“Perhaps he simply recognizes that not all magic needs to serve a practical purpose to have value,” Iris said, her fingers curling into her skirts.
“Is that what you discussed? Your magic?” The question sounded casual, but there was an intensity to his gaze that betrayed his interest.
“Among other things.” She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to be deliberately vague, except that his obvious curiosity gave her a small sense of satisfaction.
“I see.” Jasvian’s jaw worked. “And I suppose your grandparents approve of this newfound friendship?”
“We’ve barely exchanged a dozen sentences, my lord. I would hardly call that a friendship just yet. Though I hardly think it’s any of your concern who my grandparents do or do not approve of.” Iris felt her temper rising. “Though I’m certain they’d prefer almost anyone to the man who publicly insulted their granddaughter.”
“I merely spoke the truth as I saw it,” Jasvian said stiffly.
“The truth?” Iris let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You called me a half-breed with diluted magic. You questioned whether I belonged in society at all. That was not truth—it was prejudice wrapped in arrogance.”
Jasvian inhaled a slow, steadying breath. “I may have been unnecessarily harsh in my assessment.”
“How magnanimous of you to admit it,” Iris replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shall I express my eternal gratitude now, or would you prefer I compose a formal letter of thanks?”
“This is precisely why conversation with you is impossible,” he hissed, leaning slightly closer. “You twist every word?—”
“I twist nothing,” Iris cut in, matching his intensity. “You made your contempt perfectly clear that night, and nothing in your behavior since has suggested any change of heart. So please, spare me your concerns about any friendship that may develop with Lord Blackbriar. At least he sees me as a person worthy of basic courtesy instead of?—”
Her words cut off abruptly as a glittering pink fox darted between them, pursued by a frantic young boy. The creature’s sudden appearance startled Iris, causing her to step backward onto the hem of her gown. She teetered precariously, arms flailing for balance, before Jasvian’s hand shot out to catch her. His arm curved securely around her waist, his other hand clasping hers firmly as he steadied her.
They were still for a single, startled moment, his body almost flush with hers. Then, as quickly as he’d caught her, Jasvian released Iris, stepping back as if the contact had burned him. He flexed his hand at his side, opening and closing his fingers as if trying to rid himself of the sensation of touching her.
The gesture sent a fresh wave of anger through Iris. Did he find the mere touch of her hand so distasteful? Was her half-human blood somehow contaminating to his precious fae sensibilities?
“Iris, dear!” Her grandmother’s voice cut through the tension. “Do come see this marvelous display.”
Iris stepped back, taking a shuddering breath. She plastered on a smile and turned toward her grandmother. “Coming, Grandmother.”
The water sprites continued to dart across the pond’s surface, but Iris barely registered their artistry, her skin still tingling where Lord Jasvian’s hand had gripped hers, the sensation of his arm around her waist lingering with annoying persistence.
She was grateful when the encounter drew to a close. Farewells were exchanged, and each party offered the appropriate courtesies. “Lady Iris,” Lord Hadrian said, his smile warm and genuine, “it was truly a pleasure. I hope we shall have the opportunity to speak again soon.”
“The pleasure was—” Iris’s voice caught momentarily, her thoughts still tangled in the previous interaction. She blinked once, quickly composing herself. “—entirely mine, Lord Blackbriar. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“Such a lovely morning for a promenade,” Iris’s grandmother remarked quietly as they walked away. “I do believe this outing has been most successful.”
Iris murmured her agreement, keeping her eyes firmly ahead of her as an unsettling energy coursed through her body, a peculiar tingling sensation that might have been lingering anger—or perhaps something else entirely.
Chapter Eighteen
Jasvian had devised a perfect,foolproof system for maintaining his sanity while sharing workspace with Lady Iris Starspun. Step one: climb the stairs to the study. Step two: greet her with the exact minimum courtesy required by social convention (precisely calculated at four words: “Good morning, Lady Iris.”). Step three: proceed directly to his desk without further engagement. Step four: immerse himself so completely in the mountain of paperwork that he could plausibly pretend she didn’t exist.
And a mountain it was. The annual Rowanwood Masquerade loomed less than a fortnight away, and his mother’s seemingly endless ballroom renovations had generated enough invoices to bury a small village. There would be no deviation from sorting through them. No distractions. Certainly no dwelling on the infuriating conversation in the park yesterday, or how inexplicably unsettled he’d felt watching Hadrian charm Lady Iris with his easy smile. And absolutely no contemplation of the way her touch had left his skin tingling long after contact.
He’d already spent far too much time doing precisely that the night before.
He reached the top of the stairs and inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders like a soldier preparing to face an opponent far more dangerous than any mine tempest: a woman who somehow managed to disrupt his perfectly ordered existence simply by breathing the same air.
He pushed open the door to find her already seated at her desk, her dark hair arranged in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Several books lay open before her, and she appeared to be comparing passages between them, her quill moving swiftly across her notebook. Beyond the pervasive aroma of tea leaves that perpetually filled this building, another delicate scent now lingered in the air. Something citrusy. Something Jasvian was doing his best not to notice.
“Good morning, Lady Iris,” he said, then silently congratulated himself for successfully executing step two of his plan as he crossed the study to his desk.
She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him at all. The scratching of her quill continued without pause.
Jasvian placed his leather satchel on the desk with more force than necessary, but still received no response. He settled into his chair, waited the usual two to three seconds for the contents of his desk at Rowanwood House to appear on the desk in front of him, then pulled the stack of invoices closer. He began meticulously comparing the artisans’ charges against their initial estimates, noting with irritation that the crystal chandelier fixtures had exceeded the projected cost by nearly fifteen percent. The lumyrite inlay work for the dance floor similarly showed concerning overages that would need explanation before payment could be authorized.
