I Never Said I Was Impotent

The moment the words left him, he slid his hands beneath my knees and my back and swept me up off the floor. I grabbed for his neck before I knew what I was doing.

Perhaps he had put on cologne for the wedding. He smelled sweet.

"Y-you can go slowly, you know."

What was the use of hurrying, and what was the use of taking our time? I was exhausted. I was going to sleep, and that was all.

My answer must not have pleased him. Ian pressed his lips shut, and in the nearly empty corridor the sound of him carrying me struck out quick and sharp. I rested my head against his shoulder. Sturdy, these shoulders.

Had James been like this? Honestly, if it was a matter of frame, James had seemed harder-boned and broader than Ian. Not that I would know. He never held me.

It was steadier than I had expected, secure enough that I let my eyes slip quietly shut.

Thud, thud. Between his footsteps another sound seemed to weave in, something beating fast—but I was far too tired, and before I knew it I had drifted into a light doze.

I reached the bedchamber and, half dreaming, let the maids attend me. It felt as if we were walking through the very same rites as this morning. They washed me clean, worked scented oil into my skin until it was soft, and misted me with fragrant perfume. They seemed to do something to my hair as well, though I couldn't have said what. I kept nodding off the whole time.

God, I'm tired.

The thought that there would be no receiving of guests undid the tension I had carried all this while, and my body went slack. I must have been clenched tight without even knowing it.

I had been so tense straight through the ceremony itself that I hadn't noticed, but the truth was I had been anxious—afraid that if I opened my eyes and sat up, I would jolt awake thinking, Oh. This was a dream.

It's all right now.

The marriage vows were sworn. His Imperial Majesty's sanction was given. The wedding was over. The instant I felt certain my life would never cross the ducal house of Parnel again, the wire of my nerves—drawn tight for so long—snapped.

"Duchess, this way, please."

"Yes, yes."

I drifted along in a daze, wherever they led me. The bedchamber they showed me into held nothing but a bed wide enough for five people to lie down in, though there was no chance of that fact registering in my sleep-drunk eyes.

"His Grace will be in shortly."

"Yes, yes."

"Congratulations on your marriage."

"Yes, yes."

I was so sleepy I answered like a parrot. The only thought in my head was that I wanted to lie down.

"Aigoo."

With a sigh better suited to someone far older, I flipped the covers back and slipped inside. The moment I lay down, the plush bed clung to me as if it meant to wind itself around my body. I rubbed my cheek into the soft blanket and squirmed this way and that until I had found my place—and then something felt wrong.

Wait. The blanket feels far too vivid.

I had only nuzzled it with my face, and yet I could feel the cloth against my whole body.

I forced my eyes open—they didn't want to unstick, as if they had been brushed with honey—and looked at my shoulder. Aside from a single thin strap that looked as if it would snap if I tugged it, nothing covered the white of my shoulder at all.

Why is my bare skin showing?

Scented candles lit the room with a soft glow, so it wasn't especially dark. I lifted an arm, peeled the blanket back, peered underneath—and immediately flung it shut again. Sleep seemed to blow out of me all at once.

What kind of clothes are these?

Those women! They had dressed me so very properly, and then this—where on earth had they found a slip so indecent?

It had hardly any lace, and it was thin enough that my skin showed straight through. That was why I had yanked the blanket back over myself in a panic.

Th-this outfit is obscene.

Ten years I had spent pressed up against James, and James, in every sense of the word, had been a man who never changed. Night was no exception. I had heard there were people who wore provocative clothes to turn the mood, or who tried something different in bed, but James had always behaved in exactly the same way. He probably never even noticed what I was wearing.

And so, naturally, I had come to wear nothing but comfortable nightdresses cut from plain cotton...

And now, out of nowhere, a slip like a dragonfly's wing, sheer enough to show skin! If we were skipping steps, we had leapt several of them in a single bound!

I'll just roll myself up in the blanket.

I wouldn't so much as show him my shoulder. I pressed the covers down tight with that thought—and then, curled like a caterpillar, I had another almost at once.

So what. I'm only going to sleep. He isn't going to go peeking.

The truth was, I had confused an impotent man with a man who felt no desire. A body that would not rise did not mean there was no appetite. And yet—why had I been so certain Ian would not lay a single finger on me?

Which was why, when he stepped into the room with nothing but a thin robe over his bare skin, I startled so hard I nearly jumped.

Those women! They put him in something like this, too!

The robe was soft silk, fitted so close it showed every line of his body. His frame might have been a little smaller than James's, but lean muscle lay dense along the bone, with no spare flesh, and there was a beauty to it closer to sculpture. And of all the colors...

