Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen Read Free

And tried not to think how long it had been since any more palpable caress had done so. Three years next month , the too-busy part of her brain that she could not shut off supplied.
    As an anodyne, she reopened her eyes to her surroundings. The two tables closest to hers were empty by arrangement, except for her plainclothes ImpSec bodyguard who already sat at the farther one, not-sipping iced tea and looking around as well. Situational awareness , right. Her over forty years as a subject and servant of the Barrayaran Empire had included all too many situations ; for today, she was willing to default to I have people for that . Except that the fellow looked so young; she felt as though she should be watching out for him, maternally. She must never offend his dignity by letting on, she supposed.
    She sucked in a long breath of the soft air, as if she might so draw its lightness into the darker hollows of her heart. The server brought two water glasses. She was only a few sips into hers when the figure she had been awaiting appeared through the building’s door, glanced around, spied her, lifted a hand in greeting, and strode her way. Her bodyguard, watching this progress and taking in her guest’s civilian garb, visibly restrained himself from standing and saluting the man as he passed by, although they did exchange acknowledging nods.
    When Cordelia had first met Lieutenant Oliver Perrin Jole, back when he was, what—twenty-seven?—she had not hesitated to describe him as gorgeous . Tall, blond, lean, chiseled features—oh my, the cheekbones —blue eyes alive with earnest intelligence. More diffident, back then. After two decades and some change—and changes—Admiral Jole was still tall and straight, if more solid in both build and demeanor. The bright blondness of his hair was a trifle tarnished with gray, the clear eyes framed with what were really quite fetching crow’s feet, and he had grown into a quiet, firm self-confidence. Still with those unfair cheekbones and eyelashes, though. She smiled a little, permitting herself this private moment of delicate enjoyment, before he arrived to bow over her hand and seat himself.
    “Vicereine.”
    “Just Cordelia, today, Oliver. Unless you want me to start admiraling you.”
    He shook his head. “I get enough of that at work.” But his curious smile grew more crooked. “And there was only ever the one true admiral, among us. My last promotion always felt a touch surreal, when I was in his company.”
    “You’re a true admiral. The Emperor said so. And the Viceroy advised.”
    “I shan’t argue.”
    “Good, because it would be a few years—and a great deal of work—too late.”
    Jole chuckled, twitched his long fingers at her in surrender of the point, if no other sort, and took up the menu. He tilted his head. “You’re looking less tired, at least. That’s good.”
    Cordelia had no doubt that she’d looked downright hagged often enough in their late scramble for their new balance. She ran a hand through her close-cropped red-roan hair, curling in its usual feral fashion around her head. “I’m feeling less tired.” She grimaced. “I sometimes go for whole hours at a time without thinking of him, now. Last week, there was a whole day.”
    He nodded in, she was sure, complete understanding.
    Cordelia wondered how to begin. We haven’t seen enough of each other these past three years was not really true. The Admiral of the Sergyaran Fleet had moved smoothly into his tasks as the military right arm of the lone Vicereine of Sergyar—just as for the joint Viceroy and Vicereine formerly. He’d been accepted by the colony planet on his own considerable merits even when his mentor’s immense shadow silently backing him was removed by that—could she call it untimely?—that immense death. Vicereine Vorkosigan and Admiral Jole had adjusted to the new patterns of their respective jobs, working around that aching absence, tightening the public stitches over