A Prince's Duty: Part 3

Poll 2 was a tie so I had to get creative.

***

In the warm light of the lamp and the still, quiet of the interior of the building you are able to take your first full breath since stepping out in front of that crowd. You find the shop to be quite excellently stocked with a wide array of fine quality men’s clothing. This place had not been chosen at random as this family of tailors were clearly craftsmen of rare talent. What struck you even more than the skill however was the fashion. Everything was so different from what you were used to. Where back home you would see bold colors in flamboyant styles here everything was darker, more subtle, more muted, more elegant and crafted with fabrics not merely to cover but to caress the flesh beneath. These clothes were the most beautiful that you had ever seen.

Perhaps another day you would take the time to indulge in browsing the shop’s full selection but in the current circumstances you move swiftly and efficiently. With Dahlia at your side, draping each item over her arm as you handed it to her, you choose a style befitting your station of prince and betrothed. Without the tailor there to hem you are limited by what would fit you as is but you are in luck as you are able to put together an outfit consisting of black trousers, a white shirt, a silk paisley cravat, a snug black vest, and to top it off an exquisite long swallow tail jacket of the most sumptuous purple your eyes had ever seen.

Turning to the vampire whose predator eyes was watching your every move you ask. “Where may I change?”

“You may do it there if you wish.” She grins.

With a glance toward the door which still hung open you say. “I do not.”

Amused by your modest she lets out a laugh and hops off of the counter upon which she was sitting. She strolls with unnerving, inhuman grace to a set of swinging bat wing doors. She peers over them at the space beyond to look for potential escape routes if you had to guess. It rankled you that they were treating you like a prisoner. You had chosen the Countess at great risk and at the sacrifice of the only life you had ever known. She turns and gives you a nod. “In there.”

Stepping through you find yourself in a dark room nearly the size of the main area. Around you are more racks and shelves but with only the meager light trickling in from beyond the doors you cannot see your surroundings. Taking the clothes from Dahlia you set them down on a short bench which sat in the center of the room.

“Fetch the lamp, Dahlia.”

“Yes, Master.”

“No.” You stop her. “Do not call me Master.”

“But…”

“You may call me Jacarian or Jac.”

You sense the fear rise in her. “I may not.” She whispers. “It would be seen as disrespect. Please, Master.”

“I see.” You ponder a moment. “Then call me Prince. Or Sir if you must. But never call me Master.”

The sense of dread drains from the girl. “Yes, Prince.” She bows her head. “Thank you.”

As you begin to pull off the stomach-turning eyesore you’d been forced into your servant leaves to get the lamp. You pause after removing the tunic. Running your fingers through the tears the Countess’ nails had sliced through the fabric you shudder as you remember her strength and realize just how easily those claws could have carved through your flesh. When Dahlia returns she pauses as she sees you shirtless then with a blush that highlighted that she was as warm-blooded and mortal as you were she hurries forward to set the lamp down on the bench.

Around you the room is revealed and you find yourself in the center of the ladies section of the shop. You marvel at all of the elegant dresses and women’s finery. Just like with the gentleman’s selection the array of beautiful things is incredible. Unlike the other section though this one has an entire corner dedicated to delicates.

The tunic slips from your fingers to fall in a heap upon the floor. Your eyes wide you are a moth drawn to a forbidden flame. Letting out a long breath you lightly rest your hand over the lace of a deep red bustier. Staring down at it you feel its softness beckoning. You were beyond your father and your nation’s puritanical religion. And you knew that a mortal woman named Brigitte once fancied such things. Written in her very hand you had read it. It was because of that very intimate and explicate few pages of that diary that the seed had been planted within you. One seed planted at a formative age among an entire garden.

Coming up beside you Dahlia nears. “Prince Jac?”

You look at her and smile. “I wish to have this.” Her eyes widen and before she can reply you add. “For myself. I wish this for myself.”

“Oh!”

You motion to the doors. “You will not tell them.”

“Yes, Prince.”

“You will tie it for me? I have no experience in such things.”

She looks at it then back to you and you catch a tiny grin playing at the sides of her plump lips. In the mindset to admire pretty things you take a moment to appreciate the woman before you. With curly brown hair, rich brown eyes, healthy tan skin, and a speckling of freckles across her button nose she was a treat on the eyes. She was pretty. Pretty in that way that you’d only seen among the commoners. Something in the eyes. Something honest and grounded. She was a bit shorter than you and though slender her hips and bosom were buxom.

“Yes, Prince.” She bows.

“You do not approve?”

“It is not my place.”

