Pleasure and Purpose Read online

  "It pleased me to have you call me your lady," Mina said. And then at last, Alaric was able to find sleep.

  Chapter 22

  There would always be those who stared, Mina thought without a blink to betray she was even paying attention to the way heads turned as she passed. Her high-necked, long-sleeved gown, with its buttons from throat to floor, stood out amongst the dresses of sateen and frothing lace. Add to it the fact that her attire was more than merely out of fashion but marked her profession, and she couldn't be surprised at the attention being paid to her.

  There would also, she mused, ever be those who chose to be unkind rather than silent. For them, however, she had even less interest in response. She didn't need a title or a family line to outrank all of them. She was a Handmaiden and above their petty comments.

  Alaric had called her bolder than the Sisters he'd previously met, but Mina wasn't particularly bold in public. She drew enough attention simply walking into a room; she'd gain nothing by behaving in any manner designed to create more. And it wouldn't serve her patron to cause a scene, no matter how many insults came to her ears in voices making mockery of whispers.

  Alaric had performed superbly earlier at court. Any who found fault with his discussions on the current import and export laws being written would have done so only from spite, for his every suggestion had made sense and been backed by scads of documentation. Even Cillian had been fair impressed, clapping Alaric's shoulder and grinning with bared teeth at the lords who made to oppose them.

  Mina hadn't, of course, taken part in any of the work, but had been there for every glance Alaric gave her. There'd been fewer as the hours wore on. He'd needed her less. And such was how it was meant to go, she thought now as court dispersed and the lords and ladies who'd lingered with nothing to do but gossip made to leave. She was meant to bolster him so he could stand on his own. No matter how much they both enjoyed each other's company, it wasn't meant to be forever.

  Alaric, flushed and laughing, was bent in conversation with Cillian. The men drew envious glances and she heard mutters of favoritism from a few, but there were many who'd left the room praising the work done that day.

  There'd be more to do, of course, more than Mina cared to think on, for politics and the working of government held little appeal for her. She learned what was necessary, and that was all. Still, it satisfied her to watch the pair of them, golden head and amber, talking with such affection. It would do Alaric more good than anything to be back in the bosom of his friends again. Better even than the release of climax, she thought with a small smile.

  "Look at him prattle on as though anyone but his school chum could bear to pay attention."

  Mina didn't turn her head at the snide, feminine tone. She didn't have to see the speaker's face to guess the look of it. A pinch-mouthed, narrow-eyed huss, no doubt. Too bitter and too convinced of her own worth to keep her meanness to herself.

  "One might become convinced he's actually managed to teach himself somewhat of business," continued the voice.

  Mina turned. She knew the Lady Larissa not from her portrait, which in truth had been painted with a more favorable hand than she deserved. In reality the cut of the lady's lips and ridge of her nose created a much sharper-edged beauty. Her hairstyle belonged on a much younger woman and her clothes, though costly and well-tailored, also hinted at pretentiousness.

  Or else, Mina admitted to herself, she could simply not form a decent opinion of the lady, knowing what she knew.

  "I don't believe we've met." Women didn't shake hands as men did, so Larissa flicked her fan in Mina's direction. "You're the Handmaiden."

  Woman I begin and woman I shall end, Mina thought. It was never truer when facing another woman over a man. "I am. And you are?"

  There must have been too few who dared put Larissa in her place, for that lady blinked rapidly as color stole into her fashionably powdered cheeks. She flicked her fan again. Ridiculous, Mina thought. Fans are meant for heat and evenings, and we are having neither.

  "I am Larissa Darshan."

  Mina said nothing.

  Over Larissa's shoulder she saw Alaric, stopped by the same weasel-faced man who'd accosted him in the gardens a fortnight before. They'd bent their heads together over something Mina couldn't see. Larissa shifted to block Mina's view of anything but herself.

  "You think you have him," Larissa sniffed, "but you don't. Not if I want him back." Mina had ever faced jealous lovers with compassion, for it couldn't be easy knowing they'd failed the person they claimed to

  love. For Larissa she had only contempt and didn't bother to hide it. Apparently the woman was unused to seeing it, for she actually took a step back and closed her fan with a snap.

  "I am a Handmaiden," Mina said. "I need not squabble over the favors of my patron with the likes of you."

  Larissa staggered as though she'd been struck. She put a hand to her heart, and her cheeks flamed like fire. Mina took a dangerous amount of enjoyment from the sight.

  "And even if you want him back," Mina said, "you can't have him." The metal box rested against the skin of Alaric's belly. It scratched with every movement. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

  He'd not been sick in days, too busy with the tasks set him first by Mina and then by Cillian. He'd discovered much about himself, as well: for example, that he wasn't as dense with numbers as he'd always imagined. He'd taken to his work as Minister of Fashion and he'd taken to his private life as Mina's patron, which was far different from being anything he'd ever been to anyone.

  "Just a hit," the stranger had said and offered the box. "You needn't overindulge. You can hold back. Can't you?"

  And he could, indeed. Herb, worm, wine . . . these were the indulgences of gentlemen and not considered vices. He'd spent hours in the pleasant haze of intoxication. He could handle one, small dose of oblivion.

  It would be sweet, he knew that. First the taste would flood his tongue, then heat would flood his veins. In another heartbeat, no more than two, he'd stand taller, walk a straighter line, pontificate with a brilliance that failed his normal mind.

  With just one hit.

  And then, after, when he came down, the sickness would come back twice as fiercely as it had before. The only way to stop that from happening would be to take another dose. And another.

  For now, he satisfied himself with a glass of Cillian's fine wine. He took another to Mina, who'd declared she didn't dance, at least not in public and not unless it was necessary for her patron. He'd been unable to convince her a turn in the reel would benefit him, and she'd sent him to fetch her a full glass, instead.

  He didn't mind, though he enjoyed dancing. King Allwyn's court had been a bit duller than Cillian's, for the new king sponsored entertainments every night. Since his appearance in court, Alaric and Mina had attended the entertainments every night for close to a full sevenday.

  "Your wine, my lady."

  "Thank you." She took the glass and sipped. She might not dance, but her toes tapped in merry time to the music and her cheeks had flushed rosy to go along with her gleaming eyes.

  She was the most beautiful woman in a room full of fine-featured ladies, and he could only stare like a sudden, gape-mouthed fool when she smiled.

  "Alaric?"

  He'd worried her. Knowing it warmed him more than her smile. He took the chair next to hers. "You are like no other woman in this room."

  She laughed. "I stand out amongst all the others?"

  “To me.”

  She cupped his cheek. "You're very sweet."

  The music changed from a simple country tune to one of the newer, more fashionable dances Cillian had commissioned. Alaric hadn't yet learned it, but he looked to the dance floor anyway.

  "Are you certain I can't convince you to allow me to escort you for a dance?" Mina patted him. "I'm sure. But you go. There are a number of unaccompanied ladies who look to be fair itching for a partner."

  This suggestion puzzled him. "You'd not. . . mi