Chapter 2: A Dinner of Masks
The grand dining hall of the Manoban estate had always been a place of performance. Tonight, the chandeliers blazed with a hundred candles, their light splintering across the cut crystal and gilded mirrors until the entire room shimmered like the inside of a jewel box. The obsidian marble floor reflected the company above it, creating the illusion of a world turned upside down—where everything was inverted, including the truths people spoke aloud.
Jennie sat at the opposite end of the long table, a position of honor that placed her directly in her mother-in-law's line of sight. The dowager Lady Manoban was a formidable woman of fifty years, her iron-gray hair swept into an elaborate arrangement that added three inches to her already imposing height. She wore black silk and a rope of pearls that had belonged to Leonid's grandmother, and her eyes—the same dark brown as her son's—missed nothing.
"You seem peaked, daughter," Lady Manoban observed, her voice carrying effortlessly across the table. "The country air during your husband's absence did not agree with you?"
Beside Jennie, Leonid's hand tightened around his wine glass. They had not spoken of the night before—had not spoken of much at all. He had woken to find her already dressed, already composed, arranging flowers in the morning room with the same careful precision she brought to everything. He had wanted to shake her. He had wanted to kiss her. He had done neither.
"I am quite well, Mother." Jennie's voice was honey over steel. "The winter months are always a trial. I find the cold settles in my bones."
"At your age?" Lady Manoban's eyebrow arched. "Nonsense. A young woman of one-and-twenty should be glowing with vitality. Particularly a newlywed."
The insinuation hung in the air like smoke. Leonid watched his wife's face for any crack in that porcelain mask—a flush, a flicker of discomfort, anything—but she merely smiled, that careful social smile that never reached her eyes.
"The winter has been long," Jennie said, lifting her wine glass to her lips. The ruby liquid caught the candlelight, staining her lips the color of blood. "But I am told the spring will be particularly fine this year."
Lord Manoban, a silver-haired bear of a man who had passed his height and breadth to his eldest son, chuckled from his position at the head of the table. "A diplomat, our Jennie. She answers questions like a courtier."
"I have had excellent teachers," Jennie replied smoothly.
Leonid felt a flicker of pride beneath his frustration. Whatever else she was—distant, silent, unknowable—she was never less than brilliant in company. She could navigate the treacherous waters of aristocratic society with her eyes closed, sidestepping barbed comments and veiled insults with the grace of a dancer.
But he didn't want a diplomat, he realized with sudden, aching clarity. He wanted a wife.
"Speaking of spring," Lady Manoban continued, her tone deceptively casual, "I have received word from the Countess of Orlov. She writes that her daughter is expecting her second child. Only eight months after her marriage, if you can believe it."
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the assembled relatives. Second cousins, an elderly aunt, Leonid's younger brother Nicholas—all of them present to witness the spectacle of the Manoban family in full.
"Such a fertile match," the elderly aunt observed, her rheumy eyes fixed on Jennie's stomach. "The Orlov line will be secure."
Leonid saw the way Jennie's fingers tightened around her fork—just slightly, just for a moment. Then she released it, cutting into her roasted pheasant with surgical precision.
"The Countess of Orlov has always been blessed," Jennie said evenly. "I am certain her daughter will prove equally fortunate."
"Our own line," Lady Manoban pressed, "requires similar attention. The Manoban name cannot rest on a single son. Particularly when that son's wife shows no signs of—"
"Mother." Leonid's voice cut through the conversation like a blade. The table fell silent, every eye turning to him. He had spoken more sharply than he intended, the words escaping before he could temper them. "I believe you have forgotten the wine."
For a long moment, mother and son stared at each other across the vast expanse of polished mahogany. The candle flames danced between them, casting shifting shadows across their faces.
"I have forgotten nothing, Leonid." Lady Manoban's smile was razor-edged. "But I shall take more wine, if you're offering."
A servant materialized at her elbow, filling her glass with trembling hands. The tension in the room eased slightly, conversations resuming in low murmurs. But Leonid could feel the weight of what had passed—the first shot fired in a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.
He glanced at Jennie. She was eating her pheasant with perfect composure, as though the exchange had never occurred. But he noticed that her wine glass had not been touched, and that her fork was moving faster than usual.
"Your mother is concerned," he murmured, leaning closer to her. The scent of jasmine enveloped him. "About the future."
Jennie's dark eyes met his. In their depths, he thought he glimpsed something—frustration, perhaps, or the echo of an emotion she refused to name. Then it was gone, replaced by that same careful blankness he had come to know so well.
"My mother-in-law," Jennie corrected softly, "is concerned about her legacy. Those are not the same thing."
"Can you blame her?" Leonid asked, and he heard the edge in his own voice, the question that had been burning in him since last night. "We have been married nearly a year. There is no sign of an heir. People will talk."
