“Alcohol is a very necessary article... Even if it does not heal the sick, it assists the doctor.”

George Bernard Shaw

I envy Baroness Laimon, David's mother, with all my heart. No — not her strong, some may even say indomitable character, not her business acumen nor her iron constitution, although she had all of that in abundance. I envy her because Lady Laimon is a widow.

Not because of my natural bloodthirstiness or my callous soul. The real reason lies in the fact that in our society the only way for a woman to be independent is to be married and then widowed. Before marriage a woman depends on her parents, or if she is an orphan, on her guardians and next of kin. After she marries, she depends, naturally, on her spouse. It is only after the untimely death of the latter that her status suddenly changes dramatically. Having inherited her spouse's estate, she receives financial independence, and with it independence in other spheres as well. She has the right to manage her own finances, invest in various enterprises at her sole discretion, and even start her own projects. She can go to any event alone, without the need of a male escort. She can even voice her opinion in matters of economics and politics, although that is discouraged.

On the day I visit, Lady Laimon is actually busy with her financial affairs. Apparently they are not very prosperous. In any case, she leaves the living room, where the three of us sit, in high spirits, but returns half an hour later in a gloomy mood.

"Ah, Lady Inessa, you are still here?" she asks sarcastically, and then, without looking at her son, goes into the next room.

I feel blood surging to my face, and hurry to rise from my chair.

"I think I really have to go."

David is extremely upset and volunteers to accompany me to the palace.

"Nessa, you should not be angry with her," he says unhappily, as we walk along the street, paved with dark gray slabs. "She likes you a lot. Really, she didn't mean anything by it. She was just in a bad mood."

"Yes," I nod absently, thinking: since when has a bad mood turned into an excuse for a violation of elementary etiquette and a lack of hospitality?

"You're angry with me then?"

It seems that David is able to read my thoughts. However, it is unlikely that it is especially difficult to do so. At the moment I do not really bother to hide my emotions behind a mask.

"At you?" I look at him in surprise. "Of course not. Why would I be angry with you?"

These words calm the young man down a bit. But not completely, because I clearly am hinting that I have a bone to pick with his mother. This obviously jars his perception of reality.

"Come visit the day after tomorrow for tea," he suggests as he takes my hand when we stop at the main gate of the palace. "I'll talk to my mom and settle everything with her."

"I am not sure." Going to visit them after today's humiliating treatment by the Baroness doesn't sound at all appealing to me. "I do not think it's appropriate."

"It would be very appropriate," insists David. "I want you to reconcile."

"Well, we didn't exactly have a quarrel," I mumble, still unwilling to agree.

But he insists further, meanwhile appearing so upset that in the end I accept the invitation.

There are not too many people in the Hall of Flowers, and they are mainly concentrated around two card tables. Eight people are playing — four at every table — and about ten more enthusiastically watch the game. Apart from them in the room there are only six or seven others who are strolling around the room, some slowly sipping wine, someone leafing through a book, some ambling around looking at plants.

Strictly speaking, the Hall has that name because it is full of tubs of plants. Initially the idea was to grow only potted flowering plants, but that was gradually abandoned. As a result, trees liven up the stone hall. Mostly there are fig trees of different kinds, interspersed here and there with some exotic palms — rather stunted, however. Apparently, our climate is too cold for tropical plants.

I notice Marquis Dorion among the group which is not too keen on the card games. He sits on the couch sipping wine and gazing serenely first at the players, then out the window, and then at the tapestries that adorn the walls. I quickly think of a plan for eliminating the unsuspecting Marquis as a groom. Well, frankly, only half a plan. The first part I imagine pretty well, but the second only vaguely. But it does not matter; I'll have time to think through the final stage in the process of implementation.

Having made sure that not a single strand escapes from my perfectly styled hair, that the neckline of my dress plunges deeply enough to reveal an exciting view and my smile is dazzling, I rush to the Marquis.

"Lord Dorion!" I bow in a deep courtesy in front of him, giving him ample opportunity to ogle my cleavage. He gallantly jumps up from his seat to greet me. I note with satisfaction that he does not miss his chance to take advantage of this opportunity.

"Sorry to bother you. Did you by any chance happen to see Lady Almikonte?"

Of course, if the Marquis were smarter, he would likely suspect that something is amiss. How could the first lady in waiting of the Duke's sister not know that the latter had no plans to come? Cameron Estley, for example, could pinpoint such a detail, but sure as hell not the Marquis.

