The moment was broken by one of the waiters slipping their plates deftly in front of them.
Blair made no visible notice of the man, but his hand shot out to cover his glass with long, slender
fingers when the sommelier approached and tried to fill it with light, fruity wine.
“None of that for me,” he maintained with soft authority, though his gaze never wavered from
hers. “Rot your guts, that stuff will—too much sugar. Brandy. Moulinnay—from the year she was
born.”
He made a slight nod toward Celeste, but the man must have known what he meant, for he
had already answered, “Of course, My Lord. Moulinnay la prima stampa sceglie il barile, year
2228.”
Celeste couldn’t help a giggle behind her hand at his subtle flattery. The servant reappeared
almost immediately with a proper tumbler and a dusty bottle. The sharp, sweet smell of fine
brandy erupted from the container the moment the man uncorked it; mesmerized—and unable to
continue staring at Blair—Celeste watched the burnt amber liquid swirl cyclonically in the decorative
crystal glass.
“Leave the bottle,” Blair ordered softly as the man stepped back. Dutifully, the servant wiped
the flagon free of dust with a small, amber towel and placed it just out of the way to Blair’s right.
“Um, the fish is very good,” Celeste said quietly, glancing sidelong at him from beneath her
lashes to see if he was still staring at her. As it happened, he was not; instead, he was intently
examining the contents of his glass. Held just so against the lamplight, and the tumbler seemed to
be full of flames rather than liquor. After his moment of consideration, he took a sip and
commented, “All around it was a very good year.”
He said nothing further as he leaned surprisingly low over his plate and began eating the
delicately poached fish that had been brought with an equally surprising gusto. Celeste became
distracted by the conversation of the woman seated on her other side and hardly noticed when the
fish was taken away and replaced by the main course; hearty stuffed pasta shells covered in a
cheese and sausage alfredo and dressed with sprigs of fresh parsley.
She had eaten about half of it when a light brush across the back of her hand startled her
somewhat and she turned back Blair’s way. Her father was laughing heartily, and she just caught
the young Duke muse, “The food is really quite good.” They had their heads together again; Blair
had obviously brushed against her when he turned to face Lord Roger. Their conversation was so
low she couldn’t quite make out what was being discussed but when she leaned closer she was
met by the fragrance of Blair’s cologne. He smelled very pleasantly of spices reminiscent of
sandalwood, and something unnamed and masculine that made her innards come unglued all over
again. Dreamily, she leaned nearer still, and promptly embarrassed herself by putting her hand in
her own plate of warm, gooey pasta.
“Blast!” she hissed, while her birth mother, sitting opposite her, gave her a very hard look and
scolded, “Celeste Moulinnay, you are a girl Cusped; try and act your age!”
“Sorry, Mamma,” Celeste murmured in a hangdog tone of voice, hoping her falcon-eyed
suitor had not noticed. She wiped her hand on her napkin, and looked up to see Blair staring at her
again. Startled and dismayed, she nearly upset his glass; he scooped it out of her way and
drained it in a single fluid motion. She couldn’t escape the force of his gaze and for a moment that
seemed frozen, they stared at one another. Lazily, Blair held out the captured glass to the servant
who had appeared to whisk their plates away; and the man dutifully refilled it.
“Those are some of the most engaging moon-eyes I’ve seen in years,” Celeste’s oldest
mother said warmly, leaning across the table toward them. “And how are you, Lord du’Winter? I
daresay I did not get a chance to welcome you to our home when you arrived.”
Blair’s focus slowly shifted and he smiled across the table at her and offered a polite, though
rather stiff nod. “I attended to Lord Roger upon arriving; I fear I did not make the proper
greetings. I am well, thank you,” he replied in earnest tones. “I find that I am,” he glanced
sideways at Celeste and then continued, “Rather more distracted than I had expected to be.”
Celeste’s four mothers emitted a chorus of chuckles. “Our Celeste is our gem,” the second
oldest told him, turning her blueberry colored eyes upon the girl at Blair’s side. “She’ll be a good
Voya to you, if she’s to be, ah, your permanent distraction?”
“Really, mamma,” Celeste scolded, feeling beads of sweat form at the base of her throat as
she tried to glare across the table at her grinning elder, “Try to sound more desperate.”
Lord Du’Winter said nothing; he merely raised his glass to the women across from them and
drained it in salute. Turning, he took the fingers of Celeste’s right hand in his own left and leaned
close to her. For a moment more he did not speak; but his face was close to her neck almost as if
he were drawing in her scent.
“Speaking of such,” he murmured finally, his breath against her neck offering to turn her
perspiration into gooseflesh. “May I offer my little distraction a dance?”
Beaming, Celeste placed her own lips next to his ear and answered, “Only if she may accept.”
Blair actually offered her a small smile and deftly if not abruptly guided her to her feet. The
floor of the ballroom had been kept clear during the meal, and couples were already making their
way onto the polished marble surface. Those dancing moved aside for the Duke and his young
partner. With a flourish befitting of the Royal Court, Blair du’Winter bowed to her. Celeste was
taken with his elegant poise, but she did not falter as she dipped the most formal of curtseys in
response. He held out his hand again and she reclaimed it, though she noticed that he used his left
again. She was unable to help raising her eyebrows as he drew her close against him.
