No Greater Pleasure (12 page)

It had been something in his eyes, but she did not want to tell him that when it was clearly an abomination to him. “I misjudged.”

“Even Handmaidens are not omniscient?”

“No, my lord. We are not.”

Then his hand did come down to rest briefly upon her hair, the heat of his fingers like five tiny stars against her head before he took them away. “I would like some tea.”

So she made it for him, and he drank it, and they spoke no more of Dane that evening.

Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

Y
ou act like you’ve never been to a marketplace before.” This came from Florentine, who thumped the roof of the carriage to make the driver stop.

Quilla peered out through the carriage’s window. “And I suppose knowledge of something should always lead to lack of joy in it?”

“Familiarity does breed ennui, or so the saying goes, and for good reason.” Florentine jiggled the door handle and shouted out the window, “Billy! Get your arse down here and open up this door!”

Florentine had gone all out for market day. Fresh gown only a season or two out of fashion. Gray curls brushed and held off her face with a scarf. Even a hat tied securely beneath her wobbling chin with two long ribbons.

Quilla had made little concession for the market, donning the same dark plum gown she’d brought with her. The ones Delessan had provided were fine enough, but her own clothes fit better. She hoped to find some cloth in the market to make a new dress. New stockings, as well, warmer against the winter draughts. Perhaps a new pair of boots that would come to the knee and protect her legs against the snow she’d heard fell soft and deep in these parts.

Billy tugged open the door with a grumble. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, your ladyshipness. I’m coming.”

Florentine sniffed and held out her hand for Billy to help her down. “Once a week, Billy, is all you’re asked to do. Try to be a little less a pain in the arse about it.”

Billy took Florentine’s hand and kissed it, running his lips lasciviously over the back and waggling his brows when he looked up at her. “And once a week just ain’t enough.”

Florentine jerked her hand out of his grasp and slapped his face, but fondly. If a slap could be called fond, Quilla thought, watching them.

“Get out of my way, you great bloody fool, else I turn you on your arse in the street.”

Billy grinned and held out his hand for her to take again. “Promises, promises.”

Florentine sniffed but let him help her down. “Come on, Quilla. Don’t let this bloke scare you off.”

Quilla took the hand that Billy offered, not expecting to get the flirtatious treatment from him and not disappointed, either. Billy held her hand with respect bordering on reverence, or awe. He wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

“Thank you, Billy,” Quilla said as her feet hit the street.

He mumbled a response and received a rap on the skull from Florentine for his troubles. “Answer the lady when she speaks to you, imbecile!”

“Welcome,” he mumbled, rubbing his head and scowling.

“No worries.” Quilla rolled her eyes at Florentine. “Really, Florentine. You’re going to give him a headache.”

“Well deserved,” Florentine said with another haughty sniff. “Take the carriage round to the stable and meet us back here at the sixchime.”

Billy nodded, gave Florentine a wink and Quilla a nod, then hopped back up to the driver’s seat and clucked to the horses.

Florentine didn’t bother watching him go, just hoisted her market basket over her shoulder and moved off into the throng. “This way.”

Quilla had to step lively to keep up. “I think Billy likes you.”

“Billy is an idiot.”

“Because he likes you?”

Florentine turned to look at Quilla as she walked. “Among other things.”

Quilla dodged a threesome of well-dressed, chattering ladies who didn’t bother to watch where they were walking. “You don’t like his attention?”

“Billy Felton is interested in sating the little man between his legs, naught else.” Florentine shouldered her way past a group gathered round a man with a dancing monki on the end of a leash. “Believe me, it’s no great flattering thing to get his attention.”

Quilla lifted her skirts to keep the hem from dragging in a puddle of ale leaking from a cask in front of a booth. “He didn’t lick my hand. He does discriminate.”

Florentine stopped, turning her bulk and disregarding the way the basket on her shoulder smacked a tradesman in the head while she did. Giving him a quick “Bugger off,” which made him grumble but sent him away, Florentine gave her attention to Quilla. “He’d be on you like a fly to shite if you weren’t the master’s. Mark my words.”

