A true Luna princess

A duck or an eagle

*Isolde*

All through a light supper before the ball, Rupert babbles on about how the glory of his family name depends upon his performance on the battlefield… even though everyone at the table knows that he will never be allowed near a battlefield. He might be ‘going to war,’ but he is the scion of an Alpha. What’s more, he is an heir for whom there is no spare, and as such has to be kept from harm’s way. He’ll probably be sent to another country. In fact, I am rather surprised that his father is allowing Rupert to travel outside England at all.

“You’ll have to take the lead,” Brielle suggests. “Begin as you mean to go on.”

I slump a little lower on the settee. I have known, of course, that I will have to bed Rupert at some point. But I have vaguely imagined the event taking place in the dark, where he and I can more easily ignore the fact that he is a good head shorter than I am and more than a stone slimmer. That doesn’t seem likely if we are locked into the library.

“That’s one good thing about your figure,” Brielle goes on. “Men like curvaceous she-wolves.”

“I can’t say I’ve noticed. Except perhaps when it comes to Melchett, the new footman with the lovely shoulders.”

“You shouldn’t be ogling a footman,” Brielle says primly.

“He ogles me, not the other way around. I am merely observant. Why do you suppose we aren’t simply getting married now?” I ask, tucking my feet beneath me. “I know that we had to wait until Rupert turned eighteen, though frankly, I thought we might as well do it when he was out of diapers. Or at least out of the nursery. It’s not as if he’s ever going to achieve maturity as most people think of the word. Why a betrothal, and not a wedding?”

“I expect the FF doesn’t wish to marry.”

“Why not? I’m not saying that I’m a matrimonial prize. But he can’t possibly hope to escape his father’s wishes. I don’t think he’d even want to. He doesn’t have a touch of rebellion in him.”

“No man wants to marry a she-wolf his father picked out for him. Actually, no she-wolf either… think about Juliet.”

“Juliet Fallesbury? Whom did her father choose? All I remember is that she ran away with a gardener she nicknamed Longfellow.”

“Romeo and Juliet, you ninny!”

“Shakespeare never wrote anything relevant to my life,” I state, “at least until they discover a long-lost tragedy called Much Ado about Isolde and the Fool. Rupert is no Romeo. He’s never shown the least inclination to dissolve our betrothal.”

“In that case, I expect he feels too young to be married. He wants to sow some wild oats.”

We are both silent for a moment, trying to picture Rupert’s wild oats. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?” I say, after a bit. “I simply cannot envision the FF shaking the sheets.”

“You shouldn’t be able to envision anyone shaking the sheets,” Brielle says weakly.

“Save your tedious virtue for when there’s someone in the room who might care,” I advise her, not unkindly. “Do you suppose that Rupert has any idea of the mechanics involved?”

“Maybe he’s hoping that by the time he comes back from France, he will be an inch or two taller.”

“Oh, believe me,” I say with a shudder, “I have recurring nightmares about the two of us walking down the aisle in St. Paul’s. Mother will force me into a wedding dress adorned with bunches of tulle so I’ll be twice as tall and twice as wide as my groom. Rupert will have that absurd little dog of his trotting at his side, which will only call attention to the fact that the dog has a better waistline than I do.”

“I shall take Mother in hand when it comes to your gown,” Brielle promises. “But your wedding dress is irrelevant to this discussion as pertains to tomorrow’s seduction.”

“‘Pertains to?’ I really think you should be careful, Brie. Your language is tainted by that pestilent Mirror even when we’re alone.”

“You’ll have to think of tomorrow as a trial, like Hercules cleaning out the Augean stables.”

“I’d rather muck out the stables than seduce a man who’s a head shorter and as light as thistledown.”

“Offer him a glass of spirits,” Brielle suggests. “Do you remember how terrified Nurse Luddle was of men who drank spirits? She said they turned into raging satyrs.”

“Rupert, the Raging Satyr,” I say thoughtfully. “I can just see him skipping through the forest on his frisky little hooves.”

“Hooves might give him a distinguished air. Especially if he had a goatee. Satyrs always have goatees.”

“Rupert would have trouble with that. I told him tonight that I thought his attempt to grow a mustache was interesting, but I was lying. Don’t satyrs have little horns as well?”

“Yes, and tails.”

“A tail might… just might… give Rupert a devilish air, like one of those rakes who are rumored to have slept with half the she-wolves of the high packs. Maybe I’ll try to imagine him with those embellishments tomorrow evening.”

“You’ll start giggling,” Brielle warns. “You’re not supposed to laugh at your husband during intimate moments. It might put him off.”

“For one thing, he’s not my husband. For another, one either laughs at Rupert or bursts into tears. While we were dancing tonight I asked him what his father thought about his plan to win glory, and he stopped in the middle of the ballroom and announced, ‘The duck can dip an eagle’s wings but to no avail!’ And then he threw out his arm and struck Luna Tunstall so hard that her wig fell off.”

“I saw that,” Brielle says. “From the side of the room it looked as if she was making a rather unnecessary fuss. It just drew more attention.”

“Rupert handed back her wig with the charming comment that she didn’t look in the least like someone who was bald, and he never would have guessed it.”

Brielle nods. “An exciting moment for her, no doubt. I don’t understand the bit about the duck, though.”

“No one could. Life with Rupert is going to be a series of exciting moments requiring interpretation.”

“The duck must be the Alpha,” Brielle says, still puzzling over it. “Perhaps dipping the eagle’s wings should be clipping? What do you think? That implies Rupert thinks of himself as an eagle. Personally I consider him more akin to a duck.”

“Because he quacks? He would certainly be alone in visualizing himself as an eagle.” I get to my feet and ring the bell. “I think it would behoove me… there’s a twopenny word for you, Brie… it would behoove me to keep in mind that I’m being invited to have intimacies with a duck in my father’s library tomorrow night. And if that doesn’t sum up my relationship with our parents, I don’t know what could.”

Brielle gives a snort.

I waggle a finger at her. “Verrrrry vulgar noise you just made, little miss. Very vulgar.”