“You dance then?” he queried in her ear. She realized with some surprise that he was only
marginally taller than she; the way he moved and carried himself made him seem much larger.
“None better,” she purred back with her usual brassy flair. “I dance so well that I was invited
to perform for the King this past Yule.”
“Hmm,” Blair replied. The song was a familiar one; a very traditional Durskan tune and he
glided through the steps with an ease that the onlookers obviously envied. Celeste’s smile
broadened; she followed his lead perfectly but could not help squealing with delight when he
suddenly lifted her above his head and then dipped her so low that her elaborately curled locks
brushed the marble.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he told her matter-of-factly as he
gathered her close again. “You are the reason I came to your mother’s ball this evening; I am not
usually so—social.”
“You flatter me,” Celeste told him, blushing again and having to bend back at the waist as his
arm squeezed around her tighter.
“No,” he returned immediately in the same kind of frank response. He took her chin lightly in
his long fingers and forced her to look back at him. “I tell you the truth. I am serious when I say
these things.”
And she could see that he was. Unexpectedly, she found herself to be speechless and caught
in the deep icy pools of his eyes; she swallowed hard and after a moment managed, “Well, all truth
told, I am quite taken with you as well, my Lord. I hope you do not think me forward for saying so.”
“How very forward,” he said immediately, but the twitch at the right corner of his lips gave him
away. Her blush deepened and she cursed her own skin for consistently betraying her every effort
at self-control. She gasped as he spun her, but her feet were far too nimble to falter and she was
brought back against him so firmly that she could feel the lithe muscle beneath the silk of his shirt.
The funny, fluttery feeling low in her middle rapidly became an impassioned flame and she leaned
up toward his lips. He dodged her as deftly as he danced, leaning away at the last moment the
place his own mouth against the lobe of her ear.
“Plenty of time for that later, my gem,” he told her, though he pressed his nose to her neck
and inhaled deeply. “We must maintain a certain level of propriety, after all.”
“Why?” she pleaded, but his seductively low chuckle placated her.
“No need for such haste,” he murmured against her skin as it broke into thousands of goose
bumps. “There will be plenty of time.”
The tempo of the dancing had changed—in fact the song had changed, and Celeste frowned to
herself and wondered when that had happened. But the music—much like everything other than
Lord du’Winter—was of a very secondary concern this evening.
Blair knew the steps to the slow dances quite as well as he did the more energetic ones; three
more songs passed with her gliding about the floor, sealed to his body; their feet were never
uncertain nor hesitant nor ungainly. In spite of the length of their dance, Blair had said nothing
more to her; he seemed content with her presence and the movement. Occasionally, Celeste
caught the envious look of another of the noblewomen present at her mother’s fete; she kept her
face smooth and poised, but an impulsive and admittedly very girlish part of her wanted to stick out
her tongue or make faces at them.
Finally, though, one of them became bold enough to approach. Celeste felt the light touch on her
shoulder at the end of the third slow song; she turned and experienced a wholly irrational flare of
irritation when she saw that it was her own younger sister Lilac who had interrupted them. She was
about to tell the sniveling little twit where to go and sit, but she caught sight of her father and two of
her mothers watching them.
“If I may, Lord Blair?” Lilac asked in a dripping tone of simpering aspiration, dipping a curtsy
nearly as perfect as Celeste’s had been.
“Of course,” the young Duke replied slowly, though his eyes and voice had become quite
disengaged. He made an elegant, oddly formal bow and accepted Lilac’s proffered fingers in his
left hand. They danced slowly away as the music resumed leaving Celeste flushed and fuming at
the edge of the floor. She felt her jaw set firmly as her sister nattered away at Blair; though she
took some measure of comfort from the Lord’s very obvious annoyance with her. He was not by
any means holding her with the same possessiveness with which he had enveloped Celeste; in
fact, he looked as put out as she felt. Lilac seemed unperturbed—the little mierda was even so
saucy as to reach up and toy her fingers about his onyx braids as they danced. At the same time
Celeste couldn’t help but note that again his behavior and mannerisms were a tad bit
unconventional. Durskan men were well acquainted with the custom of taking more than one wife,
and as a Duke, Blair should expect to take at least three. Celeste knew this and as long as she won
the title of Prima Voya, she actually welcomed it. However, her sister Lilac would not be a
candidate she would even consider for him if she was to hold that position in his life; and since the
decision of subsequent marriage partners were for the most part up to the Prima Voya, she felt
herself relaxing a bit. Besides, multiple wives aside, the fact that Blair was apparently wholly
unreceptive to her sister’s amorous advances where most men would bask in the feminine glow of
attention seemed to suit her just fine this night.
Celeste was just getting ready to cross the room and reclaim her partner when Khiara deftly
slipped between Blair and Lilac and forced the younger girl away.
“He’s a dreamy dancer, isn’t he?” her younger sister asked as Celeste approached, the girls
cobalt eyes dancing as she mimicked having her arms about the young Duke. “He smells nice,
too. Not like some of these other sweaty brutes.”