“How flattering a comparison of my desirability.” Quilla laughed. “And I’m not so sure. He seemed quite enamored of you.”

Florentine made a sour face as she turned toward the booth behind her and slapped down two coins. She lifted two tins of fruit preserves and put them in her basket, haggling only a moment over the price. “I spent long enough living as a lad to know how they think, Quilla Caden. Billy is not interested in courting, only fucking.”

“And you’re not interested in that?”

Florentine looked over. “Not interested in either, Miss Hoity-Toity. Thought you understood. I don’t take my pleasure that way.”

“Ah.” Quilla nodded, following Florentine on her journey through the market. “It’s not my business, really.”

“No, ’tisn’t, Miss Nose-in-My-Basket.”

Quilla smiled at Florentine. “I wonder, then, why you’ve dressed so tidily today, and taken such pains with your hair. If not to impress poor Billy, then who?”

Florentine stopped in front of another booth, this time to put some fruit in her basket, which she paid for without much further quibbling. She fixed Quilla with a steely glare. “Who says I has to have a reason to wear nice clothes?”

Quilla shrugged. “No reason. I just thought—”

“Not all of us is ruled by what’s betwixt our legs.”

“I know that.” Quilla decided to stop teasing the other woman. “I just thought to be glad for you, that’s all. If you had someone special.”

Florentine let out a guffaw so loud it turned heads. She yanked Quilla into an alley, out of the flow of traffic. “I don’t need you to be glad for me, Handmaiden. And would you only be glad for me if you knew I had a lover, is that it? Can I not have a good life without a fuck partner?”

“No, of course not,” Quilla soothed. “I didn’t mean that at all.”

Florentine straightened her shirtwaist and smoothed her skirt, visibly regaining her temper. “If I have a lover, ’tis none of your concern.”

“Of course not.”

Florentine sniffed. “As it happens, I do have plans to meet a friend of mine.”

“Not that ’tis any of my concern.”

“That’s right.” Florentine sniffed again. “And as a matter of fact, Miss Full-of-Herself, we are also here today to retrieve the other lord Delessan. He’s arrived and will be at the Foxglove Inn. It doesn’t do to represent our master looking as though I came right from the kitchens, does it?”

Quilla shook her head. “I suppose not. Where shall we meet the infamous Jericho Delessan, then?”

“At the fivechime we’ll go and pick him up, with plenty of time to do our marketing before then.” Florentine hiked her basket higher on her shoulder “Now, I’m off, and don’t think you can follow me round like a stray dog. I’ve got business of mine own to attend. You find your own amusements, hear me?”

“I hear you.” Quilla gave a mock pout. “Though I am so disappointed I won’t get to spend the day in your company, Florentine. ’Tis always so pleasant an acquaintance.”

Florentine’s grin seemed reluctant, but she gave one, anyway. “Get on with you, ya great prat.”

Quilla laughed. “I’ve business of my own, as well. I’ve money jingling in my purse and an entire day in which to spend it.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t need to tell you there’s thieves in this market as well as honest merchants.”

“I believe I can take care of myself.”

Florentine shrugged. “Don’t come crying to me when your purse is empty and your hands emptier.” She looked Quilla up and down. “What are you planning to buy?”

Quilla smiled and winked. “Now who’s being a Nose-in-the-Basket?” she called over her shoulder as she ducked out of the alley-way and back into the crowd.

Quilla walked for a while, looking at all there was to see. She stopped at many of the booths to look at the goods and chat with the merchants. Most of them were thrilled to talk about the quality and perfection of their wares, and she played them as she did her patrons, flattering and listening with all the right responses. Consequently, most of them smiled and talked with her without getting irritated when she didn’t stop to buy.

There were a few who saw her Handmaiden’s attire as a badge of shame, something to be commented upon. She nodded and smiled at their indiscreet insults and moved on. More people didn’t notice, or didn’t bother to comment.

She stopped to run her fingers along several bolts of fine linen, flaxen, and silk, all woven in vivid shades of red, purple, green, and gold. The material was expensive, exorbitantly so. She had enough money to purchase a piece the size of a head scarf, and even that would have taken all the cash in her purse.

