Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

83 - Chapter LXXXIII: The Aftermath

Twelve hours later.

A tea cup broke.

Quickly smothered by the hustle and bustle of voices and hovering attendants. The first afternoon tea of the Hangrove Society Ball creating the perfect backdrop for an introductory speech. The decorations impeccable. Every petal in place, every tablecloth set and the high table centred for a glorious view of the happy couple. The society page of the Line Rumour certain to cover not only the decor, but the exact shade of white seen on the luminous gown of Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter. Perfectly accessorised for the theme, wearing lace gloves and a one-of-a-kind cloche hat, extensively embroidered in metallic gold, specifically fashioned to match the necktie of her lord. Four yards from a reception line over which Miss Gottfridsdatter was presiding.

Alone.

"It will be fine," said Raze, his voice soothing in the ear of his wife, the Lady Allegra. He waved away the attendant, continuing to dab a linen napkin at some of the residual tea now staining the edge of his wife's place setting. His presence providing the sturdy pillar of comfort that was keeping her from losing her mind.

"It...will not...be fine," she murmured back. Just as softly. Appearing from afar to have made a delightful compliment about the flowers. Her eyes focused not on Freyja nor the gown she'd spent an entire season preparing, but the floral centrepiece of their table, which she was systematically dead-heading with two of her nails. Pausing briefly to take a sip from her tea, placing the new cup and saucer down on the tablecloth...and then graciously acknowledging the formal greeting from Lady Morrigan across the room. The kind of nod that knew just enough about the other to be dangerous.

"Did you expect it to be fine?" asked Magnus, smelling curious as he popped a miniature eclair into his mouth. He was meant to be sitting beside Erling, but they'd had to shift him from the high table, which would now be occupied by a pair of siblings rather than the most anticipated pairing in lycan history. A fact which seemed to elude the gargantuan leader of the third Northern den, who was now wiping chocolate off his fingers.

And Allegra nearly turning...in public...to scent out the man. Her stare enough to make him cough, getting up to wipe a hand on his trousers. Muttering something about checking on the guard rota. His absence allowing her to sit back and roast in her fury. Unable to answer his question aloud. Not after spending four decades secretly...and thanklessly...planting the seeds for one of the greatest merges in lycan history. All of their Council thinking the Northerners had come to them—that Lucian had been the one to finalise a deal on the Northern pass—when the sole reason Gottfrid had been willing to meet in the first place was for the sake of his daughter's marriage contract.

So...

...no.

What she'd expected was for Lucian to be standing beside the girl, having his cake and eating it, just as he'd promised to do six weeks before, when he'd asked her to change the rumour. Smile at the ready. Greeting his guests. Not passed out on the bathroom tiles again, she did not need to add. The three of them, along with poor Weylan, already having spent the first part of the morning getting the most esteemed lycan in history undressed and into his bed. Smelling of liquor and vomit.

During Hangrove.

The event of the season for every youth under fifty. Every family whose fortune was still tied in dowries and for that reason, ripe for the picking. Dozens of youths seated for teatime in the Great Hall, chaperoned by their parents, yet—according to the Rumour—using the opportunity to ask questions about their place in society. Questions that would never have occurred a hundred years before. Words like...