But the relationships were never to interfere with your mate, your family, or your bloodline—and the Scribe Virgin save you if anyone ever found out about your extracurricular activities.
Oh, and as for females in the aristocracy? They weren’t allowed lesbian lovers. Ever. Under any circumstances.
Just one more example of the patriarchy of the glymera. The intolerance. The injustice. All of it was so unfair.
“My parents were never happy together,” Boone stated. “But neither of them had been brought up to expect anything more or anything less. That being said, I always wondered if my mahmen committed suicide, or whether it was something else, something sinister that killed her. Exactly how did she die? No one ever told me because no one ever talked about it.”
“That is because the veil of privacy continues to be appropriate after death. Your mahmen was a fine female of worth who did her duty as was appropriate.”
“Wow. You used ‘appropriate’ twice there. Good work. No wonder my father trusted you to plan his parties.” Boone nodded at the butler’s feet. “Watch it. You’re dripping. Better go to Havers’s and get that stitched up.”
The butler glanced at the roast beef as if he were contemplating going back to his work.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Boone shook his head. “You’re not bleeding all over the food, even if that hunk of meat is about to go into the oven. I’ll go get the other doggen, and they will handle everything—as they should have from the very beginning for the ceremony. It was very inappropriate of you to exclude them.”
Marquist’s smile was slow as his eyes grew calculating. “Be of care, young master Boone. I would hate for your bloodline to be sullied by anything untoward. The glymera is slow to forgive even minor slips. A poorly cooked hors d’oeuvre or badly prepared foie gras can be devastating to a household’s reputation. Much less something of far graver import.”
“You’re assuming I give two shits about what any of them think.” Boone dropped his chin and glared from beneath his brows. “And let me point out the obvious—you’ll never get another job on an estate of this caliber if you pull any stunts of indiscretion like talking about your affair with my father. The aristocrats won’t let you so much as wash their cars or clean their gutters if you spread rumors about my sire.”
“This from a male who claims he does not care what people think.”
“I’m just trying to help you out in case you haven’t considered your next job.”
“You’re assuming I haven’t been well taken care of. Which happens to be something I know for a fact I do not have to worry about.”
Marquist did not bow as he went to leave. But considering the breach of protocol he had just confirmed—as well as the one he had threatened—who was counting?
Right before the butler walked out into the staging area, Boone said over his shoulder, “Do not use the front door. You’re just staff here, not family.”
Marquist paused and tightened the bloody dish towel on his sliced hand. “I’m better than family. And as soon as that Fade Ceremony is over, you’re going to learn exactly how much better.”
“I’m not leaving this house,” Boone gritted out.
“Neither am I.”
* * *
As Butch re-formed on the side lawn of Boone’s family’s mansion, he was so not surprised by the old school money routine. The place was big as an embassy and lit up like a ball park. Through the old wavy glass of the windows, he could see antiques and oil paintings, sculptures and vases of flowers. It was exactly the kind of anonymous, venerable luxury that he’d seen in every glymera household he had ever been in, proof positive that intrinsic worth didn’t make shit homey, and when there was only a single standard of acceptability for decorations, all you got was a reductive one-note.
He would take his Pit with his shellan and his two roommates over this showboat every day of the week and twice on Sunday.
“Poor kid,” Rhage said as the brother arrived.
“Not hardly,” V muttered as he appeared. “Boone’s better off this way, true? That sire of his was a motherfucker.”
Butch shot a look at his roomie. “Will you please try to not bring that up at the goddamn ceremony? It’s tacky.”
“I hate protocol.”
“No, really?” Rhage cut in. “Wait, let me get my shocked face on.”
The brother turned away—and then whipped back around with his handsome puss all wall-eyed and O-mouthed.