Dedicated to ginamaye - For all her support on my first story attempt on Wattpad and for being the first fellow New Zealander I came across on Wattpad. Go Middle Earth!

Chapter 2: Sparks of Contempt

If not for homesickness and the impending marriage weighing down on her chest, Amelia would have asked to repeat their journey up north ten times over.

As they travelled further and further away from the busy roads and low-lying grasslands of Lyons, the streams grew clearer, the air fresher and the trees taller, at parts arching at the tips to form a natural canopy that shaded their carriage as it rolled beneath.

She liked to poke her head and shoulders out of the window of the carriage and enjoy the spring breeze against her skin. Marge would always pull her back down to her seat and chide her for being childlike and unladylike. Amelia would laugh it away, saying she never asked to be Lady of Marlborough or Emira of Steersberg; she was just her papa's little girl.

On the other side of the King's Wall that marked the border between the Northern and Southern Lands, Drake Rohan was not half as cheery.

He had expected his bride to arrive by mid-spring, a moon ago. But all that arrived thus far were three messages from the men he sent to accompany her, in all of which they ranted (he imagined they ranted, though the messages themselves were more than polite) about Lady Amelia's incessant requests to take breaks, for fresh air, for a drink at a teahouse, to pick a wildflower, to attend to 'womanly business', and whatever else tickled her fancy.

At last, Amelia arrived on the last day of spring. How the little lady turned a two-moon's journey into three was beyond him. If it weren't for the extra men he sent to await their carriage at the gates of the King's Wall to ensure that the last ten-day leg of their journey did take precisely ten days, he guessed she would have taken another full moon.

The coachman pulled up the carriage outside the front steps of Steersberg Manor, where he awaited for his bride-to-be. Truth be told, he cared little for who she was or what she was like. She was merely a responsibility, cast upon him by family honour and a promise to his mother. If she was a nuisance, he will keep his distance and that was all. Still, the responsibility would be a slightly more pleasant one should she be as charming as his mother assured him she would be.

And like most mothers who desperately wanted their sons to marry, she lied.

As Amelia exited the carriage, she tripped over her ridiculously big yellow skirt. If he hadn't rushed forward to catch her like a perfect gentleman, she would have landed on her face. And yet, she pulled away from him without a word and straightened herself.

She was tall for a Southern woman. He stood a few inches above six-foot, taller even than the average Northern man. Without that giant headpiece of a blond wig that doubled the size of her head, she might just fit perfectly under his chin.

As for her facial features, at first all he could see was a pair of pretty blue-grey eyes peeking over the top of a feathered fan that covered half of her face, regarding him as he regarded her. The eyes of a bold and spirited woman. He didn't mind those eyes, not at all.

She extended a hand and he took it up without hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckle. "Lady Amelia, it is my honour to welcome you to Steersberg. I am Drake Rohan." He gave her what he thought was his most charming smile and gestured for the man behind him to come forward. "This is William, my steward. He will ensure that all your needs are properly taken care of."

When Amelia lowered her fan to bob into a curtsy, his eyes widened in shock before he quickly forced composure back onto his features. Her red lip-paint smudged at the edges, her face was layered thick with white face powder, and... Gods forbid women dab their cheeks with uneven blobs of pink. Beside him, the old steward was holding his stomach, straining to hold back fits of laughter.

He would laugh, too, if he wasn't to be the 'lucky' man marrying this... this... clown. That is not a laughable matter. With a sidewards glance from his narrowed eyes, he demanded that William compose himself and save his lord some face.

"Oh," Amelia giggled as she lightly fanned herself, "you have a most beautiful manor, my lord." She made a show of turning her head this way and that, but made little effort to feign her interest.

The haughty manner of Southern nobles never failed to irk him. Still, he said politely, "Please, call me Drake."

Their 'conversation' was interrupted by a rocking of the carriage as a short, plump woman tumbled out. The woman looked at him, then quickly bowed her head. "Lor-Lord Rohan. Uh, Your Grace."

"This is Marge, my handmaid," Amelia introduced and flashed him a wide smile.

Gods, she has lip-paint on her teeth too. He cleared his throat to disguise the frown that was encroaching on his brow. "No need for Lord's and Grace's here. 'Sir' will do."

Drake held his arm out to escort Amelia to the house, but all he received was a dismissive glance. She hooked her arm around Marge's and made her own way up the front steps of his manor, chin tilted high—like every Southerner who thought themselves too good for the North. Her snort of contempt when she turned her head away from him, though barely audible, rang loud in his ears.

He lowered his arm stiffly. It appears I have mistaken arrogance for boldness, he thought disappointingly as his gaze trailed after the lady and her maid.

