Page 22 of The Traitor's Curse
“My wine is not cheap, Your Grace!”
I sucked in a sudden breath, startled out of my daze, and turned back to the indignant winemaker. He’d gone as burgundy as one of his spoiled vintages, and his pursed mouth had the same level of acidity.
Damn it, I’d have to rebuke him for his interruption even though I couldn’t possibly be more grateful for it.
But Benedict spoke first, as if he’d read my mind. “His Grace shouldn’t need to chastise you for your insolence in interrupting him, and so I will. Mind your manners.” All the color drained out of the vintner’s cheeks, leaving him more the chalky color of the soil his grapes grew in. “That said, the cost of your wine doesn’t matter much. I have an opinion on large quantities ofanywine.”
I glanced over at the assembled courtiers, who were—smiling up at Benedict like fools, and laughing.
With him. Not at him, as I’d intended. And certainly more genuinely than they’d managed for my joke at his expense.
Benedict stepped forward, moving down a step so that he’d be showing me the respect I deserved—while also still looming over me and dominating the room, of course.
“With your permission, Duke Lucian,” he threw over his shoulder, and hardly waited for my nod to address the vintner. “I can detect the traces left by magic. I’m willing to inspect your vats. And surely I’ll find evidence of perfidy. Won’t I?”
The vintner’s mouth dropped open and then snapped shut again, and his eyes darted from side to side, as if he hoped someone else—someone less intimidating than Benedict—wouldpop out of nowhere the way Benedict had and intervene.
“Ah, my lord,” he stammered. “Your time is so valuable. Surely the duke can pronounce a judgment without—”
“You sound as if you’re suggesting that His Grace’s attention and time are less valuable than mine,” Benedict cut in, and my back stiffened involuntarily at the low, furious timbre of his voice. “Are you? Surely no one could be so foolish. After all, Duke Lucian dedicates every moment of the day to Calatria’s welfare. I merely serve him and support his efforts to the best of my ability. Do you want my expert inspection or not? I can’t speak for His Grace, but if I don’t find any evidence of magical tampering, I will advise him to hang you for your lies and your impudence both.”
A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in my chest, flooding up into my heating cheeks. I stared at Benedict’s hard profile, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulder and arm.
Surely he had some agenda of his own that would be served by supporting my efforts, didn’t he? Because why else would he praise me like that? Step in to handle a common rascal to whom I really shouldn’t take the time to address myself, thus preserving the dignity of my rank and showing me a genuine respect I hadn’t received from anyone at my court in the gods only knew how long?
Something unpleasant tickled at the back of my mind, something I really didn’t want to admit might be shame.
Benedict might have been genuinely offering his help when he arrived, not condescending to me at all. And I’d replied with mockery. Perhaps, if I changed my tune now, that joke about the wine could pass as more or less good-natured.
“As my nearest advisor, Lord Benedict does speak for me,” I said, the words flowing surprisingly easily off my tongue, as if they’d been awaiting the opportunity to take flight. “And I trust his expertise implicitly. I’ll render my judgment now. If youdecline Lord Benedict’s generous offer to examine the evidence, then I’ll assume you’re lying, and the clerk will assess your fines on your way out. If you accept, then Lord Benedict will pronounce his own judgment, and it will be final.”
I glanced up at Benedict, and I found that he’d turned to gaze down at me, lips parted in what could have been shock. Our eyes met—and held, precisely as they had a few minutes ago.
Only this time, I had no doubt at all of the meaning of the heat in his, of that dangerous gleam. The moment he had me alone…I shivered, my cock stirring and a heavy, needy ache building behind my balls.
Benedict turned away, and I was able to draw a full breath.
“Well? What’s your answer?” he demanded.
The vintner hunched in on himself, expression gone as sour as his wine. “The fines may bankrupt me,” he grumbled.
“Be grateful His Grace isn’t sending you back to the magistrate to stand trial for making a false accusation.”
Benedict waved a hand, and one of the guards stepped forward to escort the man away.
A loudly cleared throat drew my attention: Lord Zettine, about whom I’d completely forgotten, and whose tight-lipped, subtly murderous expression was focused on…not on me at all. On Benedict. Benedict, who’d blithely usurped Zettine’s role as my Lord Chancellor, putting himself quite literally between Zettine and the throne. And in the process, drawing Zettine’s ire away from me and focusing it, at least temporarily, on himself.
Intentionally? Or simply because Benedict didn’t give a single damn about what anyone thought of him?
Either way, it seemed less and less likely that Benedict and Zettine had some kind of secret understanding.
And as little as I wanted to come to depend on Benedict’s protection, when he could revoke it at any time, I found it hardto be afraid of someone when I had Benedict standing between us with his hand on his sword.
In lieu of sticking my tongue out at Lord Zettine, I smirked with one corner of my mouth, the courtier’s equivalent. “Allow the next petitioner to approach,” I said, in Zettine and the clerk’s direction.
“Momentarily,” Zettine said. “First, perhaps Lord General Rathenas would like to take my chair for this session? I would be honored, my lord.”
I had to give the old hypocrite credit. He sounded almost convincingly as if he’d think it an honor to vacate his almost-throne in favor of a much younger, much more popular man.
