The Seat of Magic (31 page)

W
EDNESDAY
, 29 O
CTOBER
1902

D
ressed in one of her new ensembles—a rose-colored blouse and darker jacket over a full burgundy skirt—Oriana sat down on the edge of the bed. She touched Duilio's hair, but he barely moved in response. “Duilio, wake up.”

That didn't rouse him either. He was evidently one of those people who didn't wake well. Admittedly, he hadn't gotten much sleep, for which she'd been partially responsible. She didn't feel particularly guilty about that. Oriana watched as he slept on, bemused by the fact that he was hers now. She wondered how long it would take her to become accustomed to the notion.

She had a lover. She had a
mate
. And a rather attractive one, too.

She levered herself down on the bed next to him to better see his face in the morning light. Even in his sleep, the corners of his mouth turned upward, as if his dreams were fine ones. His hair was too short to look overly disordered, but she was glad she'd had a chance to comb her own out before he saw it. His dark lashes lay against his skin. She wished she had such thick lashes. It must be a selkie trait. And his scent was more marked now, that warm smell of musk she found so intriguing. He would probably bathe immediately
after rising and ruin it. There had been other women before her; she wondered if any had commented on it.

“You're rumpling your skirt,” he mumbled.

Oriana shifted away to look at his face again, but he wrapped one arm about her waist and drew her closer to nuzzle her neck. “Duilio,” she protested, “you'll have to get up sooner or later.”

He pulled away again, his eyes dancing with laughter. His lips remained pressed closed though, as if he didn't dare let out whatever clever quip he had in his head.

She couldn't decide what he was holding in, and he didn't say.

Instead he reached across and ran a finger across her lower lip, and softly said, “Mine.”

That assumption of ownership made her laugh. “It doesn't work that way. You belong to me now, not the other way around.”

He rolled halfway atop her, pinning her by throwing one bare leg over her skirts. “Is that why you wanted to have it your way? So you would have the upper hand?”

From his tone he was joking, but she hadn't considered it in that light. “No, I honestly hadn't thought of that. But if I marry you, will I not have to promise to obey you?”

“If?” he asked. “There is no
if
, Oriana.”

“When,” she amended.

He touched her cheek. “You should know by now I would never try to hold you to that. I might . . . suggest, but no more.”

“So if we ever get to the islands, you'll be a dutiful mate?”

“I'll do whatever you want,” he promised rashly.

That was an enticing offer. “Will you grow your hair longer?” she asked. “Males don't wear their hair this short back there.”

He returned to nuzzling her neck. “Hmmm. I could do that.”

“You'd have to wear a pareu, of course.” She'd told him about the traditional garb on the islands before, essentially no more than a length of fabric secured at the waist. He'd sounded intrigued, but then it had been a distant possibility. “And all the appropriate
jewelry,” she added, wondering how far she could get before he balked. “And you'll have to be tattooed as well. . . .”

That got his attention. “Tattooed?”

“A line tattoo,” she explained, “so women will know which family you belong to.”

He blinked down at her for a moment. “Where?”

She laid one hand over his heart. “Here.”

For a moment, his eyes were serious. “I can do that.”

She'd expected him to refuse. “We'll see.”

He shifted his weight over to free one hand and ran a finger over her lips. “We could stay here today.”

“You're wrinkling my skirt,” she chided him.

“I want to see what your stripe looks like in the daylight.” He leaned down to kiss her anyway. She laid her hands flat against his back, his bare skin warm under her fingers. For a time she let herself be lost in the joy of feeling his lips against her throat, what little of it was bared for his touch.

A strangled screech from the other side of the room—followed by the unmistakable sounds of china clattering on a tray and the door slamming shut—broke the warmth that enfolded them.

Duilio, still half atop her, wore a sheepish expression. “We didn't lock the door, did we?”

“No.” She grimaced. “Teresa brings me coffee in the morning to help me wake up.”

