She pulled the last of the pins out and dragged her fingers into the curls, pulling the pile of hair back down around her shoulders. The ladies-in-waiting had brought her into the bedchamber in the small apartment the queen had granted to them, and they’d giggled and fussed around her, helping her off with her jewelry—she’d been tempted to fling Eloisa’s pearls across the room and never pick them up again, but that would be difficult to explain—and shoes and touching up the color staining her lips and cheeks. Honoria had dabbed perfume over her, including between her breasts, and then they’d finally—finally—left her alone to wait for Cameron.
Alone for the first time all day, she’d finally been able to scowl as she wanted to and had reached for a cloth and water to rub the cosmetics off her face before she’d started pulling down her hair. If she could have gotten out of the wedding gown on her own, she would have. But that would require arms that bent in ways not humanly possible, thanks to the row of tiny buttons that began at the back of her neck and finished past her waist. Not to mention the corset that laced at the back rather than the front like the ones she wore day to day so she could dress herself. Truly women’s clothes were stupid. If she and Cameron ever did live on an estate, she was going to stake a claim for eccentricity and wear the most comfortable clothes she could design, propriety be damned. Hopefully no one would want to upset a royal witch by telling her she couldn’t.
No one but her husband perhaps. She scowled at her reflection again, wishing there was something else she could do to express her displeasure. Cameron might be expecting a pretty, painted, perfect bride waiting placidly for him, but he wasn’t going to get one. She picked up the cloth again and scrubbed at her wrist where the spicy, heady scent Honoria had chosen was strongest. But apparently it had already sunk into her skin, because the smell didn’t budge.
She dropped the cloth back onto the dressing table and looked around the room. There was wine on a small table near the fire. And glasses. She had refrained from drinking any more than was strictly necessary to acknowledge the toasts at the dinner following the wedding, not wanting to risk giving in to her temper in public if the wine loosened her tongue. But she didn’t have to worry about that anymore. The ruby-colored wine looked pretty in the glass and tasted sweet on her tongue as she drained the first glass. She poured a second and was lifting it again when the door opened and Cameron stepped through.
He looked somewhat surprised to see the wine in her hand but then smiled—that damned stupid smile that was so attractive on his damned stupid face, even though she hated him—and held up the bottle in his own hand. “I see we had a similar thought, milady wife,” he said. “I didn’t know the servants had already left some.”
Given the amount of Iska his brothers had pushed on him throughout dinner, it was surprising he could stomach the thought of wine at all. But that wasn’t her problem. “Perhaps we’ll need two bottles,” she said.
Cameron locked the door and turned back to her, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Are you that nervous? There’s no need—I mean, if you wish—”
“I’m not nervous,” she snapped. “What do I have to be nervous about? After all, we’ve already done what we’re here to do tonight.”
“That’s true,” he said in a suddenly careful tone. Apparently, it might have been beginning to sink through his Iska-soaked head that she was less than happy. He crossed the room and put the bottle he held down on the table beside the open one. He didn’t pour himself a glass, though. Instead, he moved closer to the fire, shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it over the nearest chair, leaving him dressed in a blindingly white shirt, black breeches, and tall boots that outlined every inch of his body in annoying detail.
Men’s fashion was stupid, too, she decided, and took another mouthful of wine.
“If you’re not nervous,” he said after a long moment of silence, “perhaps you could do me the courtesy of explaining to me what is driving you to drink on our wedding night?”
“There’s nothing wrong with drinking,” she said. She drained the glass defiantly and reached for the bottle. His hand snatched it away before she touched it.
“No, there’s nothing wrong with drinking,” he said. “But you’re not the biggest creature the goddess put on the earth, and you’ll regret it in the morning. Hellebride red has kick to it like an angry mule despite the sweet face it shows your tongue.”
“I’ve drunk Hellebride red before,” she said.
“Then you know what I’m talking about. So, again, I’ll ask you, what has you bristling like one of Lucy’s barn cats?” He kept a firm hold on the bottle.
“Did you just call me a barn cat?” she demanded.
“I—”
“Though I suppose,” she continued, “it makes sense that that would be your choice of insults, given that you have the morals of a wild tomcat yourself.”
He went very still. She couldn’t quite see clearly in the flickering firelight, but she thought his knuckles had turned white where he gripped the bottle. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of, Sophie?” His voice was controlled rather than calm. And somewhat lower than usual.
Against the warmth of the red in her stomach, she felt the faintest chill. She lifted her chin, not caring. “Not accusing. Just stating facts. A man with morals, after all, with honor, would have told his future wife that he had bedded the fucking queen of the country. Particularly when said future wife is one of her ladies-in-waiting. One of her friends.” Rage spilled over now, and she hurled the glass toward the fire, where it shattered against the wall, shards glittering as they fell to the carpet.
Cameron didn’t so much as flinch. Nor did his eyes move from her face. “Eloisa told you,” he said flatly.
“Yes. She did.”
“When?”
“After the coronation ball. She thought it only fair to warn me that royal witches were to your taste. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.”
“And you waited until now to speak to me about it?”
She made an exasperated gesture. “It didn’t seem to matter when we had this conversation. It’s not like they would let us call off the wedding.”