Chapter 4: The Art of the Lie
"In the bed. Now," I hissed, my voice a whip-crack of urgency.
Sofia stared at me, her eyes wide. "Lucien—"
"No makeup. No jewelry. Wear your most modest nightgown—the high-collared one—and get under the blankets. We have three minutes before the man who broke the Nordhavn line walks through that door. Move!"
Sofia didn't argue. The "dummy" I'd called her earlier vanished, replaced by a woman who understood the price of a mistake. She scrambled into a heavy silk gown that covered her to the collarbone and dove under the duvet.
I, meanwhile, did the opposite of what a guilty man would do. I didn't hide. I finished buttoning my coat with trembling fingers, messed up my hair just enough to look exhausted, and dragged a heavy velvet chair to the corner of the room—far enough to be "proper," close enough to be "caring."
I sat down, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. Act like a man who has been reading trade ledgers for fourteen hours and hates every second of it.
The heavy doors groaned open. The rhythmic, metallic thud of spurred boots echoed against the marble.
"Sofia?"
The voice was like grinding stones—deep, resonant, and devoid of warmth. Alaric Valecourt, the Grand Duke, had arrived.
Sofia stirred, letting out a weak, practiced moan of discomfort. She opened her eyes, blinking at the towering figure in black-and-silver armor standing at the foot of her bed. "Alaric? You're... you're back?"
"The raids were smaller than reported," the Duke said, his gaze sweeping the room like a hawk looking for a kill. His eyes landed on me. His hand didn't move toward his sword, but the air in the room seemed to vanish. "Why is the Auremont heir in your private chambers?"
Sofia coughed, a soft, pathetic sound. "The Duke... Lucien's father... sent him on a diplomatic mission. Urgent trade routes for the winter. He arrived yesterday, but I was struck by that recurring fever. He... he refused to leave until the physicians arrived and the agreements were signed. He's been here all night, ensuring the administration didn't stall while I was indisposed."
I chose that moment to "wake up." I let out a sharp, annoyed huff, rubbing my eyes with calculated arrogance. I looked at Alaric, then stood up slowly, offering a bow that was just a few degrees too shallow to be truly respectful.
"Your Grace," I said, my voice dripping with the bored irritation of a spoiled noble. "I apologize. It seems the boredom of medical reports is more effective than a sleeping draught. I must have drifted off."
Alaric stepped closer. He was a wall of muscle and scars. He looked at Sofia, then back at me. "You stayed the night. To oversee... medicines?"
"To oversee my father's interests, Your Grace," I corrected him sharply, my eyes flashing with mock-annoyance. "The Old Lion doesn't accept 'the Duchess was ill' as an excuse for a late report. I had to ensure the Lady was lucid enough to sign the grain-tax exemptions before I departed. I've spent my night playing nursemaid and clerk. It was... tedious."
I looked at Sofia, my gaze cold and distant. "Are you recovered, My Lady? Or must I waste another hour explaining the apothecary's instructions to your maids?"
Sofia played her part perfectly. She looked at me with a mix of gratitude and formal stiffness. "I am quite stable now, Lord Lucien. Thank you for your... diligent attention to the household's affairs while I was weak. The medicines were administered properly."
The word 'medicines' hung in the air. Only she and I knew that the "medicine" had involved her legs wrapped around my waist. The memory flashed in my mind—the heat of her skin, the way she'd arched her back—and I had to fight to keep my face a mask of bored indifference.
Under the blanket, I saw the slight shift of her legs. She was thinking about it, too. The mark I'd bitten into her neck was hidden by the high collar of her gown, a secret brand burning against her skin.
Alaric grunted. To him, I wasn't a rival. I was a "peacock"—an arrogant, lazy brat forced into work by a demanding father.
"Go then, Auremont," Alaric said, dismissively waving a hand. "My wife needs rest, not the prattling of a merchant-noble. Tell your father the agreements are noted."
"With pleasure," I muttered, grabbing my gloves. I walked past him, making sure to look mildly disgusted by the whole ordeal. "I hate the North. It's too cold, the tea is bitter, and the company is... exhausting."
As I reached the door, I glanced back one last time. Sofia was watching me, her eyes hidden in the shadows of the bedframe, a silent promise of "tomorrow" burning in them.
I stepped out into the hallway, the cool air hitting my face. My heart finally began to beat again.
I survived, I thought, my legs nearly giving way. I actually survived. Now I just have to figure out how to do it all again tomorrow without getting beheaded.