“If it were?”

She looks to the bustier. “I would not dare to question your fine taste, my Prince.”

You smile and she smiles too. You wonder how long it had been since a smile graced that becoming face.

Pulling down your hose you say. “You are to be my Lady-in-Waiting.”

“Prince? Surely you will wish a male valet to…”

“I do not.”

“I am not skilled in the ways of the court. I am merely…”

“You were my Mistress’ first gift to me. You are to be my second.” With a wave about the room you command. “You will find something appropriate to your new station.”

“Oh! I…I don’t…”

You stand up, naked as the day you were born, and say. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

“OH!” She gasps as she catches sight of your manhood. A blush darkens her cheeks as she snaps her head away from you. “I would never question you, Prince.”

“Very good.”

For yourself you choose the bustier, a pair of silk panties that matched the color, a garter belt, and a pair of thigh high black stockings. All of this you put on first before covering it with the noble attire you’d chosen from the other room. Looking at yourself in the mirror and knowing what dwelled under your respectable surface layer made you feel sexier and more defiant and more powerful than you ever had before.

For Dahlia a fine gown of white and amber is chosen in a style refined yet appropriate to a common woman. It lifts you to see her excitement in choosing it. She kept looking to you, wondering when you were going to snatch the dream away from her, but you calmly and warmly encourage her to take it. You even turn around to give her some privacy as she changed into it. The fit was good. She was lovely. Looking so good you would be proud to have her walking at your side. A long green gown is also folded and wrapped to bring with you, but this was not for Dahlia.

“Hurry up!” Comes Ambrose’s fierce hiss from beyond the doors. “We will not be delayed here all night.” Outside you hear the horses neigh, as eager to get back on the road as he was.

Lowering your voice you lean in close to Dahlia. “Ambrose. Is he the Countess’ adopted son? I see no resemblance.”

“Son?” She says. “Oh. No. All vampires call her Mother.”

“I see.” You say. “Ready?”

“At my Prince’s command.”

You give her a smile. “Do not let them see you tremble. Stay close to my side.”

“Yes, Prince.”

They say that the clothes make the man and as you step out through the swinging doors you are every ounce the prince. “I am ready.”

“Come along then.” Ambrose waves impatiently.

Standing tall, as tall as your humble height would allow you at least, you raise your chin. “I will not be beckoned like some mongrel.

“Excuse…” Ambrose’s words choke off as he catches sight of my servant. “Dahlia! Remove those clothes immediately!”

“She will do no such thing.” You snap right back. “She is mine. Mine to do with as I please. By order of the Countess.” You fix Ambrose with a hard stare, though it chills you to the core to do so. “You seem to forget who I am, Ambrose. I am a prince. I am to be your Mother’s groom. I will not make you call me Daddy, but you WILL respect me.”

Terror, true terror, courses through you as Ambrose bares his fangs. He eyes burn with a hatred you'd only seen in among the true zealots of your brother’s order. Dahlia shifts closer and behind you. The other vampire gawks at you in shock. Had a mortal ever shown such insolence to them? You doubt it. Despite the fear threatening to break you, you hold your ground. You may pay for this later but you knew you were under the Countess’ protection for now.

Ambrose snarls to which you just narrow your eyes. After a lifetime of being the useless little third prince you at last find your spine. You would not bow to this monster.

Raging, humiliated, yet utterly impotent Ambrose spins in place and storms from the building. “You ride with him, Vivienne.” He barks. “I will be waiting on the coach.”

“Huh?” The other vampire says. “Oh. Yes, Ambrose.” She looks back at you with the expression of somebody staring at a dead man walking, and not of the vampiric variety. “You will regret that, mortal.”

“Perhaps.” You say. “We shall see what the Countess says. One way or another things about to change, Vivienne. You may wish to consider that.” I point to the counter. “Pay them.”

“Sorry?”

“Pay the merchant.”

“You can’t…” She stops, and studies your unflinching expression. With a shake of her head she yields. From a purse she pulls three gold coins.

“Five.”

After a short pause two more are stacked. “Happy?”

“Yes.” You say. “Thank you, Vivienne. I will see you repaid if I have that opportunity.”

Your words surprise her. “Do not worry about it. Consider it a…birthday gift.” With a far more respectful tone she motions for the door. “Shall we?”

Back in the carriage you are soon rattling along the dark roads once more. Across from you Vivienne stares, perplexed. At your side Dahlia looks upon you with awe. You shoot Dahlia a wink and take her hand in yours, its warmth is a comforting anchor in this dark, foreign land.

Part 4