Chapter 3: Wedding Fireworks (Part 2 of 2)

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Chapter 3: Wedding Fireworks (Part 2 of 2)

The Great Hall of Steersberg Manor brimmed with the merriment and lively chatter of servants, townspeople and friends from Steersberg's neighbouring estates. They cheered, danced and drank to the minstrels' performances, the little episode from the morning ceremony already slipping from their wine-intoxicated minds. So long as their bellies were filled and the music continued to play, Lady Amelia's extraordinary demeanour was the business of the lord of Steersberg, not theirs.

At the head table, Amelia sat quietly next to Drake, barely touching her food. If one didn't know better, they might have thought her a shy maiden nervous about her wedding night.

The awkward silence between them had stretched morning to night, through their wedding feast and celebrations. Not a word had passed between them since Drake growled "You bitch" after her hand had connected with his cheek in the most... ungentle way.

Song after song, Amelia peeked at him out of the corner of her eyes. Her curious gaze traversed over the blackness of his short, wavy hair, his straight nose, and the slight curve of his lips, down to the wide expanse of his chest and thick sinewy arms, their shapes just visible beneath his silken shirt. Was this how a handsome man looked?

Marge was right; he had a nice smile. Yet the one he wore now did not touch his eyes. For that, she was guilty.

Secretly, she cared not for bows and curtsies. She only wanted to irritate Drake so he would send her back to Marlborough. But striking him—or anyone for that matter—was never part of the plan. It was the way that woman in red looked at him, the way he looked back at her, and the way she touched him... They made her angry.

She was the daughter of a duke, the new Emira of Steersberg. Though she did not want this marriage, he could not shame her by publicly displaying his affections for another. A nagging voice at the back of her mind kept telling her that 'shame' may not have been the real reason for her outburst. What a silly voice. What else could it be?

As if sensing her ogling, Drake broke the silence. "Care for a dance, Amelia?" He extended a hand to her in invitation and his voice was gentle. Gentle with an undisguised trace of weariness.

Amelia stared at his hand for a long minute, as if his fingers were the claws of a sea monster. No, she might be his wife in name, but she refused to be any more than that. She shook her head.

"Drake," the woman in red called to him from her seat just below the dais. Amelia glanced up to see her curling a finger to beckon him forth. Was the woman giggling and blushing from wine? Or from the whispers of men that leant in close to her? Or from the sight of Drake? It was hard to tell.

Unlike the dispassionate, polite invitation he'd extended a bare minute ago, Drake responded to Isabella with an easy smile and descended the raised platform of the dais to meet her. "Lady Isabella," he greeted, laying a hand on her shoulder as if intimate touches like such were as natural as the air they breathed.

As soon as Isabella rose from her seat, she stumbled—into his arms. He righted the giggling girl but did not push her away. Instead, he slid his hand to the small of her back and led her to the space in the centre of the hall.

Soon, Drake and Isabella were turning, dipping and spinning in tune to the music, the skirt of her red gown swirling about her feet with every graceful move of her hips and legs. What a scene to behold. With the exception of a few, all attention in the room were drawn to them—the tall handsome lord and the alluring dark beauty. They were a match made in heaven, unlike...

A sudden taste of bitterness rushed to Amelia's tongue as she admired them. Isabella was the sort of lady she never was and never could be. The sort that walked and spoke properly like a proper lady. The sort that could sing, dance and probably sew. The sort that people praised and adored. The sort that made a perfect mistress of an estate, without the pompousness of the noblewomen in Lyons.

Amelia had no mother to teach her what a good lady should and shouldn't do. She gave up weaving and sewing when the needle poked more holes in her fingers than the cloth. She played hide-and-seek with every dance and singing master during lesson time, and she hated the way they looked upon her with scorn. At last, her father gave in.

When she ran in the fields with her feet bare and swam in the lake in her chemise, he didn't say a word. When she spent whole afternoons in the stables and came back in the house with sticks of hay in her hair, he didn't say a word. If the Duke didn't say a word, who else would?

Amelia could no longer ignore the sneaky glances in her direction. Servants, guests, all whispering between themselves and wondering why she was not the one twirling about with Drake. She straightened her back and held her chin up. Why should she be an object of mockery and pity on a wedding night she never even wanted to have?

Another spin, and Isabella's skirt turned into a blur of red.

Her husband might sleep with another woman tonight, and every other night in their marriage. But she wasn't about to let them have all the fun.

* * *

"Did your mother not like me, Drake? Why couldn't our families have betrothed us?"

Why? As if he knew why.

"You don't want her, do you?" Isabella pointed her chin in the direction of the head table. "I could still be yours... hic. I could be yours tonight. It's your wedding night... You should be happy... I can make you happy, Drake..."

