* * *

"You've met the woman. Where is she?"

Shutting the double door behind them, Deidrick studied the young maid's subtle nuances in body language. She appeared panicked to suddenly be trapped inside a commodious space decorated with golden arches which met at a grand, levitating crystal chandelier; the centerpiece of the room, otherwise enhancing the venerability of its sinuous shelving units built into flock wallpaper. It was his study. One he had not revisited since seven-and-ten, rekindling a mixture of fond and unwanted memories.

"Seen who, your highness?" She finally staggered a response.

It was dark and Lucy kept nudging seen and unseen writing implements off the desk because all she could decipher was his tall, imposing silhouette approaching eerily swiftly.

The room's sole light source was cast on an antique wooden desk with a large inset which Lucy backed into, pressing hard against it—a leather chair tangent to its center. Windows were draped away with heavy, deep-green brocade curtains, banishing sun penetration in lieu of a suffocating illusion of emptiness that Deidrick adored. It made him feel in charge of a small, personal sort of world... made him feel like a fox toying with dinner that encroached on its territory.

Lifting a soft, brown tendril of hair from between her eyes, "Don't play dumb with me," mirth filled and spilled from his insides, out—then she flinches before his intended action had even transpired.

The sudden gesture took him aback at the notion she thought he would do her harm.

Conversely, Lucy thought that any signs which could give the truth away might first appear on her face. Going by the logic: she was brazen and reckless with her tongue. Why would her face beg to differ?

"I do not hit women." She heard a slight tremble in his voice before it hardened unreservedly. "Ever."

"My apologies, your highness."

"No normal parlor maid goes from being untouched to injured in a 2-hour time span." Deidrick lifted the hair lock that covered her skillfully positioned gauze, regardless. "Unless you've met Delilah."

If the second prince wasn't abusive and was truly a gentleman (sort of), why Delilah—a scary suiting name—was so eager to leave his loving bosom was simply incomprehensible. She would be paid in full, no doubt, and enjoy the comfort of the royal palace—the best life the continent has to offer.

"I tripped on some stairs earlier, your highness," Lucy replied—which wasn't a lie in itself. But he wasn't buying it.

"Bullshit. You're too docile... not cheekily insubordinate like before."

Really? Had she been imagining being compliant, then? Because insubordination only went so far in aiding someone under gun-point, even at this moment, she knew better than to speak carelessly and face the consequence of one minor action which may cause him to skim her insides as a peeler did through classified files, opposed to perusing her like a tedious read. She was disturbingly more obvious than she had thought and simply had to give him a run for his money.

"Look at me."

"I cannot. It is against protocol, your highness. Servants cannot look masters in the eye when being spoken to, if at all."

"You're going to make me repeat myself," he ordered more than asked, sending Lucy into a panicked tremble. She would expose herself lickety-split with eye contact.

"Umm... I have not met the debauched whore, your highness!"

He sucked in a lengthened breath and redrew from his stance in from her.

Too much, huh?

"I said insubordinate, not stupid!"

Lucy pondered what the difference was.

"You're obviously faking it!" His temper kept thinning with every indifferent reply, but convinced that it would overwhelm him to throw in the towel, she remained resolute in her path. "Had I said I didn't hit women earlier?"

"Yes..." And... why was he asking?

Sharing the growing unease dicing his nerves to pieces, Lucy reevaluated her tactic and decided to employ a backup plan for safety and plausibility reasons. She could only imagine how he felt, never having been disrespected or lied to in such an intransigent manner all his life—by a lowly commoner, to say the least!

"Why not notify another staff? I can get Madam Durrell... o-or enjoin them all if I must!"

The different approach would make her elusive countenance appear guilty-free; seeing as he already caught on to her nasty trait of cynicism, she didn't dare give him ideas that indicated a conflict of interest... despite its obviousness.

"Also..." crossing some serious boundaries, "Why must it be me?" she pushed her luck with another question.

Those very words haunted her service here, and she kept hoping that, maybe, there would be a different answer, redefining her chagrined take of life in this world. "Ever since I started work here, I've always been getting in trouble for the tasks people expect me to run."

"Firstly, that mouth of yours probably landed you in half your shit." A storm fulminated in his usually languorous pair of rich blue eyes. "And secondly, who else works for your pay? Fucking me?"

If it weren't already perturbed, the atmosphere thickened with animus... then diffidence. Deidrick's jaw swung wide. He found himself gaping at the sudden realization that he actually hurt the scrawny girl's feelings—by professing the truth of a social structure acknowledged by all, by the way.

He had caught her daydreaming, wrapped up in his ice-blue eyes—a striking effect he had on the weaker sex and, and, dare he say, the greater one—subsequent to a ruthless trashing before her unavailing yet useless effort of picking spilled milk and cookies from the ground. She casually engages in forbidden gossip, schools politesse out of nowhere, and becomes distressed when addressed as what she vividly was; a maid.

The bitch was confounding his mind.

"I'm... fucking getting out of here."

"To where, your highness?"

"I don't owe you details of my whereabouts," his strides lengthened with every word, only halting when she said: "I am a mere servant to use at your discretion. The least I can do after letting you down is my duty."

What kind of silly mind game was this sly wench playing? he thought. Reverse psychology? Freudian slip attempts into some empathetic part of his stone-cold heart... or something?

A wry smile spread across his features. "There is no need for a carriage. I shall leave on my mount."

"NO! I insist! A prince can not—and will not—be seen pony-ing about Townsquare. It'll reflect badly on the royal family's prestige. Nobility's finest... you are not the son of some viscount, earl, or baron!"

Skeptical and wary—but flattered at the charm of her praise—he complied. "Prepare a carriage, then." Reminding her who truly was in control, he added a firm: "And make it quick."

A careless smile spread across her face and disappeared just as quickly, its lightning speed demobilizing him. As unreal as it sounded, he swore an assortment of colours sprung up in her pitch-black eyes. And he wasn't even high on narcotics.

"It will be ready for you in 10 minutes, your most royal highness!"

"You're layering it thick with a trowel," he watched as her silhouette faded into the day's bustle.

She was the intoxicant.

Racing out of the study and into the halls, Lucy grabbed hold of several servants and questioned them about their destinations. Finally, finding someone who was headed for the servant quarters, she promised a generous amount of coin if they notified the lady with red hair, purple eyes, and full lips—Delilah—to be at the gardens in 10 minutes STAT.

Halfway into the timer, she had finished passing the request of a coach by his highness to an available footman, then sped to the west wing where bedrooms were located to help Theresa's friend—who hopefully was packing as schedule—if there was a need. She didn't doubt the possibility.

Mistresses were the second most lavish creatures to a Queen, surpassing even a princess with how much money they sucked out of their hosts; especially beautiful, cunning succubus like the one Lucy was entertaining illegally.

"What are you doing?" She watched the chambermaid, who was unloading instead of packing up in horror. "Those are leaving, not staying!"

"What do you mean? The guests arriving at the palace are not coming for a day's visit. They are staying a few days after the wedding. It's tradition."

"Well, this guest is leaving! Give me that!" Lucy snatched a green dress from the law-abiding fanatic.

The maid briefly watched her senior frantically pack up the belongings, analyzing the scenario before impertinently asking, "Are you Theresa's friend?"

"Yes! And she was supposed to relay a message to you."

"She did."

Lucy paused and turned to the haughty girl standing above her.

"But I don't do anything without coin first."

_ _ _

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