Duilio shifted onto his side again, his leg sliding off her. He rolled onto his back and ruefully said, “That is the first time I've shown my bare ass to any of the servants since I was about five years old.”

Yes, that particular part of his anatomy would be the first thing Teresa saw.
Oriana didn't know how she was going to face the maid after this. She scrambled off of the bed and gazed down at Duilio. He had one arm thrown over his face, hiding. “Well, now you have to get up.”

He exhaled dramatically. “I suppose I'd better explain to Cardenas.”

Even if Teresa said nothing, the staff would all figure it out eventually. How was he going to explain to them about spending the night in her room? This wasn't the same as when she'd been ill. They'd been willing to overlook his behavior then, but now? “I'll talk to Teresa,” she offered.

“No, I'd better go straight to the top.” Duilio rolled off the bed, got to his feet, and stood before her. “And now you can't say you've never seen me unclothed.”

She smiled but didn't comment as he began to don his discarded garments from the night before. Everything that came to her mind to say would probably cause them to end up back in that bed . . . with neither of them eating breakfast. And she was quite hungry.

She eyed the coffee tray abandoned on the table next to the door. Miraculously, it looked as if nothing had broken. The bed was far more rumpled than she usually left it—there was no hiding that she hadn't been alone in it last night—and his bed would be untouched. She wasn't certain how he was going to explain it to Cardenas in a way that would appease the staff, but Duilio seemed confident he could smooth things over. She would have to trust him.

Although dressed, Duilio hadn't bothered with his shoes. He clutched them in one hand and beckoned her over to the door. “Will you look to see if the hallway is empty?”

She was impressed by his foresight. “Are you practiced at this?”

“No, I'm practical.” He motioned toward the door with his head. Oriana went to look outside, but Duilio stopped her. He kissed her once more and let her go. “Couldn't help myself.”

Oriana rolled her eyes and then peered out into the hallway. She didn't see anyone, so he slipped out her door and then out of her sight. Breakfast seemed a very long way away now.

*   *   *

D
uilio felt starved. He was often hungry as it was, but he'd been awake half the night. Ignoring an affronted Marcellin, he bathed quickly and dressed in a casual tunic and trousers. Then he
went to hunt down Cardenas before too much gossip spread belowstairs. He kept an eye out for Felis on his way, since she seemed to have a special sense that warned her whenever he did anything improper.

Cardenas harrumphed, but wasn't surprised by his misbehavior. The butler promised he would talk to Teresa, and Duilio hoped that would be an end to it, although he doubted he would be that lucky. When he got downstairs to the dining room, he found Oriana already there. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tilted her head in his mother's direction as if to warn him. He nodded to the footman and took his usual seat.

His mother regarded him blandly. “Duilinho, honestly, a little discretion would have been preferable to cleaning up afterward.”

So his mother
had
heard. That explained Oriana's cowed look. Household gossip certainly traveled quickly. Duilio shook his napkin out and laid it in his lap. “Has Oriana informed you that we've decided to marry?”

His mother's brows rose. “Yes. Don't change the topic, dear. My point is that I expect
not
to have a repeat of this morning's events until after the wedding.”

Duilio stole a glance at Oriana, who gazed fixedly at her plate. She had one hand over her mouth, but her dark eyes danced. “Yes, Mother,” he said. “I'll be discreet.”

His mother picked up her newspaper in one hand and her coffee in the other. “That's all I wanted to hear.”

The footman brought his regular breakfast and Duilio, after deciding he wasn't going to catch Oriana's eye, started in on his food. He had the feeling that if Oriana could blush, she would be doing so. His mother hadn't been forbidding him to share Oriana's bed. She just wanted him not to get
caught
again. “Have the two of you decided when the wedding will be?”

His mother put her paper aside. “If you're not averse, I thought it could be done next Saturday morning, the eighth. I believe Father
Januario would be amenable, human or not, and we're planning on having both families at the house that evening anyway.”

