That Old Grape Juice: Cabernet Franc

Summary: Prince Liam and Duchess Olivia of Lythikos end their nightly tour of her winter lodge with a trip to the wine cellar. Interesting conversations ensue.

Author’s Note: This two-part fic takes place shortly after Olivia insults Drake by mentioning Savannah at the Lythikos lodge in Book 1 Chapter 7, and before the Ball in Chapter 8. This is the 1st chapter in my 4-part fic series, That Old Grape Juice.

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It’s times like this, Liam thinks, that he can remember why he and Olivia are such good friends. Today there is a twinkle in her eyes, a spring in her step. Today she’s an absolute joy to be with.

It’s night time now, and Olivia has made good on her promise to show him around, allowing him to admire the armory, explore their music room, even letting him spend an extra half-hour in the library. They are now at the famed Nevrakis wine cellar, where any array of Lythikos’ best wines have been kept safe.

“I believe this is the first time I’m visiting this part of your lodge,” Liam says, laughing. Olivia is now frowning at a row of wines, a deep line etched on her forehead. You’d think she was contemplating battle strategy.

“You don’t have to spend this long selecting a drink,” Liam tells her, chuckling, “It’s a glass of wine, Olivia, not a matter of life and death.”

Liam can see the the impression her tongue makes as it pokes against her cheek, the way it always did in their childhood when she had trouble making a decision.

“It is.” she protests after a while, “We’ve got some wines here that you’ll simply adore. There’s a few that have been aged specially for you and I’m trying to decide which one — ah, perfect!”

Liam is about ask Olivia why she feels the need to have wines made specially for him, and how long she’s been planning this, when they hear a knock at the door.

“Your Grace,” Anne-Marie, Olivia’s secretary, pops her head in through the door, “The Ball tomorrow –”

“Yes, Anne-Marie,” Olivia’s voice is raised just the tiniest bit, but she doesn’t lift her gaze from the bottle, not even to look at the younger woman, “I will talk to you in five minutes.”

“But…Your Grace – ”

“ – five minutes, Anne-Marie.” she repeats, with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Anne-Marie nods and disappears, the door closing with a tiny ‘click’ behind her. Clearly she has become used to being dismissed like this by her mistress. That look of tired resignation niggles at his conscience more than it usually does. Something about it reminds him of a night in New York, of a table full of his rowdy friends, of a woman who walked away from their table with just that very look in her eyes. It reminds him of —

“Liam?”

Liam turns away from the door, flushing. Even here, an entire wing away and with another suitor, he finds his thoughts finding their insidious way to Esther. He sighs and shifts his gaze elsewhere. Anywhere.

There is a bronze bust on the wall above him. The light falls upon the man’s angular jawline and sharp nose, leaving most of his face in shadow. Liam can barely make out the scar on the man’s chin – something that could have passed for a cleft if it was an inch closer to the centre.

“You don’t need to me to tell you who this is, do you?” Olivia says, holding two glasses of wine and offering Liam one.

“Who wouldn’t remember King Luther Nevrakis of Abanthus?”

“I know quite a few who would,” Olivia rolls her eyes, doubtless thinking of Maxwell’s multiple failed history lessons. “You know… I have no doubt that some of my ancestors may have been the villainous brutes our textbooks tell us they were…but I’d still give a hand and a leg to learn warfare from them, you know?”

Olivia is right. Their textbooks don’t always show the Nevrkis family in the best light, but everyone who has ever joined the military still swears by Diavolos the Twelfth’s medieval text Lessons in War Strategy and Defence. “There is much we can learn from your ancestors, Olivia,” Liam tells her, “Resilience. Strength. The foresight to recognize certain things, even if you don’t like admitting to them.” Liam knows well that he couldn’t sound any less unlike himself, even as the words leave his mouth.  

Objectively, he knows that his vision for Cordonia will be incomplete without a powerful military force. Knows that despite her stubbornness and hotheaded nature, the country will be safe in her hands. That her desire to fight would balance out his need for peace. Objectively, he knows Olivia will be a better consort than people give her credit for. And yet…and yet…

Liam clears his throat, forces himself to look at the bronze bust. “Wonder what he would think of all this.”

