"Good Lord, Marius has brought a woman among us." Rich sounds for all the nasal inflection of the Gallic language-nobility, then. Another voice, less cultured but still well-schooled, something familiar in its depth, answered: "Not gaudy enough to be a whore-"
"-unless she's a damned expensive one." A third voice, laughing. A woman's voice, with rougher tones and perhaps an edge of jealousy.
"Marius can't afford that. How'd he get her through the front door?" The second voice again, cheerful in its near-recognizable growl, before the first interrupted with, "Hush. They're here."
Belinda doubted her escort had heard the exchange; through the constant low noise of the Lutetian club, she was surprised she had. But then, it was necessary for her to pick out even the faintest comments concerning her. There were times her life depended on it.
This was not such a time-not yet-but even so, the place in which Belinda found herself was not one she was accustomed to. A gentleman's club, where women were not meant to be allowed at all, though prostitutes were of sufficient use that a blind eye was usually turned to them. A decent woman, certainly, would never find herself here, escorted by a courting gentleman or not. She had hesitated outside the door, drawing on Marius's arm to ask, "Are you certain, m'sieur? You will do damage to my reputation."
Marius had looked down at her, and she saw his intent clear in his eyes. Her reputation was safe: he intended to marry her. Even, perhaps, to make her an equal partner in his marriage, in his business. Bringing her into his club was a risk, but one he was prepared to take in order to lay himself before her as a man who trusted a woman's strength and intellect. Belinda admired him as much as she thought him foolish. "Very well," she murmured. "I look forward to this adventure."
Marius's smile had been tempered by a wink. He and Belinda had held their heads high, Belinda's gaze haughty and direct as the doorman began a strangled protest. He had faltered before her confidence and lowered his own eyes, allowing them passage into the club.
And now they came the last steps through smoky air, to the table Marius's friends had claimed. The club itself was extravagant, booths built against the walls and cushioned with red-dyed leather. Each booth stretched to the club ceiling, heavy velvet hangings muffling the overall noise and making the booths into private spaces. Lattice-worked windows behind mesh lace broke the monotony of velvet, but thick silk cords hung low into the booths, ready to close soft walls over the windows.
Manservants, well-dressed and discreet, carried bottles of expensive wine and crystal glasses to the patrons. Those who wished less privacy sat in closely placed chairs, some surrounding the fire, others scattered in small groups throughout the main floor of the club. Everyone had paused in conversation to watch Marius escort Belinda by; it was part of how she had heard his friends' commentary. Once she was past, talk struck up again, most often about her, the former topics forgotten. A smile played at Belinda's mouth. She had hoped for recognition in the Lutetian social circles. This was not exactly how she had intended to achieve it, but it would almost certainly prove effective.
The three gathered in the booth watched her with open curiosity and, in the case of the single woman, clear hostility. Belinda's eyebrows rose in surprise.
The woman was extraordinary. Even dressed-extraordinarily-in what appeared to be men's men's clothes, and not even fashionable men's clothes, but rather peasant breeches and a wide-necked blouse that had once been white but was now yellowed with age and use, she was absurdly, almost obscenely, feminine. Her black hair was cropped ridiculously short, exposing her ears and nape, a tiny fringe over her forehead. She had small, well-shaped ears, pierced with gold loops, the only adornment she wore. Her eyes were wide and dark; the startling shortness of her hair made them seem larger and made the bones of her face even more delicate. Her mouth was drawn in a challenging scowl. clothes, and not even fashionable men's clothes, but rather peasant breeches and a wide-necked blouse that had once been white but was now yellowed with age and use, she was absurdly, almost obscenely, feminine. Her black hair was cropped ridiculously short, exposing her ears and nape, a tiny fringe over her forehead. She had small, well-shaped ears, pierced with gold loops, the only adornment she wore. Her eyes were wide and dark; the startling shortness of her hair made them seem larger and made the bones of her face even more delicate. Her mouth was drawn in a challenging scowl.