* * *

The first thing Amelia was drawn to in her new bedchamber was the balcony, with translucent silk drapes that billowed about its opening. It was the closest thing to freedom.

She leant against the railing, looking into the gardens of Steersberg Manor. Unlike the gardens of Southern estates, this one had no delicate flower patches nor a pond with a sculpted fountain. It was quite simply a wide open field with neat rows of trees sitting in a sea of green grass and yellow dandelions, stretching up to a forest of old pines. Far into the east, the blurry outlines of the snow-tipped Tigerfist Mountains formed the perfect backdrop for this serene view. Marge said it was bare, but she loved it. She knew that if Spot was here, he would too.

And now, she was bothered. She felt almost traitorous for falling in love with Steersberg Manor. Home was where her father and Spot were. Home was the humble Old Marlborough House. Home was a moon's ride away on a swift horse. Not here. Not this extravagant manor of whitestone walls. Not with a man she knew next to nothing about.

Behind her, servants carried chests of her belongings into the chamber, while Marge busied herself with marvelling at every piece of luxury she laid her eyes upon. She ooh'd about the blackwood dressers and tables, ahh'd about the soft furs on the bed, and gasped when she felt the smoothness of the red velvet curtains. In the end, it was the glass mirror that took her tongue.

To see oneself, a peasant bent over a pail of water, a noble picked up a piece of polished silver or bronze. In all the Southern Lands only the royal family used the finest glass that reflected objects with true clarity. The silver-framed glass mirror sitting atop the dressing table spoke more than a thousand words of Emir Rohan's wealth and status. But it mattered not, for the mirror served her no more than to stress the distance between Steersberg and Marlborough.

Once the last servant left the chambers, Marge turned her attention to Amelia and stepped onto the balcony. "My lady, why must you dress like this, act like this? Why must you make yourself so miserable?" Her voice was filled with concern.

"I am not miserable." Amelia turned away from the view and moved to the large chests that the servants had placed by the foot of the bed. As if to make her point, she sat down on one of the chests and gave Marge a triumphant smile. "This," she said while tapping her fingers on the chest, "this will take me back home. I am not miserable, Marge. I have a plan. It will work and I will be happy."

Marge furrowed her brows and shook her head. "His Grace has always wanted the best for you."

"What my father thinks is best for me is not always what's best for me." Amelia had already made up her mind that this marriage was wrong. And too bad for her father and Drake Rohan, she had the Duke of Marlborough's stubborn blood in her.

"Your plan is horrible," Marge grumbled. "The Emir isn't so bad. He is... fine. Very fine, actually..."

Amelia eyed her maid suspiciously. "Did he buy you off already?"

Marge paid her no mind. "... Hair so dark... eyes even darker, and his smile..." Amelia shook her head slowly. "... You would have the loveliest children..."

Amelia's mouth dropped. Unbelievable.

She was thankful when two knocks sounded on the door to put an end to the nonsensical gibberish—until Marge answered it and curtsied to the 'intruder'.

"How are you settling in, Amelia? Like your chambers?" Drake asked in a casual tone, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

How she wanted to wipe that smugness off his face.

Amelia walked closer to the bed and ran her fingers through the exquisite silk drapes that hung from its four-poster frame. "If you don't mind me saying, sir, the colours in here are dull... Blackwood, white silks, red curtains. And the view outside is... plain. At home we have gold, jewels and flowers of pink, blue and purple." She lowered her head in pretence of disappointment. "You must not be a very colourful man, Emir Rohan." She threw him a sympathetic look. "Oh, but of course I love it! After all, your manor must be the finest thing the North can offer. I am so absolutely honoured to be here."

She detected that slightest hint of a frown on his expression and smiled at him. A genuine smile, for Marge was wrong and her plan would work. He might even send her home before the wedding...

"Well then, I look forward to you bringing more colour into my life, sweet lady. Have a good rest, I shall see you in the morning—at our wedding." With a small nod, he turned and left, leaving a stunned Amelia staring after him.

Our wedding.

In the morning.

Wedding.

"Whaaaaaaaaaat?" she exploded. "That bas—"

Marge quickly raised a finger to her lips, gesturing her to quiet.

Amelia pulled off a shoe and threw it angrily in Drake's direction. The soft shoe of cloth flopped pathetically, landing five feet from the empty doorway.

———

A/N: There was a similar division between the north and south of Ancient China. In the latter part of Imperial Chinese history, the capital city and economic wealth were in the south, while the north was more rustic. Physical appearances were apparent too: southerners tended to be shorter and leaner, while northerners were taller and stronger. These differences were mainly attributable to genetics and diet. Not surprisingly, both groups looked down on each other.