“Bastin,” she began, after their next agonizing assignation. “Please give me a moment. You cannot like this either. I confess, I did not consider your wishes as I ought. But surely it would be better if we could come to some terms. We will be married all our lives…”
He listened. It wasn’t quite an apology, but Esmene had begun to build a very reasonable case for why they ought to mend things when he walked out of the room.
The next month, she had offered an actual apology.
The month after that, she cried.
She made efforts outside the bedroom, sweetening herself to him in every way. It was difficult. They lived in separate palaces; she could not offer the small, intimate attentions of a true wife. But every time he laid eyes on her, she made sureshe was dazzling. Her voice was musical. Her compliments to him were elegant. Her gifts to him were expensive, exotic, and extravagant.
She wascourtingthe wretched man.
He never refused the gifts. A new horse. A new sword. Luxurious teas and gems and stunning jeweled chains that would complement his starry blue eyes. She delivered them herself and endured the wits of the court, laughing that the Empress had fallen in love with her husband.
That love was not requited. Bastin looked at her, listened to her small, graceful speeches explaining the latest offering, and set it aside.
But if he rejected her utterly, he would have sent them back, wouldn’t he?
The chain he wore to the Ispichov banquet was made of sapphires, but it was not one of the chains she had given him. A little after midnight, she extracted the Emperor from his throne and led him to her carriage.
He had consumed a fair amount of wine; Esmene made sure to keep his cup full. And at the doorway of her bedchamber, she beguiled him to kiss her for nearly a minute before he remembered who she was. Striding to the bed, he began to undress as he always did, refusing to look at her. It only made her more determined. He would have it over as soon as possible, and she was not going to let him win.
“Wine,” she commanded, snapping her fingers for a maidservant. As it was poured, she brought forth other things, oils and candies and oysters in sauce that she had ordered prepared for their arrival. It had never been difficult to physically rouse him, but she wanted him to linger. She needed him to seed her. And she would have done almost anything to make it hurt less.
“This is not necessary,” was all he said when she emerged from her dressing room in the scantiest of silks, so thin it left her nipples visible.
“I want to make it better for both of us,” she whispered. Was there a hint of interest in his wine-fogged eyes? She poured him another glass and fed him candies, pretending desire as she roused him with oil. After four years, his body was nothing but an instrument of torture to her.
One child. One child of the male line of Agnephus, for the glory of House Melun. Her child would give her a hold on the Emperor that he could never escape. She would leash him like a dog. Esmene would never have to humble herself again.
Steeling herself, she impaled herself on him. She was utterly dry inside, but the oil at least made it easier to get him into her. Some months she barely had time to heal before she had to take him again. But it didn’t matter. Once she had a child, let him be banished from her bedroom forever. If only she could get him to respond!
Braced above him, she began to move, her hips gliding. She feigned pleasure, hoping her noises would rouse him. The lights in her bedchamber were low, a warm glow of candlelight, and perhaps he was intoxicated enough to forget himself. She moved faster, panting and groaning as she attempted to stimulate him, and as she was working away above her motionless husband, Esmene looked up and chanced to see herself in the mirror on the other side of the room.
Dressed in those silks.
Her bare breasts bouncing. The vulgar motions of a whore, her lips blown out as she faked loud moans.
A sight instantly seared into her memory forever.
She froze. Her breath hitched.
And Empress Esmene of House Melun burst into tears.
“Go. Go,” she sobbed, falling onto her side and curling up in bed with one hand pressed between her legs. And heknewit, that hateful bastardknewshe was hurting herself even as she was pretending to enjoy it. Bastin rose obediently.
“Your efforts are most gratifying,” he said, his starry blue eyes glittering with appreciation as he looked down at her. Even though she was mortified and in agony, she could see the hateful satisfaction in his face. “Good night.”
There was no question who had appeared the prostitute this night.
It was a humiliation she would never forget, and never forgive.
But that was not even the worst of it.
It tickled the back of her mind in the weeks that followed, an unsettling sense of some crucial detail overlooked. His smile haunted her. Why had he seemed satisfied? When had he begun to smile? When had his loathing transmuted to include that smirk?
It must mean something.
And it had been strange, to choose the night of the Ispichov banquet as the night when they would be together. It was inconvenient. The banquet was hardly unexpected; it had been planned months in advance, and there was no reason why the Emperor should choose that night to do his duty. Why then?