"Unfortunately, she is not here," he shrugs his shoulders.

"Oh, really?" I pretend to be upset. "For some reason I thought I would be able to find her here."

"I am afraid that Lady Almikonte shuns my company," the Marquis sighs ostentatiously. "It is extremely disappointing, because I had hoped we could spend some time together, and mend our relationship."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not because of you," I touch his hand reassuringly. My fingers tremble, as if from excitement, and my breasts jiggle emotionally. I do not remove my palm from his for two whole seconds. Despite the fact that I really want to: his hand is unpleasantly warm and sweaty. "It's just that today milady is feeling a little tired."

"I see. Perhaps you would like to keep me company?"

Mireya's groom certainly was not about to grieve her absence for long. That plays into my hands.

"Oh, with pleasure!" I pretend to be terribly pleased by this proposal. "To tell you the truth, I've been on my feet all day. I'm so tired. I'll gladly drink a little wine. By the way, what are you drinking? No, wait!" I try to smile shyly. "I want to guess. Do you mind?"

I raise my hand to the Marquis' goblet. He smiles and hands me the glass, which is half full of deeply crimson liquid.

I cup my fingers around the long crystal stem. I hope the Marquis at least is free of any diseases. I ought to take a sip from the side opposite to the one he drank from. But I cannot tell where that would be. After all, the goblet is round.

Resigned to the inevitable, I take a small sip, trying to make the process look as sensual as possible.

"Red, from Reston?" I suggest.

"Bravo!"

The Marquis laughs and even claps his hands a few times, applauding me.

Come on, what is there to "bravo" about? At this time of day, only three varieties of wine are served, and all of them can be distinguished by color... But of course I do not say that aloud; on the contrary, I beam a triumphant smile at him and hand the goblet back to the Marquis. Coquettishly I put a finger to my lips, and then lower my eyes shyly.

"Hey!" Dorion motions to a servant. "Do you like this wine?" he verifies.

"I do," I confirm.

The waiter understands everything without further instruction and half a minute later hands me a glass filled with the same raspberry colored drink.

"Have we toasted our acquaintance?" I ask, raising my goblet and looking at the Marquis through the glass.

"I don't believe we have," Dorion eagerly supports the initiative.

"In this case, bottoms up?"

"Bottoms up!"

We continue in the same manner. I sit next to the Marquis and begin chatting animatedly, carefully plying him with one glass after another, while at the same time teasing him with my fingertips, languid looks, and eye-catching neckline. I of course also have to drink, to keep up the pretenses, but not as excessively.

Truth be told, his physical proximity is quite unpleasant. It seems there is nothing out of the ordinary, but I strongly dislike the smell of the Marquis' perfume, his facial expressions annoy me, and his slightest touch is unpleasant, especially given that he is becoming more and more insistent as the evening progresses. But I bravely endure, only occasionally turning my head away, to take off my fake smile for a moment. Like a diver coming up momentarily to the surface, in order to draw a deep breath, and then going head down again into the murky water.

I ask the Marquis about his childhood, about the service at the court, about his ancestral palace, although listening with only half an ear, or maybe even a quarter. Instead, I deliberate over how to proceed. The general scheme is clear and certainly not new to me. Make the Marquis drink so much that he forgets all caution, and is no longer in control of himself, and then create a compromising situation for him. For example, make sure that he is caught in my bedroom under quite clear circumstances. The Duke would never forgive him such a dishonor to the whole family.

The only problem is that I do not want in the least to remain alone with the Marquis under the said circumstances. If I find the simple physical contact with him that is taking place at the moment so distasteful, what would happen if we went to bed together? Brrr, just the thought of it gives me goose bumps! However, there are other ways. If he is drunk enough, I can portray an indecent scene without actually participating in anything of the sort. The main thing is to bring the Marquis exactly to the desired condition: that he could get to my quarters on his own feet (I am not going to drag him there all on my own after all!), and then he'll immediately fall into a deep sleep. Guests, I think, will not even need a special invitation to the event. The audience here is numerous enough. The good people can always be found here, and they will make sure that everyone else knows. On the other hand, some variations could be introduced to that scenario. For example, I could quickly find a couple of girls who would agree to take my place in the Marquis' company. Or, if he has drunk enough, a couple of manservants. I'll just have to pay them well. Or... what sort of perversion did Estley mention at the ball? I wonder how many mice and roaches would I have to promise our iguana for it to spend a night with Dorion? However, I was losing sight of the matter at hand.

