It was beautiful; truly and deeply beautiful. I wept at the sight of it, and this time Delaunay did not revile me for it, but embraced me. We are D’Angelines; we know what it is to weep at the sight of beauty.
"Be safe, Phèdre," he murmured. His voice stirred the caught weight of my hair. "Childric d’Essoms waits for you. Remember your signale, and remember that Guy will be there, if anything goes awry. I would not send you into the household of my enemy without protection."
My blood raced at the feel of his arms around me, and I turned in them, seeking his face. "I know, my lord," I whispered. But Delaunay dropped his arms and stepped back.
"It is time," he said, his expression grown distant and reserved. "Go, and may the blessing of Naamah protect you."
Thus did I go forth to my first assignation.
It was dark already when the carriage set forth. Guy, immaculate in livery, sat opposite me on the cushions and said nothing, nor did I speak to him. D’Essoms' house was small, but in close proximity to the Palace; he had a suite of rooms in the Palace itself, I learned later, but preferred to maintain his own lodgings for dalliance of this nature.
The servant who opened the door seemed surprised to see me attended by Guy, which emotion he marked with a haughty sniff. "That way," he said to me, pointing, and then to Guy, "You’ll abide in the servants' quarters, then."
As if he had not spoken, Guy moved forward and made me a bow, crisp and elegant; I hadn’t known he was capable of such a courtly manner. "My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay," he announced in his inflectionless voice, catching the servant’s eye and holding it. "She is expected by Lord d’Essoms."
"Yes, of course." Flustered, the servant put his arm out. "My lady-"
Guy stepped smartly between us. "You will take her cloak," he said softly. Whether it was Delaunay’s manner which he had adopted or the vestiges of his training in the Cassiline Brotherhood, it quelled d’Essoms' servant as surely as it had the lordling in the bar long ago.
"Yes. Yes, of course." D’Essoms' servant snapped his fingers, beckoning urgently at the bewildered maid who answered. "Take my lady’s cloak," he said sharply to her. I unfastened the clasp and shrugged it off my shoulders. The material slithered, rich and opulent, into his waiting hands.
Delaunay knew what he was about. D’Essoms' servant drew in his breath at the weight of the sangoire cloak, handing it to the maid, who covertly stroked the nap of the dense velvet as she folded it carefully over her arm. I held my head high, receiving their curious glances and returning them, letting them take in my crimson-marked eye. Gentry gossip, but so do servants. All first impressions matter.
"This way, my lady," D’Essoms' servant said again, but there was respect in his tone as he extended his arm. I took it graciously, permitting my fingertips to brush-just barely-his forearm. In this manner, he conducted me into the presence of Childric d’Essoms.
His lordship was waiting in his trophy room'. That was what I came to call it, at any rate; what he called it, I never knew. There were frescoes of hunting scenes on two walls. A third was taken up with a hearth, in which a fire was laid and above which hung the d’Essoms coat of arms and a panoply of weapons.
Against the last wall was something else.
Childric d’Essoms had the same look I had noted at Cecilie’s fête; tight-braided hair and the hooded eyes of a bird of prey. He wore a subdued brocade doublet and sateen hosen, and held aloft a glass of cordial.
"Leave her, Philipe," he said dismissively. His servant bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.
I was alone with my first patron.
With swift strides, Childric d’Essoms closed the distance between us. His right hand, unencumbered, rose almost casually until he dashed it across my face. I staggered sideways, tasting blood, remembering the deadly accuracy with which he’d hurled his lees in the game of kottabos. He still held the glass of cordial in his left hand and hadn’t spilled a drop.
"You will kneel in my presence, whore," he said nonchalantly.
I sank down on my knees, abeyante, red velvet skirts pooling around me on the flagstones. They were cold, despite the fire. I watched his polished boots as he paced around me.
"Why does Anafiel Delaunay send an anguissette to tempt the likes of me?" he asked, circling behind me. I felt his hand dig into my enmeshed curls, wrenching my head backward, and stared up at his hooded, gleaming eyes. My throat felt vulnerable and exposed.
"I don’t know, my lord," I whispered, my voice constricted with fear.
"I don’t believe you." He pressed his thigh hard against the back of my head, sliding his hand down to encircle my throat. "Tell me, Phèdre nó Delaunay, what your lord wishes of me. Does he think me so easily ensnared, hm?" He punctuated his words with a jerk of his hand. "Does he suppose I’ll spill my secrets in idle pillow talk with a rented whore?" Another spasm of his clutching fingers. He was applying pressure to the spot where my pulse beat in my throat, and spots of black danced in my vision. "I…don’t…know…" I whispered the words again, a strange languor invading my body as consciousness began to ebb. With an effort, I turned my head, feeling the muscles of his thigh move beneath my cheek. My breath seemed to come hot and labored.
"Elua!" D’Essoms froze, exhaling the word. His hand loosened on my throat, rising to cup the back of my head. "You really are, aren’t you?" I heard wonder, and amusement, in his voice; he hadn’t been sure, I thought, and in some part of my mind took note of the fact that it had been worth over four thousand ducats to him to claim a victory over Delaunay anyway. "Prove it, then, little anguissette; as you are, on your knees. Please me.
So he said, but he hadn’t needed to tell me. I was already turning as I knelt, grasping his boots with unclasped hands, sliding my palms up the slick leather. I knew what he wished, knew his desire as surely as the sea knows the tidal urges of the moon. The muscles of his thighs twitched beneath my gliding hands. With a curse, he hurled his glass aside. I heard it shatter somewhere as my fingertips grazed his erect phallus, straining against the fabric of his hosen. He dug both hands into my hair as I undid the buttons.
The art of languisement is an ancient and subtle one, and I am ashamed to say that I employed none of its niceties. Then again, that is not always the nature of my art. D’Essoms groaned as his phallus sprang free, the tip of it nudging my parted lips, and his hands clenched on my head, urging me to take his shaft into my mouth, deep into my throat. Ah, if only he had known! I accepted him eagerly, lips and tongue working frantically, putting into practice at last the knowledge of a thousand hours' of study and more. He groaned again as he climaxed, shoving me away and tearing the mesh net loose from my hair.
I fell back, sprawling, my hair tumbling in wild disarray about my shoulders. Childric d’Essoms advanced upon me. "Whore!" he shouted, back-handing me across the mouth. I licked my lips, tasting blood mixed with his seed. "Ill-gotten spawn of Naamah!" Another blow, glancing. I looked up through the hair spilled over my eyes and saw his phallus stirring to erection. D’Essoms gained control of himself with a shudder. "On your feet," he said, grinding out the words. "Take off your clothes."