Ah yes, the dinner party.
Oriana didn't flinch at the hurried date, so Duilio guessed that she and his mother had been discussing this before his arrival. He picked up the newspaper that lay next to his plate and turned it to the social page. “I'm not averse, Mother. Whatever you and Oriana decide is fine.”

“You'll need to send an announcement to the papers,” his mother said. “
This
morning. And notify your man of business.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said absently, his eye captured by his own name printed on the page in front of him, among the columns of social gossip.

He'd fully expected to see his name in the paper this morning. He had. He'd expected to see a clever quip or two regarding Oriana and himself and Miss Carvalho.

What he hadn't expected was an entire column dedicated to a blatantly laudatory discussion of Duilio Ferreira and how he had spent the last six years working with police forces across Europe and here in the Golden City. It went on to talk about his involvement in the investigation of
The City Under the Sea
, even mentioning Oriana at one point. He stared at the page, aghast.

“Duilinho?” his mother said, sounding as if she'd repeated that a couple of times now. When he glanced up at her, she asked, “What's wrong?”

He handed the paper over to her. “I think the infante is responsible for this.”

“For what?” Oriana asked as his mother surveyed the page.

“I've been exposed.” He puffed out his cheeks, unsure whether he was upset about this or not. “I'm not going to be very popular in social circles for a while, I expect.”

“Exposed?” Oriana repeated, eyes wide with worry.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. She must think the article revealed his selkie blood. “Not in
that
way. Just that I work with the police.”

“And look! You're called his
intrepid assistant
.” His mother leaned across to show Oriana that line of the article. “See? Right there. That will undoubtedly cause people to rethink their interpretations of last night's abrupt departure from the ball.”

“Oh, dear,” Oriana said, taking the paper in her own hands. “You think the infante did this? Why would he?”

“He said something to me last night about my not being useful as I was. He had Anjos do . . . something. I've forgotten exactly how he worded it. But he apologized, so this must be his work.”

His mother tapped her cheek. “The infante was at the ball last night? You neglected to mention that.”

“Yes,” he said, “although you shouldn't spread that about, Mother.” They'd discussed Oriana's sighting of the Melo woman last night on the short drive back to the house, and after arriving home, he'd been distracted by Oriana herself. “He was more forthcoming than usual, and handed me some interesting information, although I don't know that it's pertinent.”

Oriana was scanning the article again, as if she didn't quite believe the words printed on the page.

“Where was the infante?” his mother asked. “I didn't see him, although I'm not sure I would recognize him.”

“Ah,” Duilio said. “He shares the Lady's gift for disappearing. She's his aunt.”

“The lady without a name?” His mother's lips pursed. “I barely remember the infante's mother, but I suppose there's some resemblance.”

Oriana lifted her eyes from the paper. “Did you actually single-handedly find the murderer of this French duke?”

“Well, yes.” Duilio shrugged. “The gendarmes had settled on his valet for the murder and threw him in prison without further investigation. My gift kept telling me he wasn't the killer, but since I hadn't told them I was a witch, I couldn't tell them that. I just kept looking until I found the actual culprit. Even proven innocent, Marcellin had no chance of employment after being accused of such a
crime, so I took him on. I suppose those details about my time in France and Great Britain came from Alessio.”

Oriana tossed the paper onto the table. “Well, they don't say how I came to be your assistant. What will we tell people about that?”

“That after my mother hired you to be her companion, you figured out that I worked with the police and offered your assistance?”

Cardenas came in, a salver in hand. “This was delivered for you, Mr. Duilio.”

Duilio picked up the note, broke the seal, and read it. “Inspector Anjos is requesting our help today,” he said. “I'm including
you
in that, Mother.”

She grinned. “Do I get to be your assistant as well?”

I am never going to live this down. Never.
“Apparently Anjos needs to discuss something delicate with Lady Carvalho, and thinks your presence might ease the way.”