“I’m surprised you could smell anything,” Celeste told her through a thin lipped glare. “Poca
Mierda.”
Lilac’s eyes widened and her cheeks reddened in outrage. “How dare you! You act like he’s
already your Marito! You’ll be lucky if he even courts you, a Baron’s daughter!”
“He has already told me that I am the reason he came here tonight in the first place.”
“A man that silver-tongued would tell you he lived in a castle among the clouds with stars for a
personal staff if he thought you would swallow it. You probably would too, knowing you sister,”
Lilac snorted, smoothing down the gossamer folds of her evening gown with dramatic
perfectionism. “Maybe he wants an energetic tumble—I’m sure you could get that right at least.”
“I am far and away a better dancer than you, Lilac Moulinnay,” Celeste nearly snarled. “You have
the grace of a swine.”
Lilac balled her fists and leaned close, “This from little miss pasta fingers, the resident trollop!”
At that moment Celeste truly intended to strike her, but Blair had abruptly appeared at her shoulder,
with Khiara trailing slightly behind.
“If you will excuse us,” he said to Lilac, and Celeste was pleasantly surprised as he draped his silk-
lined riding cloak about her shoulders and added, “I require your sister’s presence while I take
some air.”
Celeste glowed to the roots of her hair and immediately forgot her quarrel with her younger sibling.
“Oh, of—of course, Lord du’Winter,” she gushed, absently pulling the fragrantly male garment tight
about her as her sister’s eyes narrowed. She turned her sapphire eyes up at him and found his icy
gaze staring back. “I thought we could walk down to the edge of the vineyards and back,” he
continued as he led her toward the front doors. “And, call me Blair, if you please.”
“Certainly, my Lord,” she agreed hastily. “Oh! I mean, that is, Blair. Certainly, Blair.” She could
distinctly make out a loud clucking from Lilac as they neared the doors leading outside but she was
far too busy enjoying the feeling of him guiding her with a long-fingered hand against the small of
her back to concern herself with protocol. They stepped out into the cool, pleasant summer
evening air. All three moons were in the sky; their combined light cast the landscape in that
peculiar violet hue known as Moonglo. Blair enfolded her arm with his and set off down the lane at
a measured pace, but he kept his other hand at her waist and did not let her stray too far from his
hip.
“So you and my father have business?” She asked him as they walked into the sleepy twilight,
caressed by warm, inviting night breezes and serenaded by the gentle ebb and flow of insect
lullabies. “Brandy, am I right?”
“And why would you concern yourself with the business I have with your father?” he asked after a
moment, though his steps did not slow. “Surely it is of no concern to you?”
“It isn’t,” Celeste agreed amiably, though slightly caught of guard by his questions. “But I must
offend you with my curiosity—,”
“You already have, but please continue.”
“Wha—I—oh?” she fumbled at his unexpectedly blunt answer. “I—I mean, I just had a question, is
all.”
Blair offered her that barely perceptible smile and she realized that while he appeared to be teasing
her; there also seemed to be some genuine truth behind his rather cutting remark. She bit her lip
and lowered her eyes, unsure of how to continue. Certainly, she had been invited to dance for
Dursk’s newly chosen king the previous Yule, but she had never mixed with the loftiest of the nation’
s nobility. Blair was as far above her own rank as she was above a peasant. Still, though, she
couldn’t ignore the obvious attraction they had for one another; nor was she willing to ignore that
he had asked her to come on a walk with him.
“Actually,” she said, recovering after but a moment. She turned her face up at him and noted him
watching her. “I was just making talk in the dark when I asked you about your business with my
father. What concerns me most is your intentions toward, well, me.”
Blair’s brow furrowed slightly; a change which seemed magnified in the darkness. “I thought I had
made my intentions perfectly clear,” the Duke returned quietly, lacing his fingers with the fingers of
her hand he was cradling in the crook of his arm as if to accentuate his point.
“Well, you seem quite interested in me,” Celeste admitted quickly, blinking at him in the gloom. “I
was merely curious whether I was to be the cement for your business with my father or whether
you had more permanent plans for me.” She paused, then hastily added, “Either way, I’m
content—I—oh!”
The last came out as a startled squeak; Celeste had just noticed a shadowy figure trailing them
down the lane. Blair cast an irritated glance in the direction she was staring, then visibly relaxed,
his small smile returning as swiftly as it had gone.
“Nothing to fear,” he assured her with a slight hint of amusement in his reply. “That is just Pierre,
my—manservant.”
Celeste took in the other man’s appearance and frowned. He was surprisingly youthful—or rather
what she could see of him appeared to be—with a shock of curly black hair that blended into the
twilight. He was wearing a long sable duster with the collar buttoned up around the lower half of his
face, much in the manner of the Highwaymen in the storybooks she had read as a young girl.
Pierre’s eyes were steady on her face in a way she found far too frank for a manservant and she
forced herself to look back up at Blair.
“He looks a bit—unsavory—to be a manservant,” she confided uncomfortably, shuddering against
his side as she considered what an imposing figure he cut.
