The Goblin King glanced at his hourglass and then said to Longsword, “You’ve served me well for seven years, my slave. Because of this, I shall make you a bargain.”
Longsword bowed his head, for he knew well that a bargain with the Goblin King suits only the Goblin King.
“You may walk the earth above for one year,” the Goblin King said. “Mark you, one year only. At the end of that time, if you have found one Christian soul to voluntarily take your place in the land of the goblins, then you shall be free and I shall trouble you no more.”
“And if I do not?” Longsword asked.
The Goblin King grinned. “Then you shall serve me for all eternity. . . .”
—from Longsword
Lottie Graham sipped her wine, peering at her husband over the edge of the glass. Nathan was absorbed in thought tonight, his broad brow slightly knit, his blue eyes vague and unfocused.
She set down the wineglass precisely and said, “We received an invitation to a ball hosted by Miss Molyneux today.”
There was a pause that stretched so long that for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer her at all.
Then Nate blinked. “Who?”
“Miss Cristelle Molyneux.” Lottie cut into the roast duck on her plate. “She’s Reynaud St. Aubyn’s aunt on his mother’s side. I think she plans to reintroduce him to society. In any case, the invitation was sent on scandalously short notice—she plans it for this Thursday.”
“Seems silly to plan it on so little notice,” Nate said. “Will anyone show, I wonder?”
“Oh, she’ll have no problem filling her ballroom.” Lottie speared a piece of duck, but then set it back on the plate. Her appetite seemed nonexistent tonight. “Everyone will be wanting to see the mysterious mad earl.”
Nate frowned. “He’s not an earl yet.”
“But surely it’s only a matter of time?” Lottie twirled her wineglass stem.
“Only a fool would think that.”
Lottie felt tears spring to her eyes. She looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry you think me a fool.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice was brisk, impatient.
There’d been a time back before they’d married when her slightest frown would cause him to offer profuse apologies. Once, he’d sent her an arrangement of flowers so big it’d taken two footmen to bring it into the house. All because he’d not been able to take her driving on a day it’d rained.
Now he thought her a fool.
“It’ll take a special parliamentary committee, I believe,” Nate was saying as she thought these gloomy things, “to decide if this man is indeed St. Aubyn, and if he is, who the proper Earl of Blanchard is. That, at least, is the opinion of many of the learned parliamentarians. There hasn’t been a case such as this one in living memory, and many are quite interested in the legal implications.”
“Are they?” Lottie murmured. She’d lost interest in the conversation while her husband had finally become engaged in it. Had her marriage always been thus? “In any case, I thought it would be nice to attend the ball. It’s bound to have all the best gossip of the year.”
She glanced up in time to catch the look of irritation that crossed his face.
“I know that keeping up with the latest scandal is vital to you, dearest,” he said. “But there are actually other things of import in the world, you know.”
There was a short, awful silence.
“First I’m a fool and now I’m interested only in gossip,” Lottie said very clearly, because she was holding back the tears with all her will. “I begin to wonder, sir, why you married me at all.”
“Now, Lottie, you know I didn’t mean it that way,” he replied, and didn’t even bother trying to hide the edge of exasperation in his voice.
“In what way did you mean it, Nathan?”
He shook his head, a reasonable man beset by a mad wife. “You’re overwrought.”
“I am not,” Lottie said, the tears beginning to overflow, “overwrought.”