It took a conscious effort of will to glance away from the woman, to not allow astonishment and envy to darken her own gaze. Belinda saw surprise, then offense, from the corner of her eye, as the woman realised she'd been dismissed, or written off as merely ordinary. It was a dangerous sally to make: the woman would be accustomed to men and women alike being unable to look anywhere but at her. She would be used to tired and trite acclamations of her beauty, expecting them even as she judged poorly those who offered them. To brush her off would make her either an enemy or an ally for life; as of yet, neither she nor Belinda knew which path she would take.
The man across the table from her was a stocky youth, broad-shouldered and broad-waisted both, yet without carrying too much weight. His hair was sandy, full of thick curls, and his eyes hazel, forthright, and shockingly familiar: it was the same man whom she'd shared a tavern bed with, weeks earlier, all his baseness gone and replaced by well-cut clothes and a clean smile. Belinda seized control of the pang that shot through her heart, refusing to allow herself so much as a clutch at Marius's arm. She herself looked as different as he, even more so, her dress no longer adding two stone to her weight. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, though his gaze was frankly appraising as it swept over her. He was more handsome than might have been expected from her first encounter with him, though he had nothing at all of the woman's beauty, and seemed all the plainer for being seen after her. He looked to be an honest sort, a man who would say whatever came to mind without a moment's thought for consequences.
And she knew already how untrue that must be. Unexpectedly, she found herself liking him for it, though she was not given to impromptu judgments for friendships. He clearly had cunning in him, and the impulse to like that could be dangerous to her. For a moment she cast thoughts to that night, wondering if he'd made her laugh; if anything, it was her laugh that might give her away. But he hadn't, and until she could learn more about him, her only need was to remain certain he didn't recognize her, and that could be best accomplished by playing her role as Beatrice Irvine fully.
"And has Marius found love at last?" The second man at the table sat forward, taking himself out of concealing shadows and into the light. "Who is she, Marius? Is this the woman who's had you addled the last two weeks?" He laced his fingers together on the table, long fine fingers with bone structure nearly as elegant as a woman's, and lifted his eyebrows.
He was red-headed without being sallow, a golden cast to his skin and to his hair brought out by the capped torches that lit the club. In that light, his eyes reflected gold, as if they had no color of their own. He was tall, even sitting, and full of grace. Belinda caught herself staring, and was grateful when Marius, proudly, said, "It is. May I present the Lady Irvine. Beatrice, these are my friends. Eliza Beaulieu, Lord Asselin, and-"
The second man's fingers loosened from each other, a slight movement, and straightened, staying Marius. He saw the gesture; Belinda was certain she was not intended to as he finished, "And Eliza's brother, James."
"M'mselle," Belinda murmured, dropping a curtsey. "M'sieur. My lord. It is a pleasure to meet you all."
"Yes." The coarseness was gone from Eliza's voice, replaced by cool disdain and vowels as expensive as the ones James produced. "I'm sure it is."
"Don't be nasty, Liz," Asselin said. "They've gotten used to you. They can get used to another woman, and so can you."
"At least I dress the part," Liz snapped. A curious silence fell as the other four party members looked at her, examining her clothing and her hair.
"What part," James finally asked, as mildly as he possibly could, "would that be, exactly? Sister." Eliza's scowl deepened and James flashed a grin, gesturing for Belinda and Marius to sit. "Come on, then. No need to stand on ceremony just because you've got a woman now." He scooted over until he bumped into Eliza, sending her out of her sprawl and into a more dignified position. "Asselin, move," he commanded, and the stocky man did, taking James's former place at the back of the booth. Marius offered Belinda a hand as she sat, deliberately allowing her to move in to the place across from James so she wouldn't have to face Eliza directly. Belinda saw what he was doing and smiled. Eliza saw it, too, and her glower darkened further.
"All right, now, tell us how you've bewitched him in just two meetings," Asselin demanded. "We can all see some of it-" His gaze dropped to her bosom, an entirely matter-of-fact and friendly leer. "But his wretched mother's been trying the last three years to get him married off and not a woman's caught his eye."