Olivia’s brows are raised in confusion. “Of what?”

“A Nevrakis and a Rys, sharing a glass of wine right under King Luther’s nose.”

Olivia lets out the kind of cackle that would horrify half the court. “He’d be turning over in his grave right now!”

Liam laughs, raising his glass to Olivia before taking in its scent. “Mmm. A Cabernet Franc, yes?”

“Our best,” Olivia’s eyes sparkle with pride. Lady Kiara Thorne’s family may be famous for their vineyard and wines, but Olivia has invested enough in her own estate to ensure that her cool-weather varieties could stand their own with the best of them.

Liam closes his eyes, taking in the wine’s aromas. “Dark cherry…mocha…and – mmm, vanilla.” He lets slip a slight sigh of pleasure. “You know I have a weakness for vanilla.”

Her green eyes sparkle again, this time with an expression that isn’t mirth or pride, one that he can’t quite place. “Perhaps it was chosen on purpose.”

Liam means to ask Olivia what she means by this, except she quickly changes the subject and encourages him to taste the wine instead. It tastes even better than it smells – if such a thing was ever possible – a bold, unique blend of fruit and spices, complementing the creaminess of the Brie. A silky smooth finish that lingers on his tongue. Before they know it, they’re back to lightheartedness and reminiscing: Olivia mimicking Drake at his first, and last, wine tasting.

“This tastes like someone left a carton of grape juice outside last year and gave it to us this year!” Olivia tries to get Drake’s voice right, but fails – torn as she is between mock-indignance and incessant giggling.

“Technically speaking, he isn’t wrong.” Liam points out.

“Pshh, you’re just going soft on him, like you always do. You know as well as I do that he could be like one of us if he tried.”

“You really believe that?” Liam raises a skeptical eyebrow. After all, didn’t Drake’s sister fit in perfectly to court life? And it didn’t stop Olivia from looking down on the poor girl every chance she got.

“Not really. God no. But it’s the way he struts around, Liam. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s above trying,” Olivia gulps her wine rather than swallows, scowling. “Like he’s better than us.” She spits the word out, frustrated.

Olivia’s opinions aren’t unique to her, Liam knows. More than half the court thinks the way she does. Someone who doesn’t try would frustrate them, someone who learned their ways would be subject to more scrutiny and more censure, their every move dissected and mocked. It was amazing how many of them forgot they all descended from the very people they frowned upon.

“Dare I ask for your wine list?” Tariq had asked an American waitress once, disappointed.

“We have an excellent house red.” the newer, sweeter voice replied, her amusement evidently bubbling over. She was obviously wondering which strange world these people inhabited.

This world. This world that will attempt to turn Esther’s amusement into shame, that will expect more from her than from all the other suitors combined. This is the world they’re bringing her into, and she doesn’t even know half of what she’s fighting against. The thought horrifies him.

“Maybe she is better than the rest of us,” Liam murmurs.

“She?” Olivia’s hardened gaze is on him now, already figuring out who he is talking about. There is a steely edge to her voice, “I was talking about Drake, Liam.”

The knock on the door comes almost like Godsend. “Your Grace, the seating arrangements –”

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Anne-Marie?” Olivia hisses, nostrils flaring.

“But Your Grace, did you not say five –”

“I am currently showing His Highness some of our best wines, and I would like to not be disturbed.”

Anne-Marie’s cheeks turn an angry scarlet, but she swallows and makes her way out, bowing to Liam before she does. He nods back in apology, and tries to salvage what’s left of Olivia’s good mood.

“Is everything ready for the Ball tomorrow?”

Olivia smiles, daintily taking bites from the Brie laid out on the cheese board. “Lobsters fresh from Portavira for our main course tomorrow, and the entertainment programme has been set for the evening. All that’s left is to decide who sits where.”

Looking at Olivia excitedly laying out her plans now, Liam can’t help but feel proud of her. Ever since her debut all those years ago,Olivia has been managing every single event on her estate alone, without Lucretia – the aunt who should have been doing this for her.

“What will you be opening the Ball with? An English Waltz? Viennese?”