Worse, the robe was only a shade darker than his skin, so he looked as if scented oil had been poured over bare flesh—glossy, gleaming. Abashed, I buried my face hard in the pillow.

Heavens. Why does a man who can't even get it up have a face that sexy? My heart's in a flutter for no reason at all. I ought to just sleep.

But whether sleep had already left me or not, my heart only went on pounding. How long did I stare at that pillow?

A low voice whispered at my ear.

"Olivia."

"Eek!"

Had he spread honey on his voice? I couldn't understand why it tickled so. Perhaps because almost no one ever called me by my name. James always said wife. Or darling.

I turned a little and looked at Ian. I had no idea when he had come so close. He stood right there, one hand braced on the bed, bent over me, watching.

H-his chest is—s-s—I am not looking!

Why are you talking to me from this close!

I whipped my face back into the pillow. The moment I squeezed my eyes shut, Ian asked, laughter threaded through his voice.

"Why are you doing that? Are you going to sleep?"

"I-I'm tired, so of course I should sleep. You've had a long day too! Good night!"

"Good night?"

The bed gave a long, thin creak and tilted. I knew by instinct that he had climbed up onto it. For no reason I could name, a chill crawled up my back. I bit my lip.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart beat faster still.

Don't you start, heart! He's impotent! Nothing is going to happen!

This was only the natural tension of a man climbing onto my bed. Something I would have to grow used to, besides. Impotent or not, now and then we would share a bed like this.

Right. This man is a guy-friend. A friend who is a person. He shares a bed. In exchange for the loan of it, he hauled me out of the Parnel trash heap.

I was still chanting that to myself without end, trying to settle, when Ian—now directly at my back—cast a dark shadow over my head.

He whispered in a strange voice, like water just coming to a low boil.

"Open your eyes. There's something to be done before we sleep, isn't there?"

"S-something to be done? Besides receiving guests?"

I opened my eyes and turned to look at him again.

The shadow he cast hid his expression, but somehow I was sure he was smiling.

"When I called you Lady Parnel, don't you remember what you said?"

I blinked. I remembered my answer with perfect clarity. It was the line I had turned over in my mind again and again—if anyone called me the Duchess of Parnel, this was what I would say.

"Under the law of the Empire, every marriage that hasn't been consummated is void."

The words came back, and still I couldn't readily connect them to the "something" he said had to be done. I blinked up at him, and he lowered his head.

"Who's to say you won't say that again, cast me aside, and fly off to someone else?"

That straight mouth kissed my forehead, soft and brief. It did not end there. His kisses settled on the bridge of my nose, on my cheek, light as falling petals, and at the last he drew my lower lip in and sucked, slow and long.

What is this.

My head seemed to have broken. Bewilderment overran my thoughts so completely that I couldn't even flinch or cry out. I froze like ice.

He looked down at me and murmured, low and suggestive.

"So before you can make it void, I ought to move first."

"B-but."

No—meaning, right now. He wants to spend the wedding night with me?

Something I had never once imagined was about to begin. I stared at him, still rigid, and opened my trembling lips.

"Y-you're impotent, aren't you?"

At that, Ian tipped his head, just slightly. Then he let out a soft breath of a laugh.

"I don't believe I've ever said that with my own mouth."

"B-but you said you couldn't get hard! At the ball!"

Without meaning to, I clutched the blanket and shouted. To me, this was a matter of the greatest importance. That he couldn't get it up!

I even asked why it was all right that he was impotent! I thought he really was, and I told him the truth!

One of the reasons I had made up my mind to a second marriage with Ian was the certainty that there would be no further relations between us. We would not step into each other's private lives. We would each take what we needed. We would live like indifferent business partners. That had been the goal.

This changed the entire arrangement!

"This is fraud. Fraud against the whole nation! Every subject of this country believes you're impotent! All because of that one line of yours—'What would I even do if it got hard?'"

I was so shaken that the words poured out too fast for even my own ears to catch. That was how wronged I felt. If I had known from the start that you weren't impotent, I would have thought of some other way!

I was still rattling it all out, huffing, when Ian swept his hair back. Then he answered me in a tone that suggested I ought to have understood already.

"Meaning, in that situation, that I don't get hard for that young lady. If a man got hard for just any woman, would he still be a man? He'd be a beast."

"B-but..."

I mumbled at my lip.

"They say men that age get hard just from looking at a slipper."

"...Who on earth taught you something so vulgar?"

"Eep."