"Come on, Marquis!" I urge him, watching as my companion empties another glass. "Don't be shy! Honestly: what size is it? Is it the same size as the Duke's or bigger?"

"It is... What is 'it'?" Marquis asks, looking at me with eyes cloudy from downing all that wine.

"What do you mean?" I feign surprise. "Your palace."

"Ah, my palace!" In his eyes disappointment flashes through the drunken haze.

"Then smaller."

"Excuse me, Marquis, would you let me borrow Lady Antego for a moment? I promise to return her soon, safe and sound."

I lift my head, nonplussed, and purse my lips. Estley is the last person I want to see right now! What, pray tell, could he want from me?

The Marquis, too, does not seem too happy, but he understandably refrains from arguing.

"Well, of course, Count."

"Thank you."

Estley aggressively reaches out to help me up. As if I had the slightest desire to do so. And what really drives me up the wall: men discuss everything between them, but nobody seems to care about my opinion.

However, there is no point in making a scene. Especially because I am trying to make a good impression on the Marquis. So I present my hand to Estley, dutifully stand up and walk with him to the nearest potted palm. Only then do I allow myself to show what I really feel.

"What the hell do you want from me?" I whisper loudly. "And why is it so urgent?"

"Why, is it a bad time?" Estley looks surprised. But seeing my eyes flash with anger, he immediately retreats. "Okay, do not get angry. I will not take much of your time."

"What is it?" accepting the inevitable, I sigh.

"I want to ask for your forgiveness," he says seriously.

I say nothing, since speaking while slack-jawed is somewhat difficult.

"Yesterday in your bedroom I really did behave improperly," continues Estley. "I have to admit that I got a little carried away."

"So now what?" I mutter, not so much angry as still surprised. "Are you going to re-draw the portrait, to make amends?"

"Unfortunately, the gods have not bestowed a gift of painting on me. Still, I’d very much like to believe that you will forgive me." Lord Cameron takes my hand in his and looks into my eyes. "Will you, please?"

In contrast to Dorion's palms, Estley’s hands are dry and cool. His index finger seemingly randomly traces a circle on my palm, lightly touching me with the tip. I shudder. Damn — what's happening to me? Palms, cool ones, so what? That's no reason for a rapid heartbeat. The exhilarating scent of his perfume is also not an excuse. Neither is the fact that his eyes are a little sarcastic and at the same time penetrating, which in combination with the alcohol makes my breath quicken even more. And he seems to have been trying to purposely hypnotize me with his gaze, and his face is coming closer and closer to mine.

A second later, I throw my head back and close my eyes, allowing his lips to do with mine whatever they want. They want to do a lot. He kisses me for a long time, skillfully, with feeling... God, how much I've missed those kisses, since that unfortunate incident near his office!

Cameron's hands confidently settle down on my waist, and my own eagerly cling to his shoulders. I open my eyes again to meet his again... and in my peripheral vision I see the Marquis, very upset, sneaking past us out of the hall.

Understanding washes over me like a cold wave, making my blood run cold. I abruptly push Estley away. What a bastard! He orchestrated the whole thing just to ruin my plans!

"You are an incredible scoundrel!" I gasp indignantly, trying not to raise my voice in order not to attract the attention of the public. Fortunately, we are hidden from the view of the players and their audience by the same potted palm. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Saving you from doing something very stupid," calmly responds that bastard, not even trying to deny the accusation. "You could thank me, by the way. Interesting — how far were you willing to go?"

"None of your business," I snap. "Are you attempting to instill solid moral principles in me? My parents, as you can see, have failed to do so. You think you can do better?"

"Gods forbid!" Lord Cameron says dismissively, as if he had seen a ghost. "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"I've already told you, a total scoundrel," I helpfully remind him. "And a person capable of forcibly kissing a girl in front of witnesses."

"No, don't even try to attribute that to me!" He is indignant. "I didn't force you. You were quite willing! Besides, you know I had to get you back for the incident near my office! You did not seriously expect me to just forgive and forget about it?"

I hear mocking notes in his voice again, and would have liked to be very, very angry at him. But gods damn it, the white scarf is really becoming on him... Many courtiers with these new-fangled scarves look as if their heads start directly from their torso. On him everything looks great: that scarf, those long pants that seemed ridiculous before, reaching down almost to the ankle...

