Page 27 of Til Death Duke Us Part
“The innkeeper, the maid. You didn’t even ask their names. And they deserve tips, but you offered none.”
He cocked his head to the side and took two lazy steps toward her. “I’m assuming you won’t allow a repeat of this morning’s glamour activities.”
“I would prefer you not swindle the guests of this inn, yes.”
“Then we must use our funds sparingly.”
“But their names,” she pleaded. “At least learn their names.”
“The innkeeper would likely throw a man traveling on foot right out the door. Wouldn’t even offer him the use of his stables.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The maid gave you one look then addressed every question and concern to me. If she’d respected you as my wife, she would have looked to you and found me useless.”
“And you know this how?”
“My mother and father. She was usually the one in charge, and women knew it. Everyone knows it, I think. Men wouldn’t be able to locate their own feet without the help of their wives.”
“You seem to know where your feet are.”
“I’m not married yet. But the maid doesn’t know that. It was outright disrespect. I’ll not stand for it. I’ll not apologize to you or them for what you consider rudeness.”
“You don’t treat me rudely.”
“Yes, well… you’re”—he blinked several times—“you.”
Hell. She was going to sleep with the man, and not in the snoring sense of the word. She was going to let him fuck her, and she was going to enjoy it. Every soul-damned moment of it.
“Now.” He took her hands and lifted her from the bed, sat her at the small table and chairs near the window, then sat across from her. “I’m famished. Let’s eat.” And eat he did.
She did, too, but without any attention to the meal’s taste. She wanted to study the duke. His clothes were just as threadbare as her own, but they had been fine at one point, and travel had wrinkled them almost to death. He tugged at his cravat between large bites of stew until he had it off and tossed carelessly on the floor. His corded throat worked with every swallow, and she felt a dribble of broth on her chin.
Humiliating. She cleaned it up with a serviette and tried to focus on her food.
But the little, deep hums of appreciation that rumbled from his throat were more than a distraction. They were a seduction.
She was a weak woman, and right now, she didn’t truly care if he was morally reprehensible, that she was only here to sabotage him, that he was a duke and she an alchemist’s daughter. Worse, a penniless grave digger.
No. She did care. She did! He was a haughty, grave-robbing thief, and she would not give into desire.
Yes. Mind made up. She dug into her stew and found a practical strand of conversation to tug. “The glamour work you do… for others?”
“Hm?” He downed a large swallow of wine.
She sipped at hers. “How often do you do it?”
“Not very. I can’t get much for it. Only other titled transcendents have that kind of money. Or alchemists, but they don’t want anything to do with illusions.”
Was that correct, though? Or an assumption? Percy had always envied titled men their power to distort reality.
“The alchemists don’t need my glamours.” He stirred a hunk of beef around in his bowl. “What they do is real. You should see these little toys my brother-in-law makes. Pure silver, and they walk and shift. A rosebud blooms and toy soldiers take aim. It’s… I hate to say it and”—he pointed his spoon at her—“you are never to tell him I said it, but they are marvels. And other alchemists, they build steam engines and communication devices and who knows what else. Even in death, they are busy with building marvels.”
“What you do is a marvel.”
He grunted, all but hid his face in his bowl. “A parlor trick. Transcendents are supposed to think we’re special because of our talent, that it chose us long ago and keeps choosing us, but sometimes it feels like…” He leaned back in his chair and lifted a hand, palm open toward the ceiling. An image appeared there—a man and woman dancing. The man had dirty-blond hair and the woman wore a blue velvet gown draped in sheer silk the color of a sunrise. They danced circles around his palm until he shut them up tight in a fist, crushing the illusion. He returned to his stew. “Nothing but an image. What good is that?”
What good was that? “For a moment, I was lost in the illusion. I’ve been cold and hungry and worried and ill and exhausted in the last few years of my life, but I think if I had a little image to warm myself with each night, it would take some of that away. Like a book come to life. Or a play. Have you considered selling your talents to the theater?”
