Chapter 92
For the span of an entire month, I found myself most contentedly ensconced within the Vaneeri estate, having not so much as glanced at my own residence since. Laura, too, returned to the estate. My poor butler had been reduced to a glorified courier, ferrying my work across the city.
As for Kyle. My reports informed me that he continued to refuse the divorce decree. I could only sigh, long and tragic.
Whenever Annette dared present herself in my vicinity, I made a point, nay, a performance, of lavishing affection upon Millicent with such sincerity and flair one might have thought my very spirit tethered itself to her arm. I spoke in tones so sweet they would have soured in any lesser mouth. And whenever Millicent turned her gaze elsewhere, I would meet Annette's eyes and offer her a most devilish smile. In return, she would fix me with a glare so frosted and venomous that, had I been less robust, I might have perished on the spot.
It was divine.
There was but one possession I could not bear to part with, Cecilia's final gift to me. I informed Millicent that I had, in my haste and turmoil, left behind my tiger cane upon my departure from the estate, and inquired whether it might have been recovered. Without hesitation, my beloved set the entire household into motion, as though the very walls of the manor had conspired in its disappearance.
Chamber by chamber, the staff turned the estate upon its head, rifling through corners with the solemn urgency of a criminal investigation. Yet the cane, my cherished relic, remained maddeningly absent.
Millicent, however, did not falter. She pursued the matter with the unwavering precision of a magistrate intent on extracting truth from silence, as though the absence of that cane were a matter of justice, not sentiment. Her resolve, as ever, was both terrifying and deeply endearing.
It was only when Annette glanced at me with a smugness so smug it could have been bottled and sold that I knew. The old battle-axe had taken it. She was the thief! And thus, the silent campaign between the two of us waged on.
In lighter news, I finally met Laura's daughter, Isabell, a darling miniature of her mother. She looked perpetually as though she were preparing to draft a constitution.
But perhaps the greatest triumph of the month was this: Millicent had at last returned to her proper weight. The deities be praised, we were once again the same size. With my leg no longer a hindrance, I took up morning jogs about the estate, which Millicent joined with predictable grace. Occasionally, even Vincent would accompany us, chasing after our hems like an excitable hound.
There was one slight drawback.
With Millicent's restored vitality came, quite frankly, a staggering resurgence in stamina. And I do mean staggering. In the bedchamber, though very often not in the bedchamber, she had become a tempest in human form.
She required not one round of affection, nor two, but often more than I dared count. She delighted in variety, testing the limits of human flexibility and, in truth, occasionally inventing new ones. There were moments when I questioned whether I was her beloved or a participant in some well-choreographed acrobatic performance.
Of all her affections, there was one position she seemed to favor above all. From behind. Her gigantic cock would reach the deepest parts of me. At times it was overwhelming.
And yet, despite it all, despite my trembling legs, the ache that lingered well into the morning, and the scandalous amount of ruined nightgowns, I adored every moment.
But heavens above, it would have been vastly improved if she were not built like a duelist wielding a greatsword. A sword would suffice. There is no need for siege weaponry in moments of intimacy. I am but one woman.
And at last, the long-awaited moment arrived: I was prepared to retire the name Lorynthall. Just the thought of it filled me with such unholy joy I very nearly danced through the corridors like a lunatic.
Yesterday, I settled in with Laura, sleeves rolled, quill in hand, to purge myself of every loathsome obligation. With each discarded contract, I felt lighter, as though unshackling myself link by link from a family-shaped prison. Once the penalties were paid, yes, my fortune would dwindle to dust, but I found I did not mind. I had no further use for it.
Millicent insisted upon conducting one final review. Ever the tactician, ever the analyst. I handed her the stack with full confidence.
She unearthed paragraphs Laura and I had completely overlooked. Entire sections I had possibly read upside down or in a fugue state.
To summarize, most of the conditions were tangled together like a great bureaucratic hydra. And somehow, Millicent unraveled the entire infernal puzzle.
It turns out, to my utter horror, that my father had, in his infinite villainy, included both Cecilia and myself in a slew of interlocked agreements. Should a Lorynthall violate not one, but several clauses, the result would be execution. Execution. Heads rolling. An actual, literal end of days for the neck.
Truly, what a marvelous legacy.
Curse him thrice. Curse him standing, curse him seated, curse him! My fury swelled to such heights that I began to tremble with rage.
And so, against my better judgment, I was only able to sever ties with a portion of the contracts. It has reduced the burden considerably, yes, but how I longed to cast the entire Lorynthall name into the sea and watch it sink to a watery grave.
This morning, I found myself grumbling beneath my breath as I sat once again across from Millicent in what used to be her study but had become ours. I had barely managed to finish two lines of a letter before I noticed her gaze narrowing at me with clinical scrutiny.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You have resided here for well over a month. And in that time, I have noted the absence of your monthly courses. Tell me, is such irregularity customary for you?"
I froze, and after a pause, recalled that women are plagued with that charming monthly affliction. I had quite forgotten.
"Now that you mention it," I said slowly, " I believe I did not receive it last month either."
This was indeed odd. I squinted suspiciously at my own abdomen.
"That evening, two months past, when we shared a bed following lady Adele's birthday celebration, had you, at any point in the weeks preceding that occasion, engaged in intimacy with Kyle? Or perchance, after our own encounter?"
"No. The last time I had intercourse with Kyle, we were still in Zalvanica. Why? Do not tell me you are jealous."
She tilted her head, thoughtful. I saw the barest flicker of something in her crimson eyes. Hope. Mischief. Calculation.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, "you are... with my child?"
Poor woman. I would have to destroy it.
"There is no chance of that," I said plainly, and returned to my letter. "I can no longer conceive."
She rose.
"That cannot be right. I am calling for Dr. Falconbridge. Whatever this ailment is, the sooner we uncover its nature, the better."
My smile tugged at my lips.
How could I not smile, seeing her care for me with such quiet resolve? There is something so remarkably endearing about a woman who reacts to missed menses with investigative efficiency. Truly, it is difficult not to fall in love with her all over again, especially when she treats one's uterus like a national concern.