In Which Nora Cuts to the Heart of the Matter

September 17, 1167

Before Lady Alina's death, Nora would have never found herself dusting off surfaces, waxing candlesticks, or making the beds in the guest suites. Her duties had involved handling her lady's dresses and brushing her red curls, and maybe on occasion--though she had to admit that the thought left a vile taste--scattering rose petals on the mattress in case either Lady Alina or Lord Severin had plans for a surprise romantic evening. She almost missed that task; she wondered if the duke would have cared for some rose petals on his bed.

Probably not, she thought to herself as she smoothed the sheets and straightened the blanket. Knowing the duke, he wouldn't care if it was on a petal-covered bed or an outhouse floor. I doubt he'd even notice the difference.

But why was she wasting her thoughts on someone like Lord Severin's estranged father? She had other things to worry about--the fact that she had been unofficially demoted to a chambermaid, perhaps. Maybe the fact that the change would be permanent; if Lord Severin was to marry again, then who was to say his new wife wouldn't care to choose her own maid? The thought of Lord Severin marrying again was troubling enough as it was.

But with thoughts like that, she probably deserved it.

How had it even happened? It made no sense, really. Over a decade ago now, she'd been a little dab of an almost-orphan who happened to meet a man who was... well, a man. The first man she'd ever truly thought of as a man, if she were to be honest with herself. She'd known nothing could happen--she was too young, and he was too married, and then of course there was the whole class difference problem--so she'd resigned herself to admiring him from afar and it wasn't long before those bizarre new feelings were nothing more than a memory.

She'd met Jothein, who was everything she'd ever wanted and then some. He'd saved her and her younger siblings from poverty. He'd given her four beautiful children. He'd loved her--and God, how she'd loved him. He'd been the world to her.

And then, he was gone. She'd grieved him silently for the following year, keeping herself busy during the days and crying herself to sleep many nights. Even now, she still missed him--she always would.

But somehow, about a year or so ago now, something had changed. A friendly smile that her mind might have mistaken for something more; a wayward glance that left a greater impact than intended. While everyone else pressured her about finding a new husband, he would just ask how she was, how the children were doing, genuinely concerned about something other than what people might think. Well, what would they think if they could see inside her mind now?

She knew it was silly, but she couldn't help but wonder if her secret lust had become a prayer. Could she have killed her employer with her own petty desires? It was irrational, but for whatever reason, she still felt as guilty as she might have been if she'd smothered Lady Alina with her pillow. Whatever it was she felt for his lordship, she'd been quite fond of her ladyship, and certainly had never wished her any ill. Or had she? God, she hoped not...

"Well, I must say--it's not every day I walk into my chambers to find a pretty young lady waiting for me."

It was the duke. Nora stiffened; she knew he was harmless if she chose not to indulge him, but she wasn't sure that was the path she cared to take. Maybe she needed a distraction, and maybe he would do just fine. "You liar. Judging by some of the stains on the other sheets, you must have had a pretty young lady waiting for you just last night."

"Granted, but she wasn't nearly so young or nearly so pretty as you."

Nora turned around and studied his features; he had a remarkable talent for keeping his head angled as if looking at her face, even though his eyes rested squarely on her breasts. "You're trying to seduce me, aren't you?"

The duke laughed, his gaze unmoving. "That's a blunt way of saying it--then again, I do like a woman who cuts past the formalities and just gets down the the heart of the matter."

Not that there was any heart in this matter. She liked the duke--reputed philanderer or not, he was a decent enough man--but she did not think that the two of them going to bed together would have meant anything. Granted, perhaps that was exactly what she needed right about now. "I suppose we are a rather rare breed."

He tossed back his head and chuckled; despite his age, she had to admit that he was rather attractive. If she looked from just the right angles, she could see more than a few hints of his son in him. "That you are--and let me tell you, I've always been a man to appreciate rarity."

"Without forsaking the common variety, of course," she quipped with a wink.

Smiling, he took her chin in his hand and tilted it upwards. "Well, a man does have needs, after all."

He was right. Men did have needs, and if she was honest with herself, they weren't the only ones; it had been a long time now. "So does a woman."

She supposed she was committed now. What did it matter, though? If nothing else, a meaningless romp with the most notorious womanizer on the continent would serve to clear her head. Besides, it wasn't as if a man like Lonriad of Luperia could have been bad in bed--and it had been so long.

He laced his arm around her waist and pressed her against him. He was a tall man; she had to stand on her toes to reach his lips.

To say he was a good kisser was not an appropriate statement. To say he was a good kisser was to say the sun was a tiny flame on the wick of a candle, or a tree was a blade of grass. He met her mouth with both the grace of a swan and the raw passion of a tiger, his lips plucking at hers like a masterful bard's fingers on harp strings, his tongue stimulating every square inch of her own... her palate... the ridges of her teeth...

Dear Lord. It had been so, so long!

Before she knew it, she was on her back, on the bed, this inhuman being of a man upon her. By instinct, he knew which parts of her to touch, and in what order, as if he had been with her every night of his life. He was in his element; he was, undeniably, an expert. Already, he knew her body almost as well as she did. It was almost perfect enough to be one of her fantasies.

Almost.

She felt something graze her thigh--something hard. How had that happened so quickly? He must have been at least sixty--how had he gotten it up so fast? Was that even possible at that age? Then again, it wasn't a secret that he was not the first such man of his line. She wondered what her lord might be like at sixty. Hell, as long as she was admitting to that, she wondered what he might be like at thirty-five.

She opened her eyes as he began to tug at her belt, only to see a familiar brown gaze looking down at her. Odd; the duke's eyes were blue.

This was too strange. Gently, she pried herself free of the duke's grasp, then swung her legs over the side of the mattress. "Forgive me for leading you on, your grace."

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