Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [90]
Lord Samuels had enjoyed the story himself — until he arrived home and found it developing further in his own living room.
Simkin expounded fully upon the very great honor of having himself as a houseguest.
“My dear sir, a thousand Dukes, to say nothing of several hundred Barons and a Marquis or two, crawled — simply crawled — on their hands and knees and begged me to favor them with my presence whilst in town. I hadn’t made up my mind, of course. Then there was that unfortunate incident” — he looked pained and much injured — “from which your sweet child rescued me” — he kissed his hand to Gwen, who sat with lowered eyes — “and how could I refuse her kind offer of sanctuary?”
But it did not appear to be an honor that Lord Samuels appreciated.
Furthermore, the father’s guardian eye saw what the doting mother’s had not. He saw immediately the danger in Joram’s darkly handsome good looks. The smoldering black eyes were enhanced by the shining hair which Prince Garald had persuaded Joram to cut and comb. He wore it loose on his shoulders, the thick curls framing the stern, serious face. The young man’s fine physique, his cultured voice and graceful hands accorded oddly with his plain clothing, lending an air of romantic mystery about him that was further enhanced by the nonsensical story of wicked uncles and lost fortunes. As if this weren’t enough to turn the head of any girl, there was a sense of a raw animalistic passion about the man that was, to Lord Samuels, particularly disturbing.
Lord Samuels saw his daughter’s flushed face and quickened breathing. He saw that she wore her best gown to dinner and that she talked to everyone but the young man — sure signs of her being “in love.” This in itself did not bother Lord Samuels a great deal. Gwen had, of late, been “in love” with some young man at the rate of about one a month.
What concerned milord — and caused him to send his daughter to her chamber immediately following dinner — was that this young man was so different from the young noblemen Gwen regularly was in raptures over. They were boys, as young and flighty and puppyish as his sweet girl. This one was not. Though young in years, he had somehow acquired a man’s seriousness of purpose and depth of feeling that Lord Samuels feared must completely overwhelm his vulnerable daughter.
Joram knew his enemy immediately. The two regarded each other coolly over dinner. Joram said little, concentrating, in fact, on maintaining his illusion of being Alive, using his sleight-of-hand techniques to eat the rich food and drink the fine wines with the appearance of magic. In this he succeeded well, due, in part, to the fact that Mosiah, though highly skilled in magic, was a peasant when it came to dining. The bowls that were supposed to float gracefully to his lips dumped soup down his shirt. The meat on its sizzling skewer nearly skewered him. The crystal globes of wine bounced about him like so many balls.
Lilian and Majorie — they had been invited to spend the night — giggled so much at these mishaps that they spent half the meal with their faces hidden behind their napkins. Ashamed and embarrassed, Mosiah could not eat and sat red-faced and silent and sullen.
Lord Samuels retired early and bid his guests — in a glacial tone of voice — to do likewise, saying he was certain they wished to rest before their eminent departure. As for Simkin’s assurances that the Emperor would doubtless bestow a duchy upon Lord Samuels in return for his kindness toward “one whom the Emperor considered a wit and a bonhomme of the first order,” milord was not delighted at the prospect, and bid them good-night quite coldly.
The guests went to their beds accordingly, the servants lighting the way to the carriage house. That night, while Saryon and Mosiah discussed plans for leaving Merilon and Simkin prattled away about the dire revenge