Belinda felt Beatrice draw around her again, stiffening her spine a little and making her chin lift. Felt her own reservations crop up as Gregori's death came back to her, as the night of dancing in Aria Magli turned cool in her blood. Those were not real things, she told herself, coincidence and drink, nothing more. But they framed her response in ice, making the provincial of her: "In Lanyarch, my lord Asselin, bewitchment isn't a word used lightly."
Oh, yes: the noblewoman whose skin she wore would make a fine player in Lutetian politics, one part warm and approachable and one part Lanyarchan provenance. Half the court would think she could be used and the other half would want to use her. Asselin rolled his eyes at that country rudeness, but James again made a small gesture, lifting his fingers from the table fractionally. It stayed Asselin as effectively as it had Marius, and the stocky lord let out an explosive, apologetic breath.
"Forgive me, Lady Irvine. I spoke lightly. I confess to knowing very little of your homeland. Perhaps a discourse on the topic would lend itself to my greater understanding of Marius's sudden"-he glanced at Marius, whose expression was guarded and warning, then at James, who held one eyebrow in a faint arch-"infatuation," Asselin finished with all due diplomacy. "Perhaps I'll even find myself moved to visit there myself, and find as fine a wife as Marius seems to have done."
"Surely you speak too hastily, my lord," Belinda said with a faint smile. "I'm a widow as of yet, and not a wife again."
"He does speak hastily," Marius growled. "Leave off, Sacha. Jealousy ill becomes you."
"Oh, come, Marius, you wouldn't have brought her here if y-"
"Sacha." James interrupted, the name as mild as his question to Liz had been. Asselin held another irritated breath and let it go with an outward splay of his thick fingers. There was more argument in him than Belinda had expected, more wit and therefore more reason to be cautious.
"If I did not think the lady might enjoy the finest company Lutetia has to offer..." Marius said blandly. "Although if this is the best I can do, perhaps I should consider moving. They're not usually this dreadful, lady, I promise you that."
"No." Belinda smiled, watching Eliza's eyes darken with resentment. "But I've unbalanced your equilibrium, haven't I? I'm sure you've all known each other-since childhood?"
Three of the four looked accusingly at the fourth; Marius lifted his hands in a supplication of innocence. "I've told her nothing, lords and ladies. Can I help it if she's of a quicker wit than the rest of us combined?"
"Speak for yourself." Eliza looked Belinda over as if she were a side of meat gone bad. Belinda's eyebrows rose very slightly, wondering at the distaste behind the other woman's attitude.
"Is it only that I've disrupted the power balance?" she asked Eliza, forthright curiosity overcoming subtlety. "It must be appealing, having three handsome men ready to jump to your service. But is another woman really so challenging?" She smiled, knowing she was very likely setting the scales against herself, but Eliza's enmity was worth the blank anger that slid through the stunning woman's eyes. "Do you doubt your position here that much, mademoiselle?" She was aware of the fascinated, noisy silence of the three men, and knew Eliza must be equally aware. There was one more step she could take, a final taunt she could press, but she waited instead, watching nuances of expression flick across Eliza's face.
Eliza finally gave the only answer she could, moments before silence stretched out unbearably. "Of course not." She inhaled, about to make further excuse, then turned her head away and snapped her fingers, gesturing for wine. The soft sound broke tension in the booth and laughter replaced challenge. Sacha pressed her about Lanyarch, and Belinda answered, more than half a mind given to her part. The four she sat with had been friends long enough that they were given to answering questions put to another; long enough that they finished sentences together, often using precisely the same words. Eliza's vowels never slipped from the upper-class accent; it was the only detail that left Belinda uncertain. The woman's dress was outrageous, her hair unbelievable-many women wore their hair that short, but only so extravagantly coifed wigs could be more comfortably worn over it. Belinda had never seen a woman dare public scrutiny with her hair shorn. That she did laid to rest a lingering question Belinda had; only a woman who had a protector of great power would buck convention and wear her hair in such an astonishing style. Even so, there would be a story behind it.