To her enormous surprise, this comment caused the Duke to throw back his head and bark a
startlingly loud laugh. “Unsavory?” he asked. “Do you hear that, Pierre?”
“My Lady has wounded me,” Pierre answered softly at their backs, his low, even voice sounding a
bit hollow in the deepening eve. “Please assure her that I am but a humble hairdresser.”
Blair shot his man a look, but with a cough, he regained his composure. “Don’t mind him,” he told
her. “He’s always about when I am, but he usually does a good job at remaining unobtrusive.”
“I see,” Celeste replied, giving one last wary look to the shadowy manservant. Blair must have
noticed, because he asked, “Do you not have a proper Lady’s Maid who attends you?”
“Oh! Well, yes. I do, as a matter of fact,” she responded, feeling her chest tighten slightly as a
small amount of embarrassment crept in. “I—I really hadn’t thought of it that way.” She tried to
recall whether Garibaldi went everywhere with her father, but Blair’s eyes were just so pale and
searching in the moonlight that she became somewhat lost in his gaze and quite forgot what it was
that she had been trying to remember.
“To answer your question, Celeste,” he said slowing, and she had to give herself a slight shake to
free the cobwebs from her mind. “I cement my business with a handshake and perhaps some
coin.”
With that he set off toward the vineyard again, leaving her to glow in the promise of his intimation.
She walked briskly alongside him, held close now by his strong right arm around her waist. He
seemed in equal parts eager and tense; Celeste smiled to herself. Many young lords visiting her
father had much the same attitudes when they arrived to see the place where Moulinnay Brandy
originated.
The lane leading to the vineyard was bordered on one side by Lord Roger’s horse pasture and the
other by the orchard where he grew the peaches and apples that would later be fermented with the
grapes to make different flavored brandies and wines. For Celeste the walk passed with dreamy
quickness—they had reached the vineyard gate and in the darkness she almost didn’t realize
where she was. Blair had stopped and was looking intently out over the shallow valley where grew
the grapes of the Moulinnay Winery and Distillery. Even now, Celeste’s eyes could catch the
steam rising from the stills on the distant hilltop opposite.
“These center acres,” she said quietly, pointing a finger back and forth. “One hundred twenty in all
are Durskan Dewdrop vines; the base of my father’s prized spirits.”
Blair cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. “You know something of brandy, then?”
“I should hope I do,” she giggled and then straightened importantly. “Being Lord Roger’s
daughter.” She then laid her head on his shoulder and pointed away to her left. “Over there in the
easternmost sixty acres are Red Regents, and to the far west are thirty acres of Black Norumund
and thirty acres of Lady Caterina’s Catawbs.” She turned to look back up at him as she finished,
unable to keep the proud beam from her countenance.
Blair was silently regarding her with a single eyebrow slightly elevated. Lightly, he raised her
fingers to his lips and pecked them, then stated, “You talk too much.”
She giggled again and daringly, though somewhat nervously, placed her forehead against his and
whispered, “Kissing me shuts me up.”
Blair kissed her.
With the fingers of his left hand gently cupping her chin and the strength of his right arm still about
her waist, he brought their lips together and Celeste nearly swooned from the electricity of it. His
lips were unexpectedly cool, and tasted ever so lightly of the brandy he’d finished the meal with,
but he had such an insistent, yet gentle passion that she melted against him and folded her own
arms around him so that she could capture his fine, thin, side braids in her fingers.
How long their affection went on, she could not say—it seemed at once too brief and yet
pleasantly languorous. When he at last separated from her, he stared for a long moment into her
eyes and remarked, “We should return; we wouldn’t want anyone to think I’ve absconded with you.”
Celeste blinked and promptly humiliated herself by saying, “There’s a hayloft nearby that you can
abscond me to.”
“Now, now,” Blair half scolded, half grinned, “That would hardly be gentlemanly. Or sanitary.”
Blushing but unapologetic, she allowed him to lead her back toward the house and the distant
strains of music still emanating from the open front door. Halfway there, Celeste put her own arm
around his waist and a moment later gave him a hearty pinch on his very well formed backside.
“Oohhh!” the young Duke abruptly yelped in a mockingly girlish fashion. “You brute!”
And with that he skittered off the road and into the trees, flapping the hem of his doublet as if it
were skirts and leaving Celeste to gape at him in shock.
She recovered in a heartbeat and, laughing incredulously, followed him into the low, leafy orchard.
He had ducked behind the notch of one of the older peach trees; she could just make out the top of
his head and his eyes peering at her from between the sloping v of an old peach tree.
“Stay back, brigand!” Blair warned her, his brow narrowing dramatically. “I’ll—I’ll scream if you
come closer!”
Giggling almost uncontrollably from both humor and residual astonishment, Celeste spread her
arms wide, holding the edges of his cloak up like wings. “Y-you can’t esc-cape m-me, my lovely!”
she stammered through a put on bandit voice and her own spastic chuckles. Blair darted deeper
into the orchard; hiding sloppily behind another tree. “I—I intend to ravish you!”
“Ho!” he gasped spectacularly, his head popping up from behind a thick, low-slung branch.
“Scandalous!”
