Lord of the realm

She received them in the main hall, forcing herself to maintain diplomatic composure despite her inner turmoil.

Sir Roland Beaumont was a man in his early forties, with the kind of distinguished silver at his temples that spoke to good genetics and comfortable living.

His wife, Lady Viviannah, was perhaps five years younger, with auburn hair and the kind of beauty that came from careful cultivation and expensive cosmetics.

Both were members of the barony just beside Drakenten, holders of small estates who derived their importance from proximity to the Arkwright duchy.

Morgana had known them for years and had always found their company pleasant if unremarkable.

"Lady Morgana," Sir Roland said with a courtly bow, "what a pleasure to see you returned safely to us. The reports from the Silverspire had been... troubling."

Reports? Morgana frowned.

"Indeed," Lady Viviannah added, her green eyes studying Morgana with unusual intensity.

"We were so relieved to hear of your arrival, especially given the... interesting rumors that preceded you."

Morgana felt her courteous smile tighten slightly.

"Rumors, Lady Viviannah?"

"Oh, nothing untoward," the younger woman replied with a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Simply that you had brought a companion with you. Such an unusual development, given your... previous preferences for solitude."

The emphasis on 'companion' made it clear that the gossip about Jaenor had spread far beyond the chateau's walls.

Morgana found herself caught between irritation at the intrusion and relief that the false story was serving its purpose of concealing his true identity.

"I fail to see how my personal affairs concern the broader community," she said carefully.

"Oh, but they do!" Lady Viviannah exclaimed, moving closer with the kind of keen interest that made Morgana's skin crawl.

"A woman of your... stature, your beauty, your power—we've all wondered when you might finally allow someone to claim your heart."

Sir Roland nodded enthusiastically, though his own gaze lingered on Morgana with barely concealed hunger.

"Indeed, my dear. We've long admired your independence, but even the strongest of us need companionship."

Morgana realized with growing discomfort that both of her visitors were studying her with the kind of attention that went far beyond polite interest.

There was something invasive in their gazes, a hunger that she recognized from past encounters with those who sought to use intimacy as a path to power.

"In fact," Lady Viviannah continued, "we're hosting a ball this weekend in Marhaevn—nothing too elaborate, but all the local families will attend. We would be honored if you would join us, and of course, bring your mysterious companion. Everyone is simply dying to meet him."

"I appreciate the invitation," Morgana replied, "but I'm afraid my schedule doesn't permit social engagements at present."

"Oh, but you must!" Sir Roland insisted, his tone carrying a note of command that suggested he was used to having his wishes accommodated.

"It would be terribly rude to ignore the community that has welcomed you home so warmly. Besides, people have heard about your... friend. To appear without him now would only fuel more speculation."

"To tell you the truth, a lot of men, you know, the older ones, are eager to know about him," Roland told her.

"More like anger," Lady Viviannah added.

The implied threat was clear enough.

Refuse, and face increased scrutiny and gossip.

Accept, and risk exposing Jaenor to exactly the kind of attention they had been trying to avoid.

Lady Viviannah moved even closer, her hand coming to rest on Morgana's arm in a gesture that managed to be both intimate and possessive.

She was looking at Morgana like she was her possessed object.

"Please, darling. For old friendship's sake. We promise it will be a delightful evening, and we're all so eager to see you... happy."

The way she said 'happy' made Morgana's skin crawl, but she found herself trapped by the very fiction they had created to protect Jaenor's identity.

To refuse now would indeed seem strange and would invite exactly the kind of speculation they couldn't afford.

"Very well," she said finally, though every instinct screamed against the decision.

"We shall attend your ball."

The Beaumonts' smiles were triumphant, predatory, and far too satisfied for Morgana's comfort. As they departed with elaborate courtesy and promises of an unforgettable evening, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just walked into a carefully laid trap.

The web of deception they had woven to protect Jaenor's identity was becoming increasingly complex, and Morgana began to fear that it might ultimately prove more dangerous than the truth they sought to hide.

-

-

After the Beaumonts' departure, the chateau's main hall fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Morgana was sitting in the hall, the same one where she met the couple. She was very much aware of the desire the couple held towards her, and it made her wince in disgust thinking about it.

The couple was famous for hosting the ball, banquets, and all other sorts of festivities that upper-class nobles like. They like to show off their wealth and meet new people.

But underneath all this facade, there was something that not many were aware of, and for that reason, Morgana felt she had walked into their trap.

She leaned back on the sofa; her eyes were drawn towards the hallway, which led to Emma's.

They still hadn't come out; it was noon already, and Morgana was starting to get angry.

Meanwhile, inside the chambers, Emmanuelle was standing in front of seated Jaenor as she was tying it into a ponytail.

"Hey!"

"No—don't. Stop!" Emma's giggles spilled out as Jaenor's hands slid beneath her gown, shamelessly squeezing and kneading at her ass.

Even in the bath, he hadn't spared her—licking, pressing, and caressing until she thought he would never let go of her ass. His hands seemed hopelessly bound to that one part of her, as if her curves had bewitched him.

"You really are obsessed with my ass, aren't you?" she teased, twisting to glance at him as she finished with her hair.