"But do not worry: I'm not going to put forward an accusation against you for kissing me against my will," adds Estley, and then my delicate nature just can't take it anymore.

"Bravo, great idea!" I silently clap my hands, pretending to applaud. "If you want to expose yourself to ridicule, go ahead! What do you allow yourself, Lord Estley? At first, like a romantic fellow you climb into my room through the window, and now this! Do you realize that I have a young man?"

"Indeed? Who's that? Oh yes, apparently you mean Baron Laimon," Lord Cameron chuckles. "I'm sorry, I did not realize. It's difficult to take the likes of him seriously."

"The likes of him?" I ask caustically. "Decent? Honest? Reliable?"

"More like a rabbit," corrects Estley.

"You know, Count, your train of thought is quite difficult to follow."

"You know, a lot of girls like to keep rabbits," the Count starts to explain. "Soft, fluffy, gentle, warm. They cause no trouble and never bite. Do not have claws or their own opinion. They're a lot of fun to hold in your palms, cuddle and feed carrots to. You know what's the problem? Mistresses are easily bored with their rabbits. Girls begin to look for new toys and, well, hopefully don't forget to regularly feed their pets. Otherwise, the latter are not to be envied."

"Very subtle." My voice drips venom: Estley’s words somehow manage to strike a chord. "But David is not a rabbit, and I don't like cuddling."

"Haven't you had enough of this boy yet?" my companion somehow ominously squints. "Maybe I should arrange for him to be denied entry to the castle?"

"Why would you do that?" I am taken aback. "What does it have to do with you? What kind of person are you, eh? Do you enjoy playing dirty tricks on everyone around you?"

"Well, first of all, you're also quite an expert on playing dirty tricks," says Estley, not one to tarry with an answer. "Second, do not try to deceive me. You responded to my kiss quite eagerly. Consequently, you must feel at least a bit of affection towards me."

"My affection", I reply, carefully enunciating my words "is called 'three goblets of red wine'." A few goblets more, and I would have felt affection for this stone sculpture." I casually gesture to one of the statues decorating the room.

"But not for the Marquis," astutely notes the Count, earning a very disapproving look from me.

"To feel any affection for the Marquis I would need a lot more," I admit. "Say ... " I try to mentally figure out how drunk I would have to become, but quickly give up.

No, the ducal wine cellar would empty first, I admit, which causes Estley to roar with laughter. "Quiet, you!" I grimace, seeing people around us turn to look at us.

"Why did you drink in the first place?" asks the Count, after he stops laughing. "If you yourself admit that you weren't trying to make yourself feel passion towards Dorion?"

I roll my eyes. What doesn't he understand?!

"How do you think I could have gotten him drunk without having a few myself?" I answer with a question.

To my surprise, this answer does not lead to a new explosion of laughter, nor to a lecture on morality.

"Next time leave the Reston red to your companion, and drink 'Verso Rose' yourself," Estley advises.

"Why?" I am surprised. "What's the difference, what to drink? 'Verso Rose' is even a little stronger."

"It is stronger," the Count confirms. "But it has one important characteristic. It intoxicates you — but not immediately, rather, the effect is somewhat delayed. Therefore, you have a chance to get away from your companion with everything you need before you lose the ability to think and act appropriately."

Really? I never considered this property of the "Verso Rose".

"Thanks for the advice. Only, why are you telling me all this?" I ask suspiciously.

Estley seems to find my suspicion amusing.

"Who knows?" he says mysteriously. "Maybe I expect that in the foreseeable future, we will cooperate productively. But you may consider it to be a spell of nobility and generosity on my part. "

I fall silent. Both versions lead me to have a spell of my own disease — skepticism.

"By the way, Lady Inessa" Estley changes the subject, seeing that I am not going to respond," would you like to have a drink with me?"

I look at him askance and inquire warily:

"'Verso Rose'? Or Reston red?"

Estley laughs heartily.

"Well, of course, Reston red," he winks.

The answer sounds utterly ambiguous.

"I am not drunk enough to drink with you," I mutter.

This statement makes him laugh even harder.

"Well, in that case I'll take my leave before you decide to smash this stone statue on my head." He nods at the statue that I had promised to make out with after another couple of goblets.

"Don't worry, I won't. I'll take pity on the statue," I quip.

He gallantly kisses my hand, as if not noticing the last statement.

"Try not to do too many reckless things while I am away."

Then he leaves before I have a chance to respond to that comment.

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The whole book is available here - https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B01GGEWA88