She chased after him, faintly aware of Pierre’s haunting laughter, but no matter how close she got,
the young Duke always managed to evade her clutching fingers. He lead her zigging and zagging
through the trees, from peach row to apple and back again until she finally collapsed to her knees
in the cool damp grass at the edge of the lane, her arms about her middle while she laughed and
struggled to catch her breath.
“Oh, my, what a delightfully odd diversion!” she finally exclaimed. “Oh, I fear I’m all out of sorts!”
“Well, isn’t that what you wanted?” Blair asked, his voice schooled back into its seemingly
characteristic guilelessness as he stepped over and lifted her easily back to her feet. “To go back
looking flushed and disheveled?”
“I—,” Celeste protested, amazed that he appeared as smoothed as if the entire romp had never
happened. “That is—,” The whole act had caught her off guard with its charming strangeness and
she couldn’t keep the grin from lifting her full lips upward. “You are quite a character, Blair du’
Winter!”
“Oh my,” the Duke said with a stuffy dignity that superceded his years, “I do so hope that’s not
catching?”
Nonplussed, Celeste laughed merrily again and looped her arm through his. She suppressed a
flash of irritation as she watched Blair’s man Pierre loop slowly around behind them; crunching
down a somewhat unripe peach from one of her father’s trees. Forcing unconcern for the rude
servant, she again returned her attention to the young Duke. Blair might be odd, but he was unique
in an attractive, very refreshing way. He was so very different from other young noblemen she
knew that she found herself to be irresistibly drawn to him in spite of having only just met. Some
pre-formed bit of womanly conscience warned her not to fall too hard, but she blithely crushed it
and gave no more thought to rejection. Instead, she allowed her curiosities to re-emerge; having
heard the awful rumors from her friends, cousins, and sisters, she thought it best to ask him a
much more neutral question.
“How is your father? I had heard he was living in Khathia these past years.”
“Ah, he is deceased, I am afraid,” Blair told her plainly. “That is how I came to be Duke of
Morestei.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Celeste mumbled, her face pinched now with mortification, “How very stupid
of me to ask.”
“Not really,” he replied in the same bland tone, “It is quite unusual for a man’s youngest son to
inherit his lands, title, and fortunes. Such happenstance throws everyone off a bit.”
“That’s right,” Celeste recovered with an almost overdone straightening of her person. “I
remember someone saying something about your eldest brother. Is he alive?”
“As far as I know,” Blair answered with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “He left when I was a
very young boy and I fear we don’t have occasion to speak much these days. He lives in Arinon.
A very successful man, truly self-elevated; unmarried. Our letters, when we have them, remain
cordial.”
“And you have another brother as well, don’t—,”
“Let’s not.”
“Ah—quite right, then,” Celeste stammered carefully. She walked on in silence for a moment
more, before thinking of the safest of all possible questions. “So where do you live?”
“Morestei Manor,” Blair answered her with a tone of pseudo-tranquility. “It isn’t far; perhaps an
hour north, just outside the Caer. It’s on a good piece of land, though the gardens are in need of a
woman’s touch. My mother was not particularly fond of the outdoors so the grounds have been
somewhat neglected since my father and his other two wives went to stay in Khathia some years
ago.” He paused a moment, then went on, “It’s a large house, with a library, solarium, two parlors,
a score of bedrooms. Too much, really, for a bachelor.”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced over at him. He was not looking at her; instead his eyes were
fixed on some point far away, as if gazing at something only he could see. His past, perhaps?
Celeste wondered. Their feet crunched along the gravel road slowly and she was about to make
another query when he continued, “The staff are quite diligent and integral to the household. They
have kept the place up for me since my mother was killed.”
There was something in his tone when he said the last bit that made Celeste’s hair stand on end.
She remembered the rumors of Hellysa Touravarin’s death; that her young son had killed her and
hidden the body. But such was gossip; she had honestly never thought to be walking and fooling
about on a summer’s eve with the subject of such dark stories. Blair was unconventional and
mysterious to be certain, and while he seemed possessed of the capability to do murder, Celeste
just couldn’t reconcile that idea with the man in her company. Surely, his air of menace came from
his wealth and power; he was, after all, her own father’s direct liege.
No, if such a dark deed had been done, it would likely have been that Pierre fellow. Celeste cast a
somewhat timid glance over her shoulder at the man walking four paces behind them. He offered
her a very respectful nod when he caught her looking; somehow that helped put her at ease. She
wasn’t quite certain what she had been expecting. The flash of a dagger in the dark, her thoughts
supplied, Or perhaps a menacing leer?
Your brain is full of silliness and cotton! Her own mental voice abruptly became her mother’s
scold. Your father would not have sent you on a walk with a pair of killers. Stop being a ninny.
They were approaching the dooryard, and she did not want Blair to mistake her silence for
recalcitrance. “Come inside, Blair,” she urged, taking hold of his hands. “They’ll be serving the
desserts!”
“I do not partake of sweets, as a rule,” he told her absently, though allowed himself to be led.
“Celeste, I think I shall take my leave soon. I will, however, come in and have another brief word
with your father.”