Drake was in no mood for Isabella's drunken babbling. He was beyond frustrated with this wedding, with Amelia, and even with himself.

He took immense pride in his ability to control his temper and tolerate annoyances. It was a necessary ability for a merchant as successful as he, for wasting time on minor nuisances meant losing out on profits from things that really mattered. How serious was a slap in the grand scheme of things?

Yet he struggled to suppress his anger towards Amelia. There was no reason for her actions that morning. That cursed wench.

"Ow."

The soft moan of pain brought his attention back to Isabella. In his inner turmoil he had gripped her hand and pinched her waist far too hard. He hastily relaxed his grip.

"Drake, are you all right?" Isabella looked up at him, her eyes full of concern.

He lifted her hand to his lips and murmured his apology against her knuckle. "Aye, sorry."

With another spin and another look into Isabella's beautifully kohl-lined eyes, he released her, just in time to see Amelia tugging her maid up from a resting spot against a marble column and leaving the hall in a rush. Mayhap it was a good thing she left, for he was tired of playing the silent game with a childish wife.

Drake glanced about the hall, looking for his friends. Without Amelia here, he could finally drink with them to his heart's content.

Skar was easy to find. The large, scar-faced brute of a wine merchant was still in his seat at a dining table, except his face was now buried between the soft breasts of an exotic courtesan sitting in his lap. Not surprising, for the Brewer was skilled at luring women with his flower wines. 'Makes their mouths sweeter and the legs spread wider,' he often said.

Shaking his head, Drake went off in search of Henry. Henry might be bastard-born, but he had noble blood in him, and was usually more decent...

Not tonight, it seems. He found Henry in a dark corner of the hall, ravaging the lips and neck of a young tavern wench who had her legs wrapped securely around his hips.

Bastards. What kind of friends left him alone on his wedding night while they submitted themselves to the throes of passion? Then again, which other groom in the whole of Asis would find himself so lonesome on a wedding night? Perhaps he should take Isabella to bed tonight...

You boor, he scolded himself. Isabella is a noble lady, not a common harlot.

An image of gleaming blue-grey eyes crossed his mind. Definitely not. He'd agreed to wed Amelia, but did not agree to consummate the marriage. As far as he was concerned, he had already done all that was asked of him. And, he was sure his lady wife had not a single ounce of desire to lie with him.

"Drake," Isabella whispered from behind him as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Through the thin fabrics of his shirt and her gown, he felt the softness of her rounded breasts press against the muscles of his back. "Love me."

Mayhap it was the wine, the weariness of a marriage at its very inception, or the simple feel of a woman's body against his, but for the first time in his life he was overwhelmed by a need to veer from morality and submit to a man's most animalistic desire.

Drake pulled Isabella before him and scooped her into his arms. Taking two steps in one, he strode determinedly towards his chambers, desperate to be rid of all his pent-up frustrations and the stiffness between his legs. If it meant taking Isabella's maidenhood and igniting a feud with the Digby's when he could not marry her, then so be it. That was a problem for another day.

Once inside his bedchamber, he dropped her on the bed and covered her body with his own. In between fervent kisses and gasps, their hands fumbled with the straps and laces of each other's clothing.

Neither was in the mood for soft, sensuous touches. Physical desire had overpowered all thoughts of ethics and morality.

As he slid a hand up her thigh, a little voice tugged at him, persistent for his attention. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. He couldn't—

Bang! Bang bang bang bang!

Zounds! Were they under attack?

Bang! Bang bang bang bang bang bang!

"Ahhhhhh—" Drake covered Isabella's mouth with a hand to stifle her scream and gestured her to stay quiet.

Bang bang bang bang! Bang!

The explosions continued in quick successions. Frightened screams and scurrying footsteps sounded around the manor.

Grabbing his sword from beside the bed, Drake rushed out of his chamber to see smoke wafting from the ground, all along the edge of the hallway.

Rat's ass. How could he have allowed himself to get so lost in lust that he had not even noticed explosives being placed right outside his chamber?

Hearing footsteps, he turned as a serving boy almost ran into him.

"What in Devil's name is going on here?" Drake growled.

The boy huffed and puffed, trying to catch his breath. "S-s-sir, sir, the E-Emira—"

Drake grabbed the boy's shoulders and shook him. "Spit it out! What happened to Amelia?" Dear Gods, the Duke of Marlborough will petition to have his head if he let something happen to Amelia while he was busy laying with another woman.

"The Emira set off f-f-firecrackers in the house, sir!"

Drake stared down at the boy. His expression changed from one of worry to incredulity as he let the words sink in.

That bitch!

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