Magia Posthuma ✓

Eight

Hermannstadt, December 1769

Irina played with the diamonds dangling around her throat as she recalled Vlad's voice whispering in her ear.

"...If taking on the might of the Imperial army is the price for having my wicked way with the Duchess of Brunswick then, so be it... It'd be worth it."

Perhaps he was a soldier. Once, perhaps. He certainly had the strength for it, and then there was the way he'd talked about war. When she thought about the way he'd grabbed her and captured her in arms as thick and as firm as the pine trunks surrounding them, she blushed, and she couldn't help but imagine holding them - squeezing them. And during the ride back to Hermannstadt, she couldn't lie and pretend that her fingers hadn't tiptoed across the flat plain of his stomach, tripping into the grooves formed by muscles that flexed as he rode the horse hard through the frosty fields.

Irina chewed on the chain of her necklace as she imagined him slicing through soldiers of the Imperial army with his sword, before – almost operatically – returning to claim his prize with their blood painting his handsome features.

"...Duchess?"

No... No titles, no ceremony; he'd just pull her close, brush his nose up her neck to her ear and whisper her name in that husky, battle-weary voice of his, and then...

"Irina, my dear?"

Irina sighed, "Oh, yes."

Frau Fleischer raised plucked eyebrows over her teacup. "My dear Duchess, are you quite well?" she asked.

Irina blinked and glanced around the room. She'd completely forgotten where she was. "...Oh," she replied, her cheeks blazing as she wondered what everyone would think of her if they knew what was in her head. Thankfully, it was her own sordid little secret. "...Excuse me; I was... I was miles away. Do go on." She whipped open her fan and briskly began flapping it. "...It's a little warm in here, that's all," she added.

And dull. So, so dull.

Irina had been so excited when a message had arrived inviting her to the weekly evening salon of Hermannstadt's society ladies. It was hosted by Frau Fleischer – the middle-aged wife of the local judge and apparent queen of Transylvanian society (if it could be called such a thing) – and it promised to be a 'gathering of like-minded ladies' and 'a place for frivolity and for the discussion of various fancies'. Having attended a few salons in Vienna and enjoyed many a lively discussion over tea about music and literature, Irina was thrilled to have been invited – but sadly so far, the only thing up for discussion was the latest local gossip. (Admittedly, Irina was far more interested in the scandalous opera currently playing in her head...)

Frau Fleischer – or Liesl as she was better known – was the choral mistress of this concerto of chin-wagging, moving the conversation from one subject to next, from scandalous affairs to fashion faux pas.

"I was just asking how that poor serf girl is faring," she said. "It was so kind of you to take her in and care for her."

The other ladies didn't seem to agree.

Irina smiled nervously. "She's very well; thank you for asking," she replied, hoping the conversation would roll away from her so she could get back to thinking about Vlad's arms and how they'd feel wrapped around her. She imagined him waiting for her to return to these pressing thoughts. She could practically see his impatient expression now; she could see the way he raised his dark eyebrows and how he clenched and unclenched his fists.

One of the other ladies shook her head. "Such a monstrous, scandalous thing! And so inconvenient!" she exclaimed. "It ruined such a lovely masquerade. It took my seamstress over a month to put together my gown for the occasion. It was quite wasted!"