Crushed, but trying hard not to let it show, she gazed down at the hem of his doublet. A rush of
somewhat desperate wickedness overcame her and she gently pushed him back against a nearby
elm. Obviously taken by surprise, Blair allowed this; though his eyes had suddenly become wary.
“Well, if you are leaving,” Celeste quipped playfully, “Then I want to test the tree.”
She grabbed his crotch firmly and planted her best kiss on his cool, brandy-flavored lips. To her
delight, Blair made a soft grunt, then chuckled deeply against her mouth and wrapped his arms
tightly about her. Celeste had thought their kiss in the vineyard had been passionate; Blair seemed
to have a different definition of the word. When he finally released her she was tingling in the most
peculiar places and her knees felt as though they might give out. It was his turn to look devilish; he
returned his arm to its place at her waist and steered her toward the door.
“I’d best get you in, lest you wind up swooning in the dooryard.”
“Aye,” she managed, still euphoric. “Are you certain you cannot stay?”
“Quite,” he answered. “But as I said, I do need to speak with your father before I go.”
“Yes, of course,” Celeste returned promptly, though she knew she was not masking her
disappointment well.
“Mia bella,” Blair patronizingly made a moue and stroked her chin with his long fingers. “I will
return.”
They were met just inside the door by Gio, Celeste’s youngest sibling. He was Lord Roger’s
second son; the baby the rest of the family doted on even though he was just past his fifth birthday.
“Lord Snow!” he exclaimed, bowing elegantly. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
“It’s du’Winter,” Celeste corrected with more irritation than the boy deserved. “Gio, please don’t
be rude. Lord Blair needs to talk to papa.”
“Lord Papa is waiting for him over there,” Gio said, pointing toward the table where they had eaten
dinner. He turned back to Blair with innocent slate colored eyes. “So did you tumble my sister?”
“Gio!” Celeste exclaimed, mortified. Blair on the other hand seemed to find him fantastically
amusing; he laughed broadly and said, “Why do you ask, young Lord Moulinnay?”
“Cause,” Gio said, looking as though he found himself to be quite important. “I heard mamas
talkin’ about it and I figure she needs someone to pound the snot outta her.”
Blair laughed again, this time for a good deal longer, and although the sound of his laughter was
intoxicatingly pleasant, Celeste had lost all patience with her youngest brother. With an indignant
scowl, she shot forward to box the young boy’s ears soundly but just as quickly Blair caught her
slim arm and held her in place against his side.
“Is that so?” the young Duke asked, more animated than Celeste had yet seen him, wearing a
genuine, if slightly unnerving smile on his face. “What makes you say that?”
“Cause she talks too much,” Gio grumped, kicking at stray cobble with the toe of his shiny, albeit
already scuffed dress boot. “She’s always too busy talking to play with me.”
“She does talk too much, eh?” Blair asked Gio, giving the boy a gentle pinch on his cheek. “You
are very entertaining.” He turned to Celeste with that unsettling grin still plastered on his face.
“Charming little lad, your brother. Is he always so astute?”
“I wouldn’t know, Lord du’Winter,” she drew herself up and told him with all the dignity she could
muster. “I did not find him to be as astute as you did, apparently.”
Blair did not reply. Instead, he shared a small and knowing smile with Gio who hid a chuckle behind
his small hand. Celeste felt the urge to swat the boy return full force but at that moment her sisters
Khiara and Sophia swooped in and took her arms. “Excuse us, Lord du’Winter!” they chimed.
“We’ll return her to you in a moment!” He gave her a roguish wink and a mock salute as they
dragged her away.
“Well?” Khiara asked in a high, breathily excited voice when they had dragged her bodily to the
opposite side of the hall. “What is he like?”
“You were gone awhile,” Sophia said musingly. She batted her long eyelashes at Celeste and
simpered, “Did he take our little Celeste for a turn?”
“No, no,” Celeste told them, laughing. “He is unfortunately very proper—though,” she looked
guiltily between them, “I might have offered to let him.”
“You little tramp!” Sophia laughed. “Well, he is quite the attractive one, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Khiara agreed. “But what is he like, Celeste?”
“He’s charming,” Celeste admitted honestly. “A bit odd—unusual, I mean. We had a lovely walk
down to the vineyards, talked of grapes for a moment, and then we came back.”
“And there were no diversions along the way?” Sophia asked pointedly, arms crossing her chest.
“No romantic interludes?” She and Khiara giggled but a third voice chimed in with, “Maybe he just
doesn’t like you all that much.”
The three of them turned toward Lilac, who had come over from where the dance was still lingering.
“What are you slobbering about, little tart?” Sophia asked sufferingly. “He obviously likes Celeste
enough to have spent the entire evening with her alone.”
“Celeste shouldn’t even be spending so much time with him,” Lilac snipped, “Khiara is older and
so is Sophia. One of you should marry the Duke.”
“Oh, would you take your green envy and scoot!” Khiara scolded, waving her delicate hand in front
of Lilac in a dismissive gesture. “I am happy for Celeste! Lord Blair came here and asked for her
specifically—after originally refusing Father’s invitation. He told Papa that Celeste is the only
reason he came at all.”
