The Game and the CandleIngram, Eleanor M. (Eleanor Marie)
General
The Game and the Candle
Ingram, Eleanor M. (Eleanor Marie)
Fiction
Stanief took the chair beside his fiancée and looked at her; this was
the first moment when he could do so without feeling himself watched by
all curious eyes. He had read perfectly the terror under her mute
passivity, the shrinking of her tiny frost-cold hand from his touch, and
he pitied her with all his heart. Now, in the lustrous rose-pink gown
against which her transparent skin showed without a tinge of color, her
bronze-bright head averted, her mouth curved in childish pathos, she
inspired him with an anger against Adrian which he had never felt for
himself.
"Princess," he said gently, "we have seen so little of each other until
now, nor shall we again until after to-morrow. May I say something which
has been in my thoughts since we met yesterday?"
"As you will, monseigneur," she murmured.
"I think it is as you will," Stanief corrected, smiling in spite of
himself. "But I accept the permission. Will you forgive me if I have
imagined that you feared me, Princess?"
Iría raised her topaz eyes to his in complete dismay.
"Monseigneur, you are angry--"
The sentence broke; those firm, steadily tranquil eyes of his caught and
held hers.
"Angry? Why? But I am sorry, deeply sorry, for the net of policy which
has enmeshed us both and left me no power of freeing you. And I would
do all possible, Princess, to make this less hard for you. There is no
need to be afraid of me in any way. I do not know what they have told
you of me; if I govern the Empire severely, it is that order may come
from chaos, no more. Of what else I may be accused--"
"Monseigneur!"
He smiled again at her tone, rather sadly.
"Oh, I know my enemies. But such things have no place between you and
me. John Allard was of your suite; perhaps he could have told you that I
am not all harshness."
She snatched her gaze from his and blushed as he had never seen a woman
blush before, the heavy crimson staining her very forehead.
"He did tell me--that, monseigneur."
"Then I would ask you to trust me, Princess. To-morrow you will come to
my house; there will be no other change in your life which you do not
wish. I am not a reigning sovereign, there is no reason why you should
not keep with you the ladies of your own country whom you prefer. If
you desire, I will have the Emperor ask your mother to remain with you
for a few months."
Iría shook her head. Her mother's constant surveillance threatened even
the peace Stanief offered, and prohibited rest.
"You are good to me, monseigneur," she faltered. "I will stay with you,
please."
He understood, knowing the lady in question.
"Thank you," he answered, and after a moment, "A Stanief guards his own;
so much, at least, our race has of loyalty. And to guard you all I can,
that is all I claim. There are enough more serious troubles, Princess,
without adding the artificial one of fear. If there is sorrow to you in
this marriage, it is beyond my cure; but rest quietly in my
guardianship."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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