Belinda nearly laughed at her own interest. It could wait, though. It would would wait, while she bared herself to the four friends, pouring out a life's history for Beatrice Irvine. It was she who must be accepted; even for a union she never meant to consummate with Marius, the muster she had to pass was not the approval of his mother or father, but of these three, a family he had made for himself. This trio represented the reason she had selected Marius as her target, though to have been introduced to them so quickly was beyond her expectation. Once she'd passed the barrier they created she could feed her own curiosity, perhaps most particularly regarding Asselin and the life he led, as duplicitous as her own. wait, while she bared herself to the four friends, pouring out a life's history for Beatrice Irvine. It was she who must be accepted; even for a union she never meant to consummate with Marius, the muster she had to pass was not the approval of his mother or father, but of these three, a family he had made for himself. This trio represented the reason she had selected Marius as her target, though to have been introduced to them so quickly was beyond her expectation. Once she'd passed the barrier they created she could feed her own curiosity, perhaps most particularly regarding Asselin and the life he led, as duplicitous as her own.
"No," she said for the second time, to Sacha, letting exasperation and amusement fill her voice. "We do not not still paint ourselves orange and blue and go into battle naked. Lanyarchan nights are too cold for such things." still paint ourselves orange and blue and go into battle naked. Lanyarchan nights are too cold for such things."
"I'm crushed," Sacha replied. "I've always hoped we might pick a war with Aulun so we could see the northern savages in their full and painted glory."
Belinda leaned in, dropping her voice to confidentiality. Sacha, an easy mark, shifted to hear her better. To her delight, the other three, Eliza with a degree of reluctance that was overcome by interest, leaned in as well, leaving them all clearly within hearing distance as Belinda infused her voice with both gentleness and mockery. "I assure you, the women of Lanyarch have long since been too sensible to join such war parties. I can only gather, then, that you have an abiding desire to see the full glory of a naked man. I cannot promise the wonder that's a Lanyarch man, but if you are truly desperate for the sight of armies of naked men, I suggest you visit the baths, my lord Asselin."
Asselin spluttered. James threw his head back and laughed, pure as bells. Belinda sat back, smugness playing around her mouth. Beside her, Marius puffed with pride and delight, his own cackles of amusement a deeper counterpoint to James's laughter. Even Eliza's mouth curved with disapproving humour as she poured Asselin another glass of wine.
"You lost that one, Sacha." The final score was voiced by James, who shook his head, grinning, and gestured at Eliza. "All around, sister dearest, and let's have a drink to Marius's good taste in women."
The request slowed Eliza, her gaze darting to Belinda before she shrugged, an expression built more with the faint twist of her mouth and a flare of her nostrils than with a lift of her shoulders. Belinda saw it; the men did not. In response, in gratitude and in acknowledgment, Belinda lowered her head and eyes very briefly. Another degree of tension faded away, given voice by the full measure of wine Eliza poured into Belinda's glass. Belinda curled her fingers around the stem, thanks offered in the lifting of the glass and the glance through her eyelashes. Submission, not challenge: Belinda had no desire to oust Eliza from her family of friends. To do so would offer far too much disruption, and Belinda's purpose was to infiltrate, not destroy.
"To young love and new friends," James suggested. The toast was echoed around the table, music of crystal tapping against itself cutting through the warm thick air for a few seconds and lingering as the five drank.
"We make a habit," James said when the toast was drunk, "of meeting here on Monday nights. I think I speak for all of us when I say you would be welcome to come again, Lady Irvine. And not only because we fear we might never see our Marius again if we failed to extend the invitation." He grinned and lifted his glass to Marius, who returned both expression and gesture before they drank.
Satisfaction broke through Belinda's breathing, making her feel as though she had been taking shallow, careful breaths all evening. It loosened a band of risk from around her heart and she inhaled deeply. "So I've passed," she said, a little surprised to hear herself voice the words aloud. James and Sacha exchanged startled looks and laughter, while Marius stiffened with indignation and Eliza slumped with wry acceptance. Belinda found a smile in herself and bumped her elbow into Marius's. "Don't be ridiculous," she murmured to him. "It was a test. You know it as well as I do." To the others, she said, "A test that I'm both relieved and pleased to have passed. You're a somewhat overwhelming lot."
