The Duke's Wager by Edith Layton

that they were brought on by a bad conscience, or a surfeit of sweets ingested before bedtime,” he said conversationally, relaxing against the plump cushions.
    “No,” she shook her head, “no, that is not what I’m trying to say. In these troubled dreams, there is often a figure…or an object, something that would be quite benign, actually harmless in a waking state. But in these dreams, this object is invested with all sorts of sinister, dreadful terror. One does not know what sort of harm it betokens, but one knows it would be ruinous to oneself, and so throughout the dream, one runs from it. But, even in crowds of people, even alone in a locked room, somehow, by the magic of dreams, it comes through, it confronts…you can never escape it.”
    “An object?” he said with amusement.
    “Anything, I suppose it is different for each dreamer…anything from a table to an owl to a mouse, but the terror comes from the fact that you know it is malevolent, and you do not understand why it constantly pursues you, or what harm it means, and why you cannot escape it.”
    “But I am neither a table nor a mouse, Regina, and I mean you no harm. But yes, your analogy holds in one respect, you cannot escape me,” he mused in a gentle voice.
    “And if,” she went on, lost in her train of thought, “you have not already been fortunate enough to waken, shivering in terror at your close call with danger, and if you go on dreaming, there are times when you turn and face the pursuer. But no matter what you do, it is unswervable. If you hack at it, the pieces rise to chase you; if you set it afire, it follows you in flames; it is indestructable, it is relentless. But it all is only a dream; through it all, some part of you knows that it is only a dream, for no living creature could be that deficient of reason, that implacable. A living creature could be reasoned with,” she said, staring hard at him.
    “Why, what interesting dreams you have, Regina. You must tell me more about them some time,” he yawned.
    “Why?” she asked, fighting back the tears, for somehow she knew that tears would be her undoing, that tears would disable her.
    “Why?” he smiled again. “Perhaps eventually even constant lovemaking becomes fatiguing. We must talk at some time.”
    “You know what I have asked,” she said, sitting up as straight as she could in the shifting vehicle. “Why have you done all this? What joy is there in this? You do not even know me. You cannot care for me.”
    “What a strange child you are,” he laughed, and rising gracefully, he swung himself over to sit beside her. He settled back again, his pale head resting against the squabs, took one of her cold hands in his, and idly traced a pattern on the palm of it with one long finger.
    “Of course,” he said soothingly, in his normal clandestine whisper, “I do not care for you. Why should I? I care for very few people, Regina. In point of fact, I care for none. But the joy in it? Ah, then, there’s a different story. I don’t care to repeat myself, but you do undervalue your attractions. You are very lovely. Very new. Very desirable. I wanted you when I saw you. So I set out to get you. There is joy in getting what you desire, Regina. And as for other joys…you will come to understand them, too. I shall see to that.”
    “No,” she cried, trying to snatch her hand away, but he only held it the tighter, in a surprisingly strong grip.
    “No,” she continued, but more quietly, trying to keep her voice even. “I will not find joy with you, Your Grace. There is no joy for a prisoner, for an object, for a creature that is fashioned to serve someone else’s desires. It was not for this that I was born, and educated, and live.”
    “How well you speak,” he commented, placing a light congratulatory kiss upon her wrist. “It will be such a diversion, after all these years of hearing nothing but giggles and sighs and ladylike sobs of mournful protest. You speak