Free Spy's Honor by Amy Raby Page B

visiting officers from the northern front. Rhianne was making up for lost time.
    â€œWon’t the wine make your headache worse?” asked Marcella.
    â€œNo,” said Rhianne, blinking in irritation at the lights. “It won’t make it better either, but it’ll make me not mind so much having one.”
    â€œIn that case . . .” With a wink, Marcella poured the contents of her own glass into Rhianne’s.
    Rhianne grinned. “I knew there was a reason we were friends.”
    She turned to see how far Florian had progressed in his tour and how much time she had left before she’d have to perform the odious chore of dancing with Augustan. There was Florian—seated and engaged in a heated argument with a first-rank tribune. She smiled wryly; her uncle did so love a good verbal sparring. Not that he played fair. Winning an argument with the emperor could prove fatal to one’s career, so his opponents always made sure they lost.
    Nearby, Augustan yelled at someone, a Riorcan slave woman who fled from him, cradling a tray of wineglasses. The scene gave Rhianne pause. She couldn’t tell what had caused the incident. Augustan turned, caught her eye, and smiled. She could not bring herself to smile back at him. Instead, she looked away and hoped it would discourage him from approaching.
    No such luck. He showed up at her table minutes later with a steaming tea mug in his hand. “Rhianne. You look stunning as always.”
    Marcella and Cerinthus rose from their seats, as did Rhianne, wincing at the pain in her head. “Legatus Ceres,” she said formally. “These are my friends Tribune Cerinthus Antius and his wife, Marcella.”
    Augustan took in the insignia on Cerinthus’s uniform that marked him as third rank and gave him a dismissive nod.
    As they sat, he turned to Rhianne and pushed the mug toward her. “I brought you a drink. Spicebush tea. It’s fine stuff—we brought it back from Mosar.”
    Rhianne indicated her wineglass. “Thank you, but I already have a drink.”
    He smiled indulgently. “My dear, it is your fourth glass. I know you do not wish to appear unseemly.”
    She stared at him, incredulous. Had he been watching her this entire time, keeping track of how much wine she drank? “Thank you, but I don’t care for tea.”
    â€œTry it. Perhaps you will develop a taste for it.” He pushed the mug closer to her and edged her wineglass away.
    Rhianne considered how much trouble she would be in with Florian if she threw a mug of spicebush tea into Augustan’s face.
    â€œWell, if you are not thirsty,” said Augustan, a line of irritation appearing in his brow, “I believe the crowd is eager for us to begin the dancing. Shall we?”
    â€œWith respect, Legatus, I’m not feeling well enough this evening to dance.”
    He stiffened with affront. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. I thought you the very picture of health.” He got up from the table and walked away.
    Rhianne slumped in her seat, infuriated, yet relieved he was gone. Who was he to tell her what to drink and act like she was faking when she said she wasn’t feeling well? She shoved the tea away and gulped her wine. Marcella’s hand fell upon hers in sympathy. Cerinthus stared at her in horror.
    Moments later, Emperor Florian slid into the seat next to Rhianne. “Leave us,” he barked to Marcella and Cerinthus, who scrambled to their feet and departed. “Rhianne, you are being unacceptably uncooperative.”
    â€œI’m not feeling well.”
    He glared at her.
    â€œHe’s rude, Uncle. He tried to force me to drink tea because he thought I’d had too much wine—”
    â€œYou
have
had too much,” said Florian. “I see the flush in your cheeks.”
    â€œAnd now he wants me to dance, when I have a headache that would send the Soldier himself packing off to