"You do a remarkable job of not seeming overwhelmed," Asselin said drily. "So remarkable, in fact, that neither your wit nor your beauty appear to be in the slightest bit damaged by your quaking fear of us."
"Beauty, my lord? Without meaning to seem trite, beauty is only diminished or granted in the eye of the beholder." Belinda hesitated, glancing at Eliza. "At least in my case." She let a trace of honest envy creep into the words, and Eliza's eyes narrowed, although not in anger. "I think if you find me beautiful you have become too jaded by the presence of genuine beauty in your life. I know where I can and cannot hold a candle, my lord." Belinda looked back at Asselin, then let herself smile, bright and quick. "I will grant you, though, that my wit is nearly unmatchable. Even when the company has me quivering in my boots."
"Enough," James said with an amused snort. "As I've said, Lady Irvine, we'll have you, if you'll have us. What say you?"
Belinda let stillness fill her, its soothing darkness calming her from the centre of her being to her extremities. It felt cool enough that she wondered if the wine in her glass might chill slightly from her own extending reserve. She knew her answer; there was only one she could reasonably give, but she needed the few moments away from Beatrice, to examine her own position and what she was about to broach.
The red-haired man sitting across from her was the linchpin of the foursome; it was he whom they acknowledged in subtle ways as their leader. He made the toasts, made the invitations; he made the other three answer to his will by nothing more than a tiny gesture of his hand. His long fingers were steepled in front of him now, eyebrows lifted as he waited for Belinda's answer. He was the reason Belinda had been permitted into the club on Marius's arm.
Belinda let stillness go in a quiet, deep exhalation, and laid her cards on the table. "My lord Javier," she said into waiting silence, "I would be honoured."
5
Dismay made sharp by anger penetrated Belinda down to her bones, rolling in waves off the men and woman she sat with. Accusation hung in the air; Javier turned his gaze, mild and direct, to Marius.
"No," Belinda said before Marius could protest. "He's not at fault, my lord. Even with our queen in exile we know what the heir to our throne looks like." Her voice remained quiet, but sharpened with intensity. "We know what the true heir to the Aulunian throne looks like." She felt the passion behind her own words, pure conviction as spoken by a noblewoman whose religion had been suppressed by a calculating and heartless foreign queen. Javier lifted his head sharply, flexing his fingers outward in the same small gesture that had stilled his compatriots. Belinda, abashed, ducked her head and turned her face to the side in apology. Her heart pounded too hard, blood coppery and thick in her throat. She tried to swallow the taste back, but it stayed lodged there, and she realised with slow surprise that she was genuinely afraid.
"You are too bold, my lady Beatrice." The reprimand in Javier's voice was as profound as any Belinda had heard from her father or even her queen. It was nothing in the words, themselves innocuous enough, nor the tone, as mild as milk. Rather it was the combination, and her own personal awareness of who it was she faced. That, Belinda thought, was the measure of true power and strength. She hunched her shoulders, her belly tightening, and tried not to squirm under Javier's steady gaze. Finally she whispered, "I apologize, my lord," and Javier lifted his chin with satisfaction.
"We were pleased with our charade, my lady. Why did you not let it continue?"
Belinda dared a glance up, unable to judge from his voice whether the "we" he employed was royal or encompassed the other three at the table. Eliza's dark gaze, unreadable, caught her with a stab of guilt. Asselin, to Javier's other side, watched with a faint smile. Marius would not meet her eyes. Belinda took in a shaking breath and forced herself to straighten her spine. She saw a glimpse of something in Javier's eyes. Approval? Amusement? The other three were more easily read than the prince.
"I did not like to begin a relationship under false pretenses, my lord." Internal amusement at her own audacity boiled over for a moment, breaking through habitual stillness. Belinda dropped her eyes, to don the apparel of Beatrice again before she looked up. "Had I not recognized you, the power would have been yours to betray, but I...I prefer an honest hand, my lord. It is, I am told, a Lanyarchan weakness." She quavered a smile, and, not receiving one in return, let it fall away in discomfort.