“Better,” Olivia grins, “It’ll be the Cordonian Waltz tomorrow.” When Liam doesn’t respond she shakes her head at him. “Oh come now, Your Highness. This is the dance our country is famous for!  Wouldn’t you prefer something that represents our home at your social season!”

Liam chuckles nervously. “It’s not that. It’s just…I haven’t done it in a while. I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice.”

Olivia shakes her head, remembering, “Our dance masters did call you stiff whenever we practiced.”

He winces. “Perhaps. Too much intimacy for my tastes.”

“Pssh, nothing of the sort,” Olivia scoffs at him,”you just need the right partner.”

The two old friends finish the rest of their wine in a comfortable silence, saying nothing as Olivia calls for a servant to take the plates away. It is only when they are about to leave that it occurs to Liam. That Esther —

“Olivia.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re opening the Ball with the Cordonian Waltz tomorrow night.”

Olivia laughs. “Thank you for stating the obvious, Liam. Yes.”

“But not everyone knows that dance.”

In the snap of a moment, Olivia’s green eyes find his, searching. They’re blazing in the firelight right now and there is a muscle in her jaw, tightening. “Is that so? Well, they should. Every respectable Cordonian has grown up on this waltz – it would be a shame if they didn’t know.”

This is the point where any other man would have run screaming, but Liam isn’t just any man. “Not every suitor is Cordonian. Surely you know that, Olivia.”

“Oh,” Olivia nods slowly, realization dawning upon her,  “Oh! So that’s what this is about. You want me to lower the standards of my Ball so that some American upstart can breeze by the competition on nothing but misplaced sympathy. You want me to make this easier on her, don’t you?”

Gods. It boggles the mind, the hatred Esther faces from these people he knows so well. “She’s doing her best, Olivia. She’s had to learn everything from scratch. Everything. Do you think for a minute this is easy on her?”

“That’s something she should have thought about BEFORE she hopped on that plane!” Olivia’s voice is getting louder and louder, with a ferocity that astounds even Liam. “We shouldn’t be expected to handhold and babysit this…this foreigner who thinks she’s above learning our ways! She’s the one who came here from another country, she’s the one who should have come prepared. Whose fault is it that she isn’t?”

It takes effort, real effort, for Liam not to raise his own voice. “Perhaps the Beaumonts. Perhaps Maxwell for not planning these things in advance. Hell, perhaps it was me! Esther wouldn’t be in this situation if I weren’t involved, so if you’re looking for someone to punish, I’m standing right here in front of you.”

Olivia stands before him now – angry, flushed, suspicious. She’s clearly half-spent from all the yelling, but he can tell she’s not done yet. Not even close.

The door clicks open. It’s Anne-Marie. “Your Highness. Your Grace. Is everything alright?”

Olivia looks at her secretary as if she’s seeing her for the first time. When Anne-Marie begins to shift uncomfortably at her gaze Olivia smiles – the bared grin of a saber-tooth tiger this time, and her voice is dripping honey. I’m not sure I like that look, Liam thinks to himself.

“Anne-Marie, my darling! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I – yes, Your Grace.” Anne-Marie sighs and keeps her peace. Doubtless she is used to her mistress’ quicksilver moods.

“Now, where is that seating chart you were going to show me? I do believe I have some changes to make…”

She turns to Liam now, her old warmth back, “Let me show you to your room, Liam.”

The knot in his stomach remains, long after Olivia has gone with her secretary, long past his expected bedtime. He can’t sleep, not like this. Not while he knows there are people willing to see Esther fail.

All of a sudden, Liam jolts out of his bed, straightening his back and raising his arms in the position of a box step. He forces himself to remember: remember to relax, remember to place pressure on her hand when he wants her to shift. He may not be the most involved dancer in the ballroom, but there is no way in hell he’ll contribute to Esther’s humiliation tomorrow.

Liam waltzes till the wee hours of dawn, till he’s sure he has remembered every step, recalled every instruction. Till he is sure that Esther will find in him a good partner, if not an entirely romantic one.

A partner who will ease her into this, step by step, inch by inch.

A partner who will be with her, support her, lo- (well, perhaps not that. Not yet) care for her – every step of the way.

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