Jasvian’s heart had quickened at the memory of that night. “Perhaps because she no longer has distractions to contend with,” he’d muttered.
Yet here he stood, his gaze fixed on the familiar slender figure across the room. Iris Starspun wore a gown of soft pearl that shimmered with subtle enchantment, tiny forget-me-nots woven into the fabric. She was laughing at something Hadrian had just said, her entire countenance suffused with warmth.
A familiar ache bloomed in Jasvian’s chest, equal parts longing and bitter resolve. He tore his gaze away and sought out his grandmother, who stood conversing with her friend Lady Amarind Thornhart. When she caught his eye, her expression remained perfectly neutral, but he detected the faintest hint of satisfaction in the curve of her mouth.
He strode toward her, maintaining rigid control over his features despite his rising indignation. “Grandmother,” he said, inclining his head in a formal greeting before addressing Lady Thornhart. “Lady Amarind, you look well this evening.”
“Lord Jasvian,” Lady Amarind replied with a knowing smile. “We were just discussing the remarkable recovery of your family’s mines. Such a relief that you managed to contain the damage.”
“Indeed,” he replied tersely. Then, turning to his grandmother, he lowered his voice. “A moment of your time?”
Lady Rivenna excused herself from her friend and stepped slightly aside with Jasvian, her silver eyebrows raised in perfect innocence.
“You assured me she would be at the tea house this evening,” he said without preamble, not bothering to specify whom he meant.
“Did I?” his grandmother replied airily. “How careless of me. Lady Iris must have completed her work earlier than anticipated.”
“This is not a coincidence.”
“Few things in life truly are,” she agreed. “Perhaps you might try enjoying the evening rather than glowering at every guest unfortunate enough to cross your path.” With a final arch look, his grandmother turned away, gliding back to Lady Thornhart. He stood rigid, fighting the urge to follow and demand further explanation, when a lilting voice interrupted his brooding.
“Lord Rowanwood!” A fresh-faced young woman with pink curls and an exuberant disposition stepped directