Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [111]
She wore a gown of pale yellow silk, a necklace and earrings set with canary-yellow diamonds. Her hair was coiled in a coronet, glinting in the sunlight. A golden girl, but for the shock of those black, black eyes.
I rose and bowed, my heart thudding.
“Messire Maignard, I pray you forgive my rudeness,” she said, speaking Hellene with a near-flawless accent. A light voice, cool and controlled. I had an immediate urge to know what it sounded like unstrung with passion. Instead, it took on a hint of amusement. “I fear I was in the midst of a lesson, and my steward chose to wait rather than inform me that my mysterious D’Angeline had arrived.”
I laughed. “Not so mysterious, I fear.”
Her brows rose slightly. “Do tell.”
I accorded her another bow. “As my letter indicated, I am in the service of his eminence Ptolemy Solon, Governor of Cythera.” I lifted the inlaid box and opened the lid. “He sends his congratulations to you and Prince Astegal on the occasion of your nuptials, and this small token of Cythera’s goodwill.”
“This is lovely.” She took a piece from the box, examining it. An onyx knight, his ruby eyes sparking. “You must convey my gratitude to his eminence. It is a thoughtful gift.”
“Do you play?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” The princess smiled. Her lips were pink, the sort of shape that begs to be kissed. The spark of lively intellect in her dark eyes suggested it wasn’t something to be undertaken rashly. “But it’s a rare man thinks to gift a woman with a game of wits. And you continue to be mysterious, Messire Maignard.” She returned the knight to the box and gestured at the chairs. “Pray, sit and tell me. How does a D’Angeline come to be in the service of Cythera’s governor?”
I set the inlaid box on the table. “His lordship is a rare man.” I waited until she sat, then sat opposite her. Her Amazigh guard remained on the opposite side of the room, but he watched us with folded arms, his expression hidden behind the folds of his burnoose. Princess Sidonie ignored him. I cleared my throat. “My lord Solon is kin to Pharaoh of Menekhet. My father served as the master chef to the D’Angeline ambassador in Iskandria.”
She tilted her head. “Marcel de Groulaut?”
“No.” The question threw me off stride. I blinked, trying to remember the timeline for the tale I’d concocted and what I knew of Terre d’Ange’s presence in Menekhet. “Before him.”
“Ah.” The princess thought a moment. “That was the Comte de Penfars, I think.”
“How do you know that?” I asked stupidly.
Sidonie de la Courcel raised her brows, higher, this time. “Messire Maignard, since the day I gained my majority, it has been expected that I should be prepared to assume the throne of Terre d’Ange at a moment’s need. To that end, I am reasonably well informed about the workings of my own nation.”
I flushed. “Of course. Forgive me.”
Her lips quirked. “Rare men are . . . rare. But pray, continue.”
Gods, it galled me. I’d expected . . . what? A victim, a hapless pawn, easily manipulated. She wasn’t. Spell-bound and ignorant, yes. But still, disconcertingly self-possessed and acutely intelligent. I stammered through my tale of how Ptolemy Solon had come to dine at the Menekhetan ambassador’s home and grown enamored of his chef’s cuisine, wooing him away, thus establishing the Maignard clan on Cythera.
When I finished, I was sweating; and very much aware of the aroma of my ill-advised pomade hanging in the air.
“So you’ve never known Terre d’Ange?” the princess asked.
“No.” I shook my head. It wasn’t going to be easy to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange when she brought it up herself. “No, but Cythera is beautiful. Mayhap you’ll visit one day.”
“I’m sure that would be very pleasant,” she said politely.
“Yes, indeed.” Hot and uncomfortably aware that I was failing at being charming, I fanned myself, waves of scent wafting from me. Her expression turned slightly peculiar. “Ah, gods!” I blurted. “My lady, forgive me. I fear I’ve doused myself in a most cloying pomade. Believe me, I regret it.”
She laughed.