Page 11 of Never Love a Lord
“Take it yourself,” the woman muttered, and slammed the door shut behind her.
Julian pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded once to himself. He should have expected such a response. After all, he was the villain in this scenario—the evil lord sent to steal Fallstowe away from their lady. They didn’t want him here.
He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He would likely have to make some changes in staffing, should this attitude persist.
But in the meantime, hewashungry. By the time he was dressed and to the hall, Lucy would be ready for a bit of play and then a morning rest, and she would not tolerate waiting on Julian to finish his meal. He would eat in his chamber quickly then, so as to have time to spend with that sweetness before engaging the lady of Fallstowe. He visited his trunk first and quickly laid hand to a suit of warm clothing, dressing in front of the hearth.
Then he went to the table and pulled out one of the chairs, sitting down and rubbing his palms together swiftly, blowing warm breath on them in preparation for loosing the cork of the flagon. It was straight wine inside, not watered, and it ran rich and red into the cup. Julian savored the first mouthful, filling his cheeks until they burned before swallowing the warming liquid. He gave a satisfied sigh and filled the cup to the brim once more.
Then he turned his attention to the tureen. He picked up the engraved eating knife with his right hand, lifted the lid with his left, and peered down.
An entire, shiny black eel lay coiled in a weak saffron-colored broth, bits of black seaweed half floating on the liquid and half stuck to the slick-looking body.
Julian made an audible sound of disgust. Eel at the morning meal. And there wasn’t even any bread.
“Well, it’s not my favorite,” he admitted aloud. But perhaps it was still hot, and hewashungry. He reached into the tureen with his left hand, preparing to grasp the neck and remove the head with his knife.
The onyx body flashed in the morning light as the eel whipped its head around and snapped at Julian’s fingers.
He shouted his surprise as he snatched his hand away, and then in the next instant brought his eating knife down, at last subduing his breakfast. The broth turned murky with bright red swirls of blood and the body writhed for a moment.
Julian stood abruptly, his chair falling back behind him with a loud crack. He glared at the tureen as he swiped his cup from the table and drank the wine inside it straight down.
He was becoming annoyed with Sybilla Foxe’s hospitality.
Sybilla rarely left her chamber so early in the morn, but the idea that Julian Griffin presently resided under her roof placed her in such a foul mood that she was unable to tolerate her own company beyond a single cup of tea. After her hair was dressed and coiled atop her head, she dismissed her maids even though she was still in her silk wrapper. She felt the need for privacy as she dressed herself, choosing a gown the color of the darkest moss.
She stepped through the panel hidden in the wall behind her dais and was pleased that the hall was presently empty save for the Griffin infant and her nursemaid.
And Graves, of course, standing patiently near her chair.
Neither mistress nor servant spoke, each having determined long ago that banal pleasantries suited neither and were patently unnecessary between them first thing in the morn.
Sybilla sat down in her chair, and almost instantly a cup of her preferred tea and a small silver plate with toasted bread was set at her elbow. Sybilla nudged it away with the back of her hand, choosing instead to concentrate on the fidgeting girl seated at a table on the floor, who glanced furtively in Sybilla’s direction several times.
At last she seemed to find her courage and nodded toward Sybilla. “Good morrow to you, milady,” she offered solemnly.
“Nurse,” Sybilla replied in kind. She glanced down at the infant, who sat on the girl’s lap playing with what seemed to Sybilla to be a knot of trailing, colorful ribbons. “What is its name again?”
The nurse’s forehead creased slightly. “Lucy, milady.”
Sybilla nodded. “How long have you been Lucy’s nurse?”
“Since she was born, milady. One hundred and twenty-six days.” The nurse smiled down at the child, who was frowning and jerking the knot side to side in a very uncoordinated manner. It sounded as though there might be a small bell hidden inside the riotous cluster. Then the nurse glanced up at Sybilla again while she absentmindedly stroked the baby’s head cap. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Sybilla felt her nose wrinkle slightly but then turned her attention to her heretofore neglected tea. She picked up the cup and blew on the surface, speaking to the nurse over the rim. “Bring her to me so that I might see her properly.”
The girl hesitated for only an instant and then rose, one forearm around the infant’s middle and the other hand supporting its bottom, and Sybilla was reminded of how one might hold a piglet, if one was of a mind to do such a thing. Itwasrather round and pink.
The nurse walked up to the edge of the dais, and then, seeming not to know what else to do, grasped the baby under each arm and hoisted her up so that the infant’s gowned feet kicked just above the edge of Sybilla’s table.
Sybilla placed her cup back on the table and leaned forward in her chair, her hands on her thighs. She peered at the infant’s face, and to her surprise, the baby’s blue eyes seemed to peer right back. It was quite an appealing thing when viewed up close, Sybilla determined, and she wondered if the child resembled its mother.
“Good day, Lady Lucy,” Sybilla said levelly.
The infant’s eyes seemed to widen at the sound of Sybilla’s low voice. It stopped the futile cycling of its legs for a moment.
“Bah!” Lucy Griffin replied, then proceeded to blow a stream of spittle between her pink lips.
