Page 13 of His Bride

Arthur snaps the orders without taking his eyes off me. The man in the wheelchair rolls out of the room, and Lydia follows. Theyshut the door behind them, leaving me in the company of my new husband.

The moment we are alone, he lets out a sigh and crosses the room to pour himself a drink. Amber liquid splashes into a crystal glass, and is quickly imbibed.

“Not how I planned on my wedding night going,” he muses to himself, downing the tumbler of whatever foul liquid it is. It smells like the substance the servants use to strip grease in the kitchen.

I stand my ground, trying to think desperately. What am I supposed to do in such a situation? He is a powerful man, and he is my husband. The Artifice has given me to him.

I cannot imagine a worse meeting. And I cannot imagine a worse man. He has shown no interest in me whatsoever. My mere presence apparently causes him to need to turn to drink immediately.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he says, turning back to me.

“You certainly don’t know how to perform a basic greeting,” I reply.

He makes me very nervous, but I won’t be bullied. My father often told me, when he was speaking to me at all, that the blood of kings flows in our veins, that we may not be the richest family, or the most powerful, and fate may have been somewhat cruel to us in many respects, but we would always have our nobility. Then he would go shoot something, just to prove it to himself, I think. I will not be shooting anything, but I will be standing up for myself even when I am afraid. Perhaps especially when I am afraid.

His eyes narrow at me. “You have a mouth,” he says. “And not enough wisdom to know when to use it, and when to stay silent.”

Ironically, I have nothing to say to that. I am beginning to become very concerned, remembering what they did to me in the Artifice medical clearance. I was confused at the time, but it was obvious that there would be something like that between a man and his wife, otherwise why would they have done it?

“Where is my room?” I ask. “I would like to freshen up.”

“Our room, you mean.”

I stare, horrified. I assumed I would have my own room. My mother and father have their own wings. In a place this big, it seems very odd that there would not be space for me to have my own room.

“I am not expected to share a room, am I?”

His lip curls in something like a smirk. “You are expected to share a bed. It is our wedding night.”

Arthur

This rather young woman has walked into my home, found one of the many secrets of the place, fallen into my inner sanctum and insulted me. My initial response is to whip her impertinent ass, but I wanted a drink first. She has not arrived at a convenient time, but she seems to think she takes precedence over a war.

But the horror that spreads over her sweet, very pretty face when I tell her she is expected to share a bed is so charming I very nearly forget the many misbehaviors that preceded it. She is rather beautiful, with curling blonde hair and deep brown eyes, creamy skin dappled with freckles across the bridge of her pert nose. If she were transported to some far-flung countryside this very moment, I would think her a milkmaid.

This little bird is as innocent as they come. Though she speaks with the vocabulary of a noble, her accent marks her as a country creature, simple and untouched. Her plain dress is actually quite charming, in its own way. If I were the sort of man to soften to a sweet, innocent girl, I might become quite attached to her.

Unfortunately, I am not that sort of man.

I have been broken, inside and out. I do not feel softness. I do not feel affection. I certainly never make the mistake of becoming attached.

I did not want a match, or a wife. I am certainly not suitable material for a husband. If I were to be matched at all, I had assumed the Artifice would have assigned me an independent fortune hunter type of woman. Someone with the fortitude to withstand the rigors of being married to a man like me, someone with enough self-interest to survive.

This girl is far too young, with a delicacy and a sweetness that exists in sharp contrast to my world.

The Artifice has thrown this lamb to the wolf.

Her innocence is obvious, and her reluctance is equally clear.

Once it was revealed that I had a match, I expected a certain level of enthusiasm and excitement in the chosen woman. I waspreviously ranked as one of the top ten eligible matches in The State. I am used to women throwing themselves at me, though their advances were pointless given there could never be any serious relationship between us. Still, that did not stop many of them from suggesting more casual dalliances, and it did not prevent me from accepting their generous offers.

Those days are over now, and I expected to have a mate who came to me with eager compliance, not this frightened yet sassy little thing who looks at me with more fear than lust in her pretty doe-eyed gaze.

“Come with me,” I tell her. “Where are your bags?”

“I didn’t bring any. I didn’t know I was coming.”

She truly did not. I cannot imagine how those on the other side of the proverbial ditch failed to read the right name, but it seems like an entirely avoidable and irresponsible mistake.

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