Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Hold, Lydia!” The gruff voice barks a command.
I was almost skewered by my own guard. She is perched over me in an instant, the tip of her blade a half-inch from my nose. She was going to stab me through the face, apparently, which is an incredibly savage instinct to follow.
A tall man steps over to me, appearing mostly as a shadow at this moment of inopportune introduction.
“Who are you?”
Lydia lowers her blade and mutters to me beneath her breath, “Lady Darken, meet your husband.”
My husband is tall, broad shouldered, and has handsome, but cruel features. His eyes are a dark gray hue and his hair is raven. It is glossy and it curls thickly over his forehead and down to his shoulders where it hangs long and now slightly wild. It might have been tied back behind his head at some stage, but it is not now. There are signs of his age in the silvering at his temples, and in the rougher condition of his skin. He is a man who has seen life, and fought it.
There is a scar running from his hairline near his right temple, all the way down over the bridge of his nose, to the left side of his mouth. It does not make him any less attractive, but it does make him look much more dangerous.
I thought men of his rank sat in plush offices and commanded others to die. Clearly he has risked death himself on more than one occasion. That means he must have taken life as well. I do not get the impression he is a nice person. He is not looking at me with a kind eye. His gaze runs up and down my body, finding me wanting in some fundamental way.
His lips are full, and they curl into a sneer when he looks at me. I know I am not dressed properly for such an introduction. Even if I had been, the manner of my arrival is dubious at best.
“Where is your mistress?”
He snaps the question at me, glowering as if I have offended him personally with my presence. I swallow my reaction and blink back tears of exhaustion. The flight was long and I am tired and already missing my home. It may be large, but it feels much smaller on the inside than this palatial expanse of a house does.
“I do not have a mistress.”
“I was expecting my bride, not a stray common girl. Though, you do have the speech of a noble, if not the bearing, or the dress.”
I made myself look as plain as possible for Maraline’s wedding. The problem is that now I look plain as possible as well as travel-weary. I need a nap. I need a hug. I need to go home.
He looks around, as if waiting for someone to provide an explanation. But there is nobody who cares to offer one right now. I am here on my own, so far away from where I come from that there is literally no way back. I am trapped by obligation, and so is this increasingly irritable-looking man.
“Lydia explained. I’m your bride,” I stammer.
“I know what she said,” he snarks. “But there must be some mistake. My bride should not look like an orphan from a Charles Dickens novel.”
He has a knowledge of ancient literature. That is interesting. He must be intelligent, as well as very annoyed.
“How did you come to end up behind that portrait?”
“I went into the bathroom and found the door,” I babble.
“You immediately found the secret door?”
“It’s not that well hidden.”
His brows head for his hairline at great speed. “Oh, is it not? How fascinating.”
“Well, obviously. I found it within minutes of getting here.” I am confused. How can he think it was well hidden if I found it so easily? It’s just logical.
“Why have you arrived in this…” his gaze runs up and down me, “…attire?” He says that word with a kind of derisive contempt for my clothing that cuts deep.
“I wore a simple dress because I was trying not to upstage my sister,” I explain. “We thought she had been selected to be your match. I wasn’t the one prepared to come today. It was never meant to be me.”
“Of course it was meant to be you,” he says impatiently. “The Artifice does not make mistakes.”
I do not reply to that. I know a verbal trap when I hear one. My sister caught me in them often enough, and I watched my very own mother fall into one just before I left. One cannot question the Artifice in any way, shape, or form.
“Do you not have anything to say?”
“I was taught not to speak back to my elders.”
He snorts with what must be laughter. “Sassy little thing, aren’t you.”
“Not that I have noticed, sir. It has never been remarked upon before.” I am still sitting on the floor, wondering if I should get up.