Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 156907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
He threw back the covers, tossed his legs to the side, stood and started to prowl to his dressing room.
But he stopped dead.
He then blinked.
There was a new rug on the floor.
It was not black with charcoal gray edges.
It was cerulean.
And the space beyond it that all his time in this bedchamber held nothing, now, facing the bed, sat a button-backed chesterfield couch covered in azure velvet.
Next to the couch was a low table, the base fashioned out of what looked like thick silver wire, on its top, a stack of books ready at hand should you wish to read.
And in the corner was a tall, healthy green plant with long, fat, glossy leaves.
Slowly, he turned and froze when he saw a squat, round silver vase erupting at its rim with a poof of velvety pale purple roses on the chest at Elena’s side of the bed.
And on the chest by his, a childish drawing Aelia had done while in The Enchantments that his daughter had given him, and he had kept, now stood in a frame.
“What the bloody hell?”
These things had to have been there last night.
However, he had come upstairs with his intended after she’d been at the wine with him and their friends for some hours (something she arranged every night—it was a constant celebration, no courtiers to be found, just Elena, him, people they cared about and a goodly amount of spirits).
She had been kissing him, thus he had been kissing her, and his mind had been elsewhere as they entered the room and fallen in bed.
He turned again.
The couch was long, it looked comfortable, and it was handsome.
On this thought, he continued stalking to his dressing room, threw on his leathers, pulled on his boots, and moved out.
He strode down the hallway, his mood deteriorating as he did so, and he did not meet a single servant to ask where his betrothed was.
But he stopped dead on the stairs down to the entryway.
He did this, for now, under the enormous daunting candelabrum, stood a wide round table of gleaming rosewood, under which was a circular rug with an ombre pattern of midnight blue in the middle, expanding out to sky blue at the edges.
And on the table was a large crystal vase filled with a massive spray of brilliant purple, pale yellow, rich cream and delicate peach gladiolus.
He stared at the blaze of vibrant color in a room that had not had a vibrant anything in centuries, the shock this delivered to his system so extreme, he was unable to move, even when he heard angry words coming from the Great Hall.
“I must again inform you I take my orders from my king…and my prince,” a voice Cassius knew was the castle steward declared.
“And again, I must inform you that I will be your princess and then your queen,” Elena retorted.
“The running of this citadel has always been left directly in the efficient hands of the steward, that being me, including all decisions therein taken, be they about food, spirits, cleaning, maintenance, heating and decorating,” the steward rejoined. “Even the king’s wives have no say in such matters.”
“I am not called to the king’s bed when he has gathered enough energy to perform,” Elena returned, and Cassius’s gut jolted, for he had the unusual desire to emit a bark of laughter. “I am in the Prince Regent’s bed, thankfully, and he has no problem bestowing the right of decorating her own home to his bride, that being me.”
Cassis resumed descending the stairs as the steward pronounced, “We do not have flowers in the royal foyer.”
“You do now,” Elena replied.
“And those red cushions will be removed from the davenports in the informal sitting room immediately,” the steward went on as if she did not speak.
Red cushions?
“If they are, I’ll have you beheaded,” Elena threatened.
Yes.
It was happening.
In this place. This terrible place where his mother died. His wife died. And he had lived what felt like a walking death.
He was fighting back laughter.
He moved beyond the gleaming rosewood table standing on its richly colored rug (and he wondered where she’d procured them), heading toward the Great Hall, succeeding in the endeavor of quelling his laughter, though with some effort.
No further effort was needed as he heard the steward sneer, “You do not have that power, female, and you never will.”
“Elena, find Mac.”
Both turned to him at hearing his voice.
“Your Grace.” The steward dropped into a graceful bow.
He halted ten feet away from them, eyes to the servant, but his words were aimed at Elena.
“Elena…Mac,” he growled.
“Cass, I think that—”
His gaze sliced to her.
She quieted.
“Go…find…Mac,” he bit out.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Go,” he whispered back.
Her eyes blazed amethyst as her mood set to stubborn.
“Not until you tell me what you’re going to do,” she demanded.
“He’s going to the dungeons,” Cassius drawled.