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Chapter Eighteen
Juliet
For some reason Uncle Max’s mild scolding of Victoria sticks in my craw as Jasper takes me by the hand to lead the way to his giant dining room. Perhaps because it’s another confirmation that everyone on this island is determined to treat us like actual children instead of just adults playing pretend.
And that does not sit well with me. At all.
But I don’t want to risk pissing off King Maxwell any more than I already have, so I ignore the annoyance pricking at the base of my skull as Jasper leads me to the head of the table.
Where I receive another blatant reminder of my station.
There are a handful of normal chairs placed around the long, elegant table. But there are also two highchairs, more than large enough for a full-grown woman. And one of those chairs is placed right beside Jasper’s seat at the head of the table.
Feeling bolder than I have since my visit to Doctor D’s, I tug my hand free of Jasper’s and hurry around to the other side of the table, where I unceremoniously plop down in one of the “adult” chairs.
All of our guests slow to a stop, their gazes sliding from me to Jasper as he continues his leisurely trek toward me. My heart hammers at my chest with every step he takes, until he is finally standing in front of me.
I brace myself for a lecture, or even for him to simply haul me up out of the chair for a spanking, but neither of those things happen. He simply holds out a hand, palm up. Watching me. Waiting for me to obey.
Since I have no intention of sitting in that stupid highchair, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I raise my own hand and slap my palm against his. “Good job, big brother.”
For a moment, the very air around us seems to freeze and I can hardly breathe for fear that I’ve pushed him too far. But then to my complete and utter shock, Jasper throws his head back and lets out a deep belly laugh.
“Good one, princess. Now, up out of the chair. You’re sitting in the wrong spot.”
As relieved as I am to not be bent over the table getting my bottom paddled, I’m not quite ready to give in. “No, thank you. I like this chair.”
Humor sparkles in Jasper’s eyes. “I’m sure you do. But that’s not where you’re meant to be sitting. Come, now. Be a good girl for our guests.”
I grip the seat of my chair and shake my head, my heart once again threatening to pound out of my chest. “I don’t want to.”
“Juju.” His voice takes on a warning edge. “If I have to spank you in front of your uncles and Auntie Cat, each one of them will be allowed to punish you as well. Which means you’ll be sitting on a very, very sore bottom for dinner. Last chance to do as you’re told.”
Getting my ass paddled in front of Auntie Cat was embarrassing enough. I’m not sure I could handle actually being spanked by her, or my uncles.
Which means it’s yet another game of what’s the lesser evil? Giving in and being put in the highchair, or standing my ground and enduring multiple spankings, after which I’m likely to be put in the stupid chair anyway.
It’s an obvious choice, so I force my fingers to release their death grip on my seat so I can place my hand in Jasper’s.
“Thank you for listening, princess. Up you go.”
With an ease that knocks the air from my lungs, he lifts me up and carries me to the highchair near the head of the table. Humiliation heats my cheeks as the rest of our “family” takes their places as well.
At least I’m not alone. The other highchair is soon occupied by Victoria, who makes a face and wiggles a bit as her Daddy straps her in.
Maybe the two of us can stage a coup. Overthrow our Daddy overlords and rule this island together.
Right. And maybe pigs can fly.
As soon as everyone is settled, Richard steps into the dining room, a broad smile stretched across his face. “Dinner is served.”
Two women in identical white and black uniforms sweep into the dining room, each holding a long, rectangular dish laden with something that smells as decadent as it looks. And when Jasper plucks an item from the dish closest to him, holding it up to my lips, I nearly melt into a puddle.
“Are these…”
He’s practically beaming as he feeds me the first bite. “The fig and goat cheese tarts we had in Paris, yes. You were ready to marry the chef who made them, from what I remember.”
Rich flavors explode on my tongue and I just barely hold back a moan. It’s just as delicious as I remember, but more than that, it’s the fact that he remembered.