Prisoner of Silk by Lidiya Foxglove

Author:Lidiya Foxglove [Foxglove, Lidiya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Augustus

Hunting Costume of Faery Noblewoman, c. Reign of King Emriel I

I traced the color plate with a finger. Rose would look delicious in tight breeches and dashing short cloak like this. And to see her with a bow and arrow—yes, that would please me very well, and it would please her too. If she could ride out on the hunt with me, it would give her a little relief from the court etiquette. This book proved historical precedence for such a thing, which might make a reasonable argument for allowing it…

My grandfather shoved my library door open and I smacked the book shut and tried to put it away before he would see it.

Too late. I hadn’t expected him.

“What rot is that?” He grabbed it out of my hand before I could shelve it. “Off reading when you have that pretty little thing in your bed?”

“She is having her breakfast,” I said cooly, plucking the book out of his hands. He wouldn’t approve of me taking Rose hunting, I knew. But I was starting to learn how to handle Grandfather. Ignore him and do what you like until he is forced to make a fuss. “Rest assured, I have not gone easy on her.” Our marriage was now a week old, and it took considerable discipline on my part to go through the motions of the day now. Every time I looked at her, so proper in her gowns, eating her dinner or talking to the ladies of the court or listening to music in the evenings, I thought of her in my bed, silk ribbons pinning her there, the sweet smell of her naked skin from her daily perfume bath contrasted to the musk of her wet sex, the soft moans as I fucked her tight sheath.

I had not expected to enjoy my role so much. But she was so different from the ladies who had been born and bred in the palace.

And what was her role, exactly? To my grandfather, queens and Favorites alike were toys to be played with. But Queen Marianna was not a toy, but a clever strategist who had twisted her own submission into strength.

Grandfather looked at me—I was several inches taller than him, and it seemed like he kept expecting to find me still a boy, and getting flustered. “This is a pivotal time for you both,” he said.

“I am aware.”

“I’m getting old.”

“You are old.”

He grabbed one of my lapels. “Boy, you’d better not consign me to the grave just yet. Today, I am still your sovereign.”

I paused, giving him patience. He hated this. Grandfather, in his younger days, had been known for having a boundless supply of fire and lust. The moment my father died, when I was five years old, he was forced to take an interest in me because I was now the heir, although I was clearly the least favorite of his grandchildren. If he heard even the slightest whiff that I wasn’t living up to expectations, he would storm into the room and smack me before I knew why.

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