“Don’t listen to him,” Harriet said, and took Charon’s arm again with the same coy air Yves had at his brattiest. “I never do.”
“You were the one to set the rules to this engagement, you know.” Laurent de Rue stood in the doorway to the House of Onyx lounge, dressed in a splendid evening suit with an embroidered black robe. Yves rubbed a sore elbow and winced.
“I didn’t think so many of them would tackle me so enthusiastically.” At least Raul had only begged for the faintest kiss on the cheek, but everyone else had seemed intent on kissing Yves’ neck, chest, or for a good half-dozen of them, his ass. One suitor had tackled him from three paces away, the grass stains wouldn’t be washing out of his clothes any time soon. “I only counted eleven. What happened to the rest?”
“Four were chased out by swans,” Laurent drawled, and Yves smiled. “The courtesans from the House of Silver found three. They won’t thank you for the favor, by the by.”
“They’ll thank me when I’m gone,” Yves said. The king was personally funding repairs to the House of Silver, but the courtesans who’d worked there were living out of the Houses of Gold and Iron in the meantime. The House lords there weren’t keen to share attention between their guests and their usual courtesans, so the man in charge of the House of Silver had been running back and forth in a frantic attempt to not lose all their clients in one go. If Yves could give those courtesans a little extra money to laze around in a hedge maze and flirt with nobles, he didn’t mind.
What he did mind was that his cousin had taken Charon away hours ago, and still hadn’t delivered him. He didn’t think Harriet would seduce Charon. She did prefer doms, but Charon wasn’t egotistical enough for her taste. He was more concerned with what she was probablytellingCharon. Yves hadn’t exactly been a model son by the time he left, and he didn’t want Charon thinking he was a brat.
Or… well… anunprofessionalbrat. There was a difference, however small, between a man who was a delightful brat for money and one who was an inconsiderate brat in real life.
“I do wonder,” Laurent said, as Yves buttoned up a clean jacket. “At this rate, you may not have enough suitors to choose from.”
“A tragedy,” Yves said. Laurent raised one perfect eyebrow.
“Mm.” There was enough mild disappointment in Laurent’s dominance to make Yves bristle.
“What?”
“Oh, I said nothing,” Laurent said. “If you wish to eschew finding a husband and marry yourself, I suppose you aren’t the first. It would simply be a waste of all those flowers if you eliminated all your suitors before you reached the aisle. Unless you already have someone in mind?”
Yves looked up at him. Laurent couldn’t be talking about Charon. He’d been there when Charon had said it would be impossible. So who else was he hinting at? Lord Marteau was determined, that much was true. Raul was probably nice, if he could carry a conversation long enough for Yves to understand his motivations. Lord Yeltsey was sweet in a hopeless sort of way, and he was flighty enough that Yves felt secure that any marriage wouldn’t last too long.
“I’m not sure,” Yves said, carefully.
“May I speak to you as a married man, Yves?”
“You’ve been married for this entire conversation,” Yves said. Laurent gave him a small, warning glare.
“You needn’t marry someone to be bound to them,” Laurent said. “Sometimes…” he tapped the list of remaining suitors on his palm. “Sometimes, you get to know someone so well that perhaps you’repracticallymarried as it is, except you haven’t said it aloud.”
“That’s not how you and Sabre met,” Yves said, brow wrinkling in confusion. What was Laurent talking about?
“Think of who you know who might fit that description. Think very hard.”
Yves opened his mouth. He shut it again, then drummed his fingers on his knees. “Nanette and Simone?”
Laurent pressed his fingers to his temples. “Nanette and Simone. Of course. Yes. Of course.” He turned to leave, fingers still pressed to his temples and grumbling under his breath.
Yves wondered if arranging the contests around Sabre’s investigation was starting to crack Laurent’s unflappable mood. Everyone knew that Simone and Nanette were an item, but neither of them believed in the institution of marriage.
“He’s stressed,” Yves told himself. He headed out of the lounge and toward the foyer. Anyone would be beside themselves with a gaggle of lust-driven, wealthy men to manage.
He stopped short when he reached the entrance. Harriet was there, clinging to Charon as though they were old friends. She’d taken off her veil and let down her hair, which cascaded down her shoulders in loose, wavy curls, and she’d tugged her hemline down enough that her breasts were in danger of popping out.
“Oh, Yves,” she said, and patted Charon’s arm. “You have the most charming housemates.”
“Upstairs, Harriet,” Yves said, grabbing her by the sleeve. He looked at Charon, but Charon wasn’t staring at Harriet’s long, gold hair or ample cleavage. He was watching Yves with a cold, dark intensity that made Yves shiver.
“Hello, Charon,” Yves said. “I hope she wasn’t too much.”
“I was lovely,” Harriet said. “He bought me a cake. Getoff, Yves, you’re pinching.”
“Excuse me,” Yves said, and dragged his protesting cousin up the other set of stairs and into his room. She wrenched free ofhis grip and turned to examine it all with a low whistle, and Yves slammed the door shut.
“What were you doing?” Yves hissed.
