Authors: Dara Joy
"I, as well. Traveling back and forth to that forsaken land every few months has not been easy on these old bones."
Green tried not to laugh. Despite her age, Avatar was a stalwart woman, well equipped and often eager to handle the hardships of the road. But she agreed with her. It was going to be nice to take trips only by choice or for pleasure.
That is, as long as Claudine stayed clear of her property.
"Perhaps now would be a good time for you to settle down?" Avatar slyly insinuated, bringing up a favorite topic of hers. "After all, you are the last of the Tamryns. Be a fine shame to end such a noble line simply for the lack of trying."
"Lack of trying?" Green grinned, knowing exactly what the woman was doing. "Surely not for lack of trying?" She teased the straitlaced servant who was more like a devoted family member.
"None of that now." She waved her hand through the air as if to dispel what she considered "cit ways." Avatar had been raised in the country and had never lost her colloquialism. Kept pleasurers did not sit well with her.
Green snickered, shaking her head. She loved to tease people who begged for the privilege. Avatar's austere ways and tendency to take everything at face value made her the perfect foil for lighthearted banter.
"Perhaps I'll find someone to interest me at the soiree... " she began, innocently enough.
Avatar's mouth dropped open. This was the first time Green had even hinted at doing such a thing. "I think that's an excellent idea!" she sputtered.
Green blinked guilelessly into the mirastone in front of her. "Who knows? Maybe even that delightful... Jorlan?"
A rough, squealing gasp of air sucked into the older woman's mouth. She clutched her heart. "Not that
out-wolf
Not in this house! Never, I say! What are you trying to do to me in my old age, kill me off sooner? Forget what I said about taking a name-bearer; you have plenty of time!"
Grinning, Green shook her finger at hen "Always be careful what you wish for, Avatar."
The old woman harrumphed.
Marquelle Tamryn was a rare danger.
Jorlan Reynard's eyes narrowed with a concealing sweep of jet lashes as he keenly scrutinized the woman. The protective strategy shaded his high cheekbones. His strong viewpoints and resolute self-discipline had always warred with this taste for risk.
The dichotomous brew was an indication of his complex character. Yet the exclusive traits that comprised his enigmatical nature were often overlooked in light of his breathtaking appearance.
And if not overlooked, surely forgiven.
Stunning beauty was always pardoned.
As the woman made her way through the throng, many of the guests leaned toward her—reminding him of sycophantic sunpods swaying in the hope of capturing a succulent morsel of moisture.
Of course, the Top Slice always reminded him of sycophantic sunpods.
Especially in the presence of someone who was of primary port.
He exhaled. He hadn't wanted to come tonight. He despised these organized galas of the Season where the Top Slice paraded their eligibles in the hope of garnering the "catch." It sickened him. He had no interest whatsoever in settling down. Ever.
Before he had left for the soiree, he had gone out onto his balcony. A multicolored blanock had landed on the edge of the railing. Its exotic plumage proclaimed it the male.
But of course,
he thought.
Even blanocks were forced to show their array! Blame it on the Season. It's male-strutting time.
He recalled that the blanock had gracefully lifted off the twisted railing, its wings flapping as it gained flight. Jorlan had watched its trail to freedom until it was out of sight. And a good deal longer.
Then he had squared his shoulders and prepared himself for a long, tedious evening. On his way to the soiree, he had vowed that this would be his last Season. The last.
His final cycle of galas.
Then he would be free—
Or as free as an unclaimed male was likely to get.
She brushed by them all, laughing gaily, making quips, patting familiar arms, and winking at several of the men who vainly tried to hold her attention for more than a few moments. Normally such a display would repel him. It did repel him.
He couldn't look away.
Her presence had "activated" him. Completely. He had no explanation for it and he was a man who sought explanations.
"She is captivating, isn't she? Quite the woman of the world. Do you think she'll dance with you?" His friend Lymax had observed where his attention was riveted. Lymax had to be surprised by his unusual interest. Jorlan had never been one to engage in the idle flirtation or pleasant frivolities expected at these gatherings.
"What makes you think I would want that?" he responded dryly.
Lymax snorted in disbelief. "Who wouldn't want to dance with her? And don't look at me like that—I've known you too long, Jorlan; although, truth to tell, I wouldn't claim to
know
you."
Jorlan raised an eyebrow. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Lymax sighed. "You are my closest friend, Jorlan, and you have been an exemplary friend throughout the years—none better, I say. I have confided in you my entire life. You have aided me through my griefs and sorrows, laughed with me over the joys, never once failed to offer a supporting hand. What's more, you have never behaved like a nog-twist. In addition to that, on many an occasion, you have displayed a genuine concern over my welfare... "
"Why do I feel there is an end point to this mack-mock that I am not going to like?"
"It's no mack-mock!"
Jorlan gave him a look.
"Very well, perhaps a wee bit o' mack-mock." Lymax grinned up at him. "But there is a valid point to be made here. The two people that you have permitted yourself to care for—me and your grandmother—you would willingly face death for. Yet, this extraordinarily brave spirit has never truly taken the risk to give itself to anyone.
Ever.
Have you, Jorlan?"
"What do you speak of?" he asked quietly, while continuing his observation of the woman.
"You keep yourself to yourself. I have seen it within you since we were boys. Since you came to live with the Duchene. I think that was the start of it, although, over the years, your zeal for privacy has grown into its own strange passion."
"Mmm... " he responded, distractedly.
"What I have never understood is
why
you cut yourself off so from society. You know you are getting a reputation as dark matter."
The corner of Jorlan's mouth lifted in amusement. "I am only inscrutable to those who cannot read me."
Lymax rolled his eyes. "And what a wit!"
Jorlan chuckled softly.
"Are you not going to shed a flamelight for the rest of us mere mortals?" Lymax threw his arms wide in exaggerated pique.
Jorlan smiled but, true to form, he did not sate Lymax's curiosity. As was his wont, he remained silent as he continued to observe the woman indirectly. The unusual reaction she engendered irritated him.
Intuitively recognizing the threat she posed, he turned away. The Marquelle moved slightly just then and momentarily caught his eye.
For a fraction of time, it seemed as if his heart stopped beating.
In that moment his existence became the pause between breaths wherein forbidden possibility is sired.
A heated tremor passed quickly through his groin. There was no way to describe the odd effect she had on him and he wasn't sure he wanted to describe it, even if he could. Instantly, he shook his broad shoulders to slake off the intense desire welling within him. The maneuver was an old trick he had been taught as a youth by one of his mastery teachers. It worked nominally, but the action brought her attention to an acute focus. The opposite of what he wanted.
He felt her speculative gaze travel the length of him. An enigmatic smile suddenly donned her lush lips as she watched him.
She knew! Knew of the tricks he had been taught! Tricks they had all been taught.
And why shouldn't she know them? It was said she knew a great deal more than the simple tricks of men. It was said she was a powerful, strategically brilliant Marquelle. A woman who knew herself and that which she sought from life. A woman of the town.
If a situation arose, she could be trouble for him.
Immediately, as the warning thought occurred, he turned from her again, only this time he completed the act with his accustomed detached mask of indifference.
In front of him the mirastone walls perfectly reflected her dynamic image. Made out of thin sheets of indigenous mira rock, the exclusive building material surrounded the entire inside of the greeting room. Its exorbitant price, along with its copious use in the hall, bespoke of the affluence of their host, a friend of his grandmother.
The Marquelle's exquisite amber eyes widened slightly at his aloof demeanor, then deliberately took in his measure. He gritted his teeth, hating to be examined like this.
As if he were nothing more than an inconsequential possession for a titled woman's bed.
At least she did not scrutinize him greedily, as had so many others.
When she observed him it seemed as if she were seeing straight through to the very essence of him. He had heard that Green Tamryn was a brilliant orator in the House of She-Lords. As a member of the ruling class and a titled Marquelle, she had a permanent stand on the governing Septibunal. Word had it that she chose her causes wisely and with great care, so when she did take the floor of the chamber the effect was spellbinding. Of the nine issues she had brought before council, all nine had been universally adopted with a sweep tally.
Marquelle Tamryn was generally well regarded and sometimes envied for her reputation, a reputation that did not include her council successes alone. Males vied for her attention and it was bandied about that she was a knowledgeable, sensual lover who spoiled her men for any other women. Seeing how the men here were reacting to her, he could well believe the kloobroth. She was not simply beautiful; there was a rare quality to her.
She continued to observe him with interest.
Glancing in the reflective rock, he noticed her gaze slowly scanning the length of him again. She paused slightly in her perusal to judge the tensile strength of his buttocks—something women had a tendency to do.
Much to the distress of his grandmother, the Duchene, women often remarked that her grandson was a man who could inadvertently cause wars by the solidity of those round, tight globes.
Through no fault of his own, he already had caused a few major skirmishes.
Just this past year, the daughter of an Earlene threatened to fight a duel with the daughter of a Marquelle over the right to him. Fortunately, his grandmother had put an end to the foolishness by refusing them both.
Strangely, Marquelle Tamryn's effect on him was quite different from the others'...
He rolled his shoulders again to release the odd buildup of tension.
Lymax broke into his speculation. "They say that the Marquelle has shown no interest in taking a name-bearer whatsoever, despite that she is the last of her line, titled, and fabulously wealthy to boot."
"Perhaps she shows some sense, then."
Lymax scoffed. "She can afford to be 'sensible,' my friend—you cannot."
"I do as I choose."
"Not in this case. You won't be able to control her like the others, Jorlan. They are all made brainless by your looks and form; she won't be. Marquelle Tamryn is her own woman. She is nothing like the new breeds you are accustomed to. She will not be led on a merry chase to nowhere. If you play with her, she will make sure she collects the zip."
"Rut-bid." Jorlan's lips curled seductively at the enticing thought of such a challenge.
Could
he lead her on a merry chase? It was the side of him that loved to take risks that considered the prospect.
"And you can get that idea right out of your head."
"Mmm, what idea is that?" Jorlan asked in mock obtuseness.
Lymax wagged a finger at him. "I know you, Jorlan, and that expression means trouble. You are a torque, when the mood strikes you. Do not think to tease her. Even the Duchene will not be able to protect you from her—it is said she has powerful alliances in the Septibunal."
Jorlan scanned the voluptuous feminine form in the reflective mirastone, his sights concentrating on soft, slightly full lips as she laughed with a companion. He wondered what they would feel like pressed against his...
"I will need no interference from the Duchene," he murmured, totally absorbed.
With effort, his aqua gaze broke from Marquelle Tamryn—but not before their glance met once again. Her light auburn eyebrows arched, almost daring him to continue. He turned his focus away from the direct invitation in a deliberately slow movement that somehow became rejection and challenge at once.