Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Master Bordeaux?” Confusion pulls at my brows, and the question escapes before I can trap it on my tongue. The blond man overwhelming the space of my bedroom doesn’t seem bothered by the question though. Unlike his employer, he doesn’t appear to mind when I speak.
“Yes, though he’s Mr. Bordeaux to you.” He strides to the closet and picks a pair of black heels before closing the doors I’d left open in my search of something suitable to wear. “He sent me in to prepare you for dinner,” the manservant explains, holding the shoes out to me.
I rise to my feet and take the offered heels. “May I ask your name?” Too nervous to meet his eyes, I focus on the shoes, fingers tracing the swirling, glittery design. “I don’t know what I should call you.”
Suddenly, building a rapport with this man seems important. With my ladies exiled for the next month and Mr. Bordeaux’s gag order in effect, his manservant will probably be my only form of companionship in the coming weeks.
“Of course,” he says, voice lowering in sympathy as if he knows what the simplicity of his presence, and the use of my voice, might mean to me. “It’s Loren.”
“Is it okay if I call you Loren?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I slip on the shoes, grateful for at least one ally in this house, because it sure as hell isn’t Loren’s master.
“You’re welcome.” Loren holds the door open with a nod of his blond head, gesturing for me to precede him into the small entryway that leads to the rest of Mr. Bordeaux’s home. “Master Bordeaux instructed me to pass along some directions for dinner.” We make our way into the main living room, with its sleek black groupings of lounges and curved chairs, crystal-accented side tables, and the grand piano on proud display in front of the wall of windows facing the ocean.
The House of Taurus is high-end with a sterile edge that leaves me cold. It’s unwelcoming to Liam’s inviting style that urged Faye and me to spread out sketchbooks and drawing pencils, snack trays left half-eaten on the table as we talked fashion and friendship. I can’t imagine using this space for such an afternoon of freedom, especially since Mr. Bordeaux sent my ladies away the first chance he got.
Loren comes to a stop in the middle of the great room and stands at attention, hands at his back as he watches the double doors I assume lead into his master’s private quarters. “After Master Bordeaux instructs you to stand, you’re to follow behind him to the dining room, head bowed and hands at your back. When he’s seated, you’ll kneel at his side the way he taught you and wait for further instruction.” Loren meets my gaze, and I’m taken aback by the near translucence of his gray eyes. They’re set deep, fringed with thick black lashes, and almost colorless from the light pouring through the windows.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks.
Where do I start? I’m trying to form a reply—scrambling to grab hold of the many questions firing through my synapses—when those double doors across from us open. I drop to the floor with my heart pounding a furious rhythm in my chest.
“Did you explain the rules to her?”
“Yes, Master Bordeaux. She knows what to expect.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Bordeaux takes a step closer, holding out a hand. “Rise, my queen.”
I do, careful not to meet his eyes. As he turns his back to me, issuing a command to follow him, nervous energy flutters in my belly. I clasp my sweaty hands at my back and keep my head down, each obedient step taking me further away from that sterile space that is the House of Taurus and closer to the comfort of Liam’s presence.
As we descend to the first floor, I can’t help but speculate on what my life will be like if Mr. Bordeaux wins the auction. Will he treat me like this for the rest of my life, nothing more than an obedient slave he keeps stowed away in a closet-sized room, silenced until he lets me speak?
I’m fighting the burn of vomit in my throat when we reach the dining room. Threads of conversation hit me all at once, and I sense the eleven other men—and my ladies, who, from my peripheral, are seated in their designated chairs.
As I kneel next to Mr. Bordeaux, the din of voices falls silent, chairs scrape into place, and everyone settles in for the evening. But my world narrows only to the floor in front of me, and the man in the suit to my right.
“Why is the queen kneeling during dinner?” Liam’s voice falls over me like a warm blanket.
“That is not your concern, Chancellor.” Mr. Bordeaux taps his fingers on the table, the staccato hinting at his irritation.