"You might have lied," Javier said. "Might have kept up the pretense, confessing great surprise and shock at the truth when it was granted you."
Beatrice, not Belinda, stared across the table at the prince in forthright astonishment. She heard Asselin's chuckle, and saw Eliza roll her eyes in disgust. "It's not in her, Jav," Marius said from beside her, as quiet as could be. "I told you. She hasn't got dissembling in her."
Oh, Marius. The thought struck through Belinda with a bright ache, making her breath catch with its clarity. The thought struck through Belinda with a bright ache, making her breath catch with its clarity. You sweet, innocent fool. There is no such thing as a woman without deceit, no more than there is a man. You sweet, innocent fool. There is no such thing as a woman without deceit, no more than there is a man.
"I did not mean to give offense, my lord," she heard herself whispering. "I am not good at play-acting. Please. Forgive me if I've gone too far." Belinda lifted her gaze again, letting it soften in hope and fear. Her father could withstand the pleading expression, but most men, even many women, mellowed under it.
Javier was no exception. He snorted, a sound of exasperation that meant the moment of tension was over, and waved an elegant, long-fingered hand, as if clearing the air of deception. Eliza rolled her eyes again and Belinda's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "Too clever by half, Marius," Javier said. "This one's too clever by half."
"Yes, my prince," Marius said with such complete obsequience that it was clear he masked overwhelming smugness. Laughter broke, clearing away the remaining strain that lingered around the table. Javier sighed, leaning forward.
"It is occasionally tedious-"
"Occasionally?" Asselin asked with a snort very much like Javier's of a moment earlier. Javier shot him a look of exasperation and Asselin widened his eyes in pretended innocence, then made himself ostentatiously busy pouring wine. "Frequently tedious," Javier said, acknowledging Asselin drily even as he looked at Belinda, "to be royalty, my lady Beatrice."
One corner of Belinda's mouth quirked. "I wouldn't know, my lord." She tried, very briefly, to reach for the idea of a world where she would know, but she had put away those dreams and imaginations so long ago that it was as if they lay behind a thick glass wall. They were visible, but obscured and twisted by the warp of glass, no more reachable than the moon.
Her male companions laughed. Eliza sat back, sprawling in the booth seat, her shoulder brushing Javier's as she reached for and held her wineglass.
"Think of all the aspects you don't care for of nobility," Javier suggested, "and multiply them tenfold."
Belinda's eyebrows lifted a little. "Wealth, a good home, food on my table, warm nights? My lord, even the most dull evening spent embroidering is a vast improvement over sleeping with the pigs. I wed nobility, minor as it may have been, and have found very little cause for complaint in it."
Her eyes were on Javier, but it was Eliza she watched. Eliza whose shoulder pressed into Javier's a little harder, and whose mouth became a thin line. Her gaze dropped, a smirk flaring her nostrils before she looked up again, full of easy confidence and dislike for Belinda. Belinda allowed herself a tiny burst of satisfaction, deep inside. Unlike her friends, the stunning woman had not been to the manner born; gutter vowels and rough words were natural to her, not the cultivated tones she'd no doubt learned from Javier himself.
And the prince seemed to hold no awareness of Eliza's wordless mockery. Belinda wondered if he had ever seen the other woman's real home, whether he could truly appreciate the difference between his station and Eliza's. Whether he grasped on any useful level that sleeping with the pigs was not a colourful expression, but that people did it, for their own warmth and to keep safe the lives of animals upon which their own lives depended. Belinda did; Belinda had lived that life more than once, out of necessity. But that was Belinda, and not the role she played; Beatrice had been born landed, and not come from a place that low. Belinda could see no way to use the common experience as a bridge between herself and Eliza, not without damning her own persona as a liar.
Javier, as Belinda watched, leaned back into Eliza with the affection one might show a large dog: rough and tumble, awareness of her presence without acknowledgment of her astounding beauty. Belinda thought she was right: years of exposure had dulled the men to their companion's comeliness. She doubted very much that Eliza was equally unaware of the prince's charms.