"Let them talk." Jennie's voice was barely above a whisper. "We both know the truth. There is nothing preventing the conception of an heir, save unfortunate timing and—"
She stopped, catching herself. But Leonid had heard it. The unfinished word hung between them, heavy with implication.
"Unfortunate timing and what?" he pressed, his hand finding her knee beneath the table. She tensed beneath his touch, as she always did, but did not pull away. "Tell me."
"Nothing," she said. "It was nothing."
"People do not usually begin sentences with 'nothing' and then stop speaking," Leonid observed. "What were you going to say, Jennie?"
She looked at him then, truly looked at him, and for a moment he saw the woman beneath the mask. He saw exhaustion, and something else—something that might have been longing, if he hadn't known better.
"I was going to say," she said slowly, "that perhaps the fault lies not with timing, but with distance."
Leonid's breath caught. The distance between them. She felt it too, then. She knew—she had always known—and yet she did nothing to bridge it.
"Distance can be crossed," he said, his voice rough. "By those who wish to cross it."
"Then perhaps you should ride faster, husband."
The words were a challenge, and Leonid felt his heart pound harder in his chest. But before he could respond, his father's voice rang out from the head of the table.
"A toast!" Lord Manoban raised his glass, his weathered face flushed with wine and good humor. "To my son and his beautiful wife. May their union be blessed with the fruits of their love, and may the Manoban name live on through their children."
"To Leonid and Jennie," the assembled company chorused, raising their glasses.
Leonid lifted his own wine glass, but he did not drink. He watched his wife over the rim, watching her accept the toast with grace, watching her smile at his father with genuine warmth—a warmth she never seemed to show him.
The candlelight caught the crystal, refracting into a dozen tiny rainbows. Leonid gripped the stem of his glass until his knuckles went white, the fragile stem groaning beneath the pressure.
"Steady, brother." Nicholas's low voice came from his left, the younger Manoban leaning in with a knowing smirk. "You'll cut yourself on the shards."
Leonid forced his fingers to relax. "I am perfectly steady."
"Of course you are." Nicholas's gaze drifted to Jennie, who was now engaged in animated conversation with their elderly aunt. "You've been married a year, and she still looks at you like you're a stranger. I'd be steady too, in your position."
"Nicholas." The warning in Leonid's voice was unmistakable. "The subject is closed."
"Is it?" Nicholas shrugged, unconcerned by his brother's dangerous tone. "I'm just saying, if I had a wife like that—beautiful, elegant, cold as winter—I'd want to know what it takes to make her melt."
"Some ice," Leonid said, his eyes fixed on Jennie's profile, "does not melt in the presence of men."
"Bold of you to assume it's the presence of men keeping her frozen, and not her own fear of the fire."
Leonid turned to look at his brother, a sharp retort on his lips. But Nicholas had already turned away, engaging the cousin to his right in conversation about horse breeding.
From the far end of the table, Lady Manoban's voice cut through the murmuring again.
"Jennie, dear, you must come visit me tomorrow. I have some fabrics from Paris that I think would suit you perfectly." The dowager's smile was silk over steel. "We can discuss the future, and what it holds."
It was not an invitation. It was a summons.
Jennie inclined her head gracefully, her dark hair catching the candlelight. "I should be honored, Mother."
Leonid's hand found hers beneath the table, his fingers intertwining with her smaller ones. She stiffened, but did not pull away.
"Be careful," he murmured, so low that only she could hear. "My mother has teeth."
Jennie's lips curved into that careful smile. "So do I, husband. So do I."
The toast had ended, but Leonid hadn't drunk a drop. His wine glass still sat before him, full and untouched. He released her hand, and the moment passed, and the dinner continued with all the ceremony and pretense that aristocratic life demanded.
But later, when the guests had dispersed and his parents had retired, Leonid found himself in the library, staring into the dying fire. His brother's words echoed in his mind, and his wife's softer ones, and the weight of all the distance between them pressed down on his chest like a stone.
He reached for the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, pouring himself a generous measure. The liquid burned going down, a welcome fire against the cold that had settled in his bones.
She had said the fault lay with distance. She had said it without accusation, but the implication was there—he hadn't crossed far enough, fast enough, to reach her.
He had ridden fifty miles in a single day, through snow and bitter wind, to reach her bed. And still, she had been beyond his reach.
What more, he wondered, was he expected to do?
The fire crackled and spat, sending shadows skittering across the walls. Leonid drank his brandy in silence, watching the flames consume themselves, feeling his own heart do the same.
Somewhere above him, in the bedchamber they shared, his wife was preparing for bed. She would be brushing her hair with those long, measured strokes. She would be setting out her nightgown with careful precision. She would be waiting for him, composed and perfect and utterly unreachable.
He didn't know how much longer he could bear it.
He took another drink, and the fire burned on, and somewhere in the cold darkness of the house, a clock struck midnight as Leonid reconciled himself to another night of distance.