“That and Papa’s brandy,” Lilac snorted, smoothing the long, sable drapes of her hair petulantly.
“You are such a little mierda!” Celeste growled and stepped toward her. “Sophia’s as good as
promised to Lord du’Stefflinni.”
“Khiara’s not promised,” Lilac retorted wickedly, looking gleeful as she recognized the nerve she
had hit with her sister. “How long have you been courting Lord MacKorgyn?”
Khiara’s slightly flushed and cheerful face fell and Celeste, for her older sister’s sake, resisted an
urge to slap Lilac soundly. Sophia had no such restraint; she gave the youngest Moulinnay
daughter a hard shove. “Go sit with the children little girl,” she snarled. “You are just mad because
you are too young and undeveloped to be of any interest to anyone!”
“I’m Cusped!” Lilac bawled indignantly. “I could court if I wanted!”
“You could court if you were asked,” Celeste spat back harshly. “But your face has turned so
green that no one would bother!”
“As if you are any better, Celeste,” Lilac bleated with childish fist-balling . “Easy as you are, you
couldn’t even get the Duke to lift your skirts. Why, I’ll bet—,”
“I’ll bet that you have just earned yourself an exit from the party,” a stern voice said from behind
them. Two of Celeste’s mothers were standing there with equal looks of displeasure on their
faces. Letizia, Roger’s youngest wife and Celeste and Lilac’s Blood Mother was particularly
thunderous, but it was Jovanna, the eldest of all their mothers who had spoken.
“You may go to your chambers, Lilac,” she continued without sympathy. “The night is more than
over for you.”
Lilac looked as though she was going to protest but Letizia stepped forward threateningly, hand
raised, and she quickly thought better of it. Grumbling under her breath, she fled; careful to evade
her two eldest sisters who were standing in conversation at the bottom of the steps.
“We should have waited to Cusp that one,” Jovanna remarked to her Vow Sister. “I think we have
created something of a monster.”
“She is just jealous of her sister,” Letizia replied casually. “And you, my Celeste! How did you
fare?”
“Well, mama,” Celeste answered, trying hard to keep the girlish ardor out of her voice. “Lord Blair
and I had a pleasant walk.”
“How pleasant?” her mother asked, her lips curving up in a slow grin.
“Pleasant enough,” Celeste told her airily, looking away with a self-satisfied expression as the
gathering responded in chuckles. She hastily recounted her walk with Blair and to their amusement,
but her Mothers were less interested in her tale and more interested in getting her back into his
presence.
“He is leaving soon,” Jovanna told her urgently. “Go and sit with him; make him struggle to think
about anything but you. That is how you capture a man.”
“You might be his first Voya,” her Blood Mother added. “If you tie your knot about his heart.”
Celeste needed no second urging. Grinning unabashedly, she pecked each of her mother’s on the
cheek, kissed both her sisters noisily and scampered across the dance floor to where Lord Roger
was sitting at a long, deserted table with Blair. The young Duke was listening, his eyes fixed and
unmoving on her father’s face. Celeste did not need to be close to know they were talking
business again.
She rounded the end of the table, and suddenly her father beamed up at her. “Ah, Celeste!” he
boomed. “Come, sit with us a moment. Lord Blair must take his leave soon.”
“Yes, papa,” she readily obeyed. Risking embarrassment, she gently pushed Blair’s shoulder back
and settled herself in his lap. To her relief he seemed to welcome her, looping an arm around her
middle to rest his hand on the top of her leg. Thrilled beyond measure, she buried her face against
his neck, breathing in the sandlewood and indescribable masculine scent that was so uniquely him.
Lord Roger laughed at her antics, remarking, “Got yourself an admirer, there, lad. Best kind of
woman, that.”
“I did as you suggested and walked down to your vineyards,” Blair began without
acknowledgement when her father’s chuckles died away. “I saw what you described of the layout;
the rows as you have them would not work at Morestei.”
At that moment Celeste felt a somewhat raw twist of disappointment in her middle as they droned
on. Such a lovely walk, just to look at grapes and vines in the dark? She tried not to let it show in
her countenance and manner, but Lilac’s words played in her mind and turned her skin cold. What
if he really is interested in Father’s brandy more than me? What if I truly am just a wax to be used
as the seal on an arrangement?
Had Blair not told her himself that he sealed business with a handshake and perhaps some coin?
Then again, with the current conversation burning in her ears, she began to wonder if perhaps her
younger sister was more than accurate about his silver tongue.
A pinch on her rump made her jump a little; to her Father’s great amusement. “I said, up girl,” Blair
repeated. “It is time for me to leave.”
“My apologies,” Celeste muttered as she climbed off his lap. He made no immediate reply, but as
he grasped her father’s hand, he said, “I’ll call again, soon. Celeste will walk me out, no?”
“Certainly!” Roger crowed, flailing his arms into the air about his curly head. “I look forward to
your return, Your Excellency!”
“It has been a pleasure,” Blair told him contentedly. “Celeste?”
He had extended his left hand and was looking at her with expectant blue eyes. With a smile, she
took it and found that even that small touch melted her all over again, regardless of his intentions.