He wasn't as pretty as Marius. The ginger hair and accompanying complexion lacked Marius's warmth and ruddy health. His eyes were yellow in the firelight, absorbing its color rather than holding forth with any of their own. He was more delicate, more elegant, than the young merchant sitting at her side, and next to Asselin's sturdy form he looked elfin. Eliza, at his other side, made an excellent dark mirror to his grace; if she were nobility, Belinda imagined they would already be wed. She thought Eliza might imagine the same thing, and was sure the idea had barely crossed Javier's mind.
He was studying her now, pale eyebrows drawn down in thought. "Are you chastising me, Lady Irvine?"
"If you feel sufficient guilt in your station that my comment strikes you as chastisement, my lord, then yes, I probably am." Belinda arched her eyebrows slightly, knowing she lay down a challenge. Javier's eyes narrowed. Beside her, Marius inhaled a deep breath of caution, but the words were already spoken, and she met Javier's eyes with her own forthright gaze, waiting.
The air between them...flexed. Belinda saw the subtle hand motion, the stretching of Javier's fingers that had stilled not only his lifetime companions, but even herself, not so long before. But this time it accompanied something more, a test of Belinda's will versus Javier's own. It was as if he put his shoulder into a stubborn, stuck door, expecting it to give way with a single shove. Belinda had felt men wield power before, knew the confidence that came with a lifetime of making decisions and being respected.
This was more. This was imposition, Javier's will intending domination not through fear or respect, but simply because he could. And even that didn't go far enough; Belinda had known men like that, too, who forced themselves and their desires on others because they had the strength that others did not. Javier seemed to have none of the impulse toward cruelty that such men-like Gregori-had, nor any apparent lack of confidence that often fed the need to domineer. This was less hurtful than those things; this was merely an extension of the man, an extension that edged on familiarity. He expected to triumph; he would, without question, triumph. His centre of confidence held, waiting for her to break.
Instead, she understood.
It felt like the stillness. Externally imposed, active rather than protective, but it carried that calm centre of invulnerability. Nothing could touch that force of will, and because nothing could touch it, no one could resist it. The thrill of recognition shot through Belinda's body in sensual excitement, bringing on a shiver. Never in her life had she felt anything like her stillness within another; never, in fact, had she even imagined she might might encounter such a subtle and personalized power. Her pulse jumped in her throat, excitement desiring to overwhelm her facade of calm. She pushed it down, tingling with curiosity and enthusiasm, and for a moment another emotion swam over her, as it had done in the Maglian pub. Expectation radiated from Eliza and the other two men, and from Eliza, too, a sense of smug satisfaction. They knew, all of them, that Belinda would succumb to the prince's will and offer up an apology. It was as sure as the sun rising in the east. encounter such a subtle and personalized power. Her pulse jumped in her throat, excitement desiring to overwhelm her facade of calm. She pushed it down, tingling with curiosity and enthusiasm, and for a moment another emotion swam over her, as it had done in the Maglian pub. Expectation radiated from Eliza and the other two men, and from Eliza, too, a sense of smug satisfaction. They knew, all of them, that Belinda would succumb to the prince's will and offer up an apology. It was as sure as the sun rising in the east.
Belinda lifted her chin, her fingers wandering to stroke the hollow of her throat, vulnerable and inviting. Javier shifted his weight forward, barely enough to perceive, and Belinda held her breath, judging the spark in the air between them.
It didn't flex again, Javier's will already loosened, but the core-so different different, what she felt from him, compared to the stillness she had learned to hide herself in. He had chosen to channel his energies another way, into activity. That dynamic core within him pressed its advantage, seeing Belinda showing weakness in the most flattering form a woman could offer it, sexual availability. She could feel, almost as if she were in his skin, the heat of want that spread from his groin and fed his hidden strength. Belinda encouraged it a few seconds, retreating into herself. Javier leaned forward another fraction of an inch.
Belinda wrapped golden stillness around herself so nothing could touch her, and met the prince's gaze without fear.
Javier flinched.
He flinched, then straightened, mouth slightly open with surprise. He wet his lips, tongue caught between his teeth for an instant, before a slow, appreciative smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Then I had best reconsider my complaints, had I not? Perhaps I speak of things that I do not well understand."
