Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

cousin Marasi,” Steris said, nodding to the woman behind her. Marasi was dark-haired and large-eyed, with bright red lips. She looked down demurely as soon as Waxillium turned to her. “She has spent most of her life in the Outer Estates and is rather timid, so please don’t upset her.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Waxillium said. He waited until the women were seated beside Lord Harms, then sat on the smaller sofa facing them, and facing the doorway. There was another exit from the room, but he’d discovered that there was a squeaky floorboard leading to it, which was ideal. This way, someone couldn’t sneak up on him. Lawman or lord, he didn’t fancy getting shot in the back.
    Wayne primly settled himself in a chair directly to Waxillium’s right. They all stared at one another for an extended moment. Wayne yawned.
    “Well,” Waxillium said. “Perhaps I should begin by asking after your health.”
    “Perhaps you should,” Steris replied.
    “Er. Yes. How’s your health?”
    “Suitable.”
    “So is Waxillium,” Wayne added.
    They all turned to him.
    “You know,” he said. “He’s wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?”
    “This?” Lord Harms said, holding up his cane. “Indeed. It’s a family heirloom.”
    “My lord Waxillium,” Steris cut in, voice stern. She did not seem to enjoy small talk. “Perhaps we can dispense with empty prattle. We all know the nature of this meeting.”
    “We do?” Wayne asked.
    “Yes,” Steris said, voice cool. “Lord Waxillium. You are in the position of having an unfortunate reputation. Your uncle, may he rest with the Hero, tarnished the Ladrian name with his social reclusiveness, occasional reckless forays into politics, and blatant adventurism. You have come from the Roughs, lending no small additional measure of poor reputation to the house, particularly considering your insulting actions to various houses during your first few weeks in town. Above all this, your house is nearly destitute.
    “We, however, are in a desperate circumstance of our own. Our financial status is excellent, but our name is unknown in the highest of society. My father has no male heir upon which to bestow his family name, and so a union between our houses makes perfect sense.”
    “How very logical of you, my dear,” Wayne said, the upper-class accent rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born with it.
    “Indeed,” she said, still watching Waxillium. She reached into her satchel. “Your letters and conversations with my father have been enough to persuade us of your serious intent, and during these last few months in the city your public comportment has proven more promisingly sober than your initial boorishness. So I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement that I think will suit our needs.”
    “An … agreement?” Waxillium asked.
    “Oh, I’m so eager to see it,” Wayne added. He reached into his pocket absently and got out something that Waxillium couldn’t quite discern.
    The “agreement” turned out to be a large document, at least twenty pages long. Steris handed one copy to Waxillium and one to her father, and retained another for herself.
    Lord Harms coughed into his hand. “I suggested she write down her thoughts,” he said. “And … well, my daughter is a very thorough woman.”
    “I can see that,” Waxillium said.
    “I suggest that you never ask her to pass the milk,” Wayne added under his breath, so only Waxillium could hear. “As she seems likely to throw a cow at you, just to be certain the job is done thoroughly.”
    “The document is in several parts,” Steris said. “The first is an outline of our courtship phase, wherein we make obvious—but not too speedy—progress toward engagement. We take just long enough for society to begin associating us as a couple. The engagement mustn’t be so quick as to seem a scandal, but cannot come too slowly either. Eight months should, by my estimates, fulfill our purposes.”
    “I see,” Waxillium said, flipping through the pages. Tillaume entered, bringing a tray of tea and cakes, and deposited it on a serving table beside Wayne.
    Waxillium shook his head, closing the contract. “Doesn’t this seem a little … stiff to you?”
    “Stiff?”
    “I mean, shouldn’t there be room for romance?”
    “There is,” Steris said. “Page thirteen. Upon marriage, there shall be no more than three conjugal encounters per week and no fewer than one until a