He drew her close and started for the door with his unromantically determined strides.
Celeste had to hasten to keep up. Blair did not slow until he came to the open front door. There
he helped her down the steps into the dooryard with an almost careless grace. With a flourish, he
swept his cloak off her shoulders and fastened it around his own neck. Her eyes widened and she
smiled in spite of herself—she had not realized she was still wearing it.
“I must take my leave now,” Blair told her. He took her shoulders in his hands; the gooseflesh that
resulted had nothing to do with the cool air, but the Duke did not seem to notice. He leaned
forward and gave her a very chaste kiss, smiled his unusual smile, and nodded once, briefly. “I
want you to know, Celeste, that I have entered into an agreement with your father to pursue your
hand.” Celeste’s knees nearly failed her and Blair instinctively and rather nimbly tightened his grip
on her, as if maidens swooning in his presence was simply commonplace. She was suddenly
unaware of anything except a giddy desire to throw her arms around his neck, but she sensed that
such an act would not be well taken by her suitor. She was forced to settle on a somewhat
gushing, “Oh, my! I’m honored, truly!”
Blair nodded encouragingly, and continued, “I intend to court you over these next few months. If all
goes as well as I predict, we’ll be wed in late summer.”
“I—I’m—I fear I’m speechless, Lord du’Winter!” Celeste stammered, pressing her hands to her
cheeks and shaking her head back and forth helplessly.
“That must be a first,” he remarked dryly. When her mouth opened momentarily, and then shut just
as quickly he actually chuckled. The sound of horses approaching distracted her from any retort,
however; Blair’s man Pierre and her own brother Gio came around the edge of the house from the
direction of the stables leading a pair of horses, one the color of pearls, and one a deep ruddy
chestnut.
“Quite a good hand, for a little lad,” Pierre called out, with a gesture at Gio. “Got a way with
horses, this chap.”
The small boy handed the reins of the handsome, white gelding to Blair, and piped. “Here you are,
Lord Winter. Brought your horse round for you.”
“Molto Bene,” Blair complimented, reaching down to ruffle the boy’s dark, unruly hair. With a great
show of dignity, the Duke reached into his doublet, withdrew a leather purse, and dipped his hand
inside. Celeste caught a flash of gold between his fingers a moment before dropped the coin into
her brother’s small, open palm. “For your troubles, kind sir,” Blair told the lad over his shoulder as
he swung into the saddle. With that, and a last seated bow to his newly intended, he clicked his
tongue and the gelding danced into a trot.
“You rode?” she asked after him, surprised. “You didn’t bring a coach?”
“I like the air,” he shrugged, bringing the horse back around in a slow, lazy circle in front of her. “I
don’t care much for coaches, if I’m honest.” Her look of consternation must have been beautific
because his lips twitched upward and he said, “No fears, my little girl. It really is not far to
Morestei. And I am good for a ride.” He glanced in Pierre’s direction, noted that he was now
grinning, mounted and ready, before turning twinkling pale eyes back to Celeste. “I shall call again
soon. Good night.”
“Good night,” she returned, feeling heat creep across her flesh, but he had already steered his
horse around and had kicked him into a purposeful gait. Pierre followed suit and within moments
had moved to his side. When they reached the lane, they urged their horses even faster, and
Celeste would almost swear she had heard them laughing raucously.
“Look Sister!” Gio exclaimed brightly, waving the large, gold coin wildly under her nose. “Lord
Winter gave me a whole Bigat!”
“It’s du’Winter,” she corrected absently. “That’s nice, Gio.”
And it was nice, she thought. It took a moment to process what had taken place that night, but in a
matter of moments, Celeste was wearing a grin that reached all the way to her ears. The
happiness of his stated intentions was threatening to burst her; she grabbed her little brother’s
hand and dragged him back toward the door.
“Come, Gio!” She bubbled excitedly. “Let us go and tell our family just how good Winter is going
to be for us this year!”
| I'Lupo Inverno |
| February 2010 |
| Serial Fiction |
| Copyright 2010 by Gabriel and Miriam Cole |
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| Capitolo Uno: La Prima Conquista del Lupo Invernale |
| It is peculiar that the birthrate in the nation of Dursk so heavily favors the female. In no other nation is this so; for every boy born healthy, four girls are born. Durskan customs, of course, have adapted over the centuries to accommodate this. Polygamy is the common way of life; rare indeed is the Durskan man, whether Lord or peasant, who has only one wife. The Durskan family, therefore, is delineated in a rigid system of castes based on the wishes and whims of the first, or senior, wife. It is she who decides the number of children each subsequent wife may bear; it is she who decides how those children are educated, raised, and in the case of daughters, Cusped. She has the right to name all the daughters, whether born of her body or not, and while a man may choose a subsequent wife against the senior’s wishes—he does so at the younger woman’s peril, for you will seldom find a woman in Dursk who does not carry a dagger about her person; and the custom of L’abito Bianco is practiced to this day. --from Grande Nazione di Durska, Vol. 5 by: Benedetto di Otello |
| Second Eraon of Men, Year 2246 Jindevin 17, Early Summer Twelve Years Past |