Eliza's scowl darkened again; beside her, Belinda felt Marius slump in unsurprised dismay. There was danger in introducing any woman to a friend, but especially when the friend was a prince. Marius had not expected to lose her so quickly, but he felt the change in energy between them, knew something invisible had passed between them, and laid open a new path for them to follow. Then he squared his shoulders, jaw set with determination. Belinda almost smiled at his resolution: he could not have said it more clearly if he'd spoken the words out loud. Javier could not be expected to wed a minor noble from a country so ill thought of it was often called Northern Aulun rather than by its own name. Marius would not give up his own hopes yet. He would fight for the lady's hand, and only accept defeat graciously when he had no other choice. Belinda admired him for it even as the prince's curious energy drew her toward him. Only Asselin watched without changing demeanor, the lying, raw honesty that defined him in Belinda's mind seeming to shield him from the shock of a woman crossing swords with his prince.
"It's a rare man who admits he may not fully understand a thing." Belinda chose her words carefully. "My father would have said, a wise man." She imagined Robert preaching the line, and let her own laughter echo through the stillness she still held wrapped around her. It warmed her without coming close to the surface, without darkening her eyes or curving her mouth. Javier inclined his head very slightly.
"I thank you, Lady Beatrice. I doubt I have the years for wisdom, but God granting, perhaps someday I'll grow into it. And if lovely women are to dispense it, so much the better for all of us." He flashed a grin, disarming and bright, at his companions, and they slowly loosened their hold on confusion and suspicion. All but Eliza, whose sulk deepened. She had no more idea than the men did what had passed between Belinda and the prince, but her position was already jeopardized. She would trust nothing of Belinda without a direct order, and even then would keep one eye on her purse. For a fleeting moment Belinda considered taking her aside to promise her own innocence in matters of pursuing the prince, but to make a liar of herself with actions would do no one any good.
Javier was speaking; Belinda turned her attention back to him, replaying the words she'd heard without listening in her mind. There is to be an opera this Friday evening, There is to be an opera this Friday evening, he'd said. "I dare say between the four of us we might scrape up enough to add a ticket to our party," he suggested. "If the Lady Irvine might care to join us?" he'd said. "I dare say between the four of us we might scrape up enough to add a ticket to our party," he suggested. "If the Lady Irvine might care to join us?"
The Lady Irvine turned her gaze on her erstwhile companion of the evening. Marius's cheeks were flushed with more crimson than the heat of the club warranted, but he bowed his head gracefully. "Would you accompany me, lady?" The penultimate word was stressed very faintly, as if the tiny declaration of possession would go unnoticed by the others if he was careful to bring only a little attention to it.
"The opera," Belinda echoed, both amused and embarrassed to hear a thread of genuine apprehension in her voice. "I don't know operas, my lord." She did, though only in the abstract; fables in music, she'd read, with extraordinary songs and costuming. The art form had been birthed in Parna, and only lately; to find it burgeoning in Lutetia surprised her, for all that Gallin's capital city thought well of itself as a centre for art. "What does one wear?"
Pure malice, disguised as delight, from Eliza: "Don't worry, darling." Her smile was so sharp it made Belinda want to laugh. "I'll help you."
Not even the men missed that. They exchanged guarded looks, and Javier cleared his throat. "Perhaps between my sister and I, we might provide some assistance." His teasing reminder of their purported relationship only fanned Eliza's anger. She sat back, eyes snapping and bright, and made a short chopping gesture with her right hand. For the first time Belinda noticed jewelry there: a ring carved of stone, something pale enough to nearly blend against her translucent skin. Alabaster or maybe marble, Belinda thought clinically, and wondered who had given her the bauble.
"As you will," Eliza said. As if her desire could override the prince's, Belinda thought, but it wasn't her purpose to destroy the group. Not yet at least. She didn't know enough about them. They might prove more useful unified than they would separated.
"I would never presume to doubt the prince's taste or knowledge of women's clothing," she began. Javier let out a snort of laughter and lifted his wineglass.