“It’s absolutely lovely,” she told the wizened merchant as she held up a length of the silk to her sleeve to see the drape of it.
Exquisite.
“But far too expensive, I’m afraid.”

“It’s Alyrian,” said the merchant, like that should make a difference. “Old Alyrian, not new. From before they broke the borders. This is rare, this is. You won’t find cloth like this anyplace else in the market. Or the city, for that matter.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She stroked it. “I’ve never seen finer.”

The merchant rolled one blue eye at her; the other was blind white. “And I doubt you ever will. Go on, hold up the linen, too. You’ll fall in love with it.”

Quilla didn’t want to waste the merchant’s time, but a quick glance around showed her nobody waited to buy this particular cloth. The merchant knew that, too, and urged her to drape an additional length of the linen over her arm.

“Banded with this fringe of gold, I can see it on you. A lovely gown. For a party, or for a wedding, perhaps?” The merchant grinned, showing gapped teeth, surprisingly white.

“Even the flaxen is too dear for my pockets, I’m afraid.” Quilla put the cloth down with regret. “Though ’tis truly gorgeous. I haven’t any place to wear it, even if I could afford it.”

The merchant’s good eye flickered over her unadorned gown. “Maybe a patron would be pleased to see you in’t?”

Quilla quirked a grin at him. “You are trying to play upon my sense of duty, sir. How utterly unfair.”

The merchant spread his fingers with a shrug, but looked un-apologetic despite the gesture. “Just speaking true.”

“If ’twould please my patron to dress me in cloth this fine, then I shall leave it to him to buy it. He was most adequate with his coin, but not generous enough for me to buy this.” She let her hand linger once more on the silk. Softer than any cloth she’d ever felt, superb in design and craftsmanship, the liquid, flowing colors almost made her want to weep at their beauty.

“ ’Twould look magnificent against your skin.”

She turned at the sound of the voice, meaning to chastise the merchant for trying to tease her into the purchase again, but stopped herself. The man standing next to her was tall and fair-haired, with bright, laughing, blue-sky eyes and clothing of high quality. His vest, bright blue, made his eyes seem even bluer, and she got an immediate sense he’d chosen it for that exact reason. He looked back at the cloth.

“It suits you.”

Quilla took her hands away. “It doesn’t suit my purse, unfortunately.”

The man nodded. “Alyrian fabric, especially Old Alyrian, is costly. Worth the price, but costly.”

“See?” cried the merchant, clapping gnarled hands. “What did I tells you?”

“Nevertheless, I can’t afford it.” Quilla replaced the bolt firmly. “Thank you. I will take three lengths of the dark blue flaxen, however.”

The merchant nodded and plucked up the bolt, taking it to the measuring table to cut the piece for her. Quilla looked at the other offerings at the fabric booth, aware the fair-haired man had not moved away.

“Wait,” he called out to the merchant, who’d lifted his pair of silver shears to cut the fabric. “She doesn’t really want that.”

The merchant turned. “She don’t?”

“I don’t?” Quilla wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown at his presumptuousness. “How do you know?”

“Because you don’t want another gown of dark color.” The man shook his head, his eyes twinkling with good humor she felt compelled to return, even though his assumption annoyed her.

“No?”

“No.”

She looked down at the dress she had on. “And why not? It’s served me well enough before.”

He shook his head again. “Perhaps in function, not necessarily in form. Dark colors are well enough if you want to be solely functional. But not if you want to bring beauty to that function.”

Quilla pursed her mouth, taken aback. The merchant had begun to grumble, putting back the bolt of material she’d chosen.

“Let me know when yer ready,” he said sourly, moving around the booth’s edge to help another customer.

“And who are you to presume anything about me?” His unsubtle accusation that she was less than beautiful stung, not because she thought herself as such, but because she did not believe herself not to be.

“What woman doesn’t wish to present herself in the most flattering way at all times?”

Quilla crossed her arms, tilting her head to frown at him. “And you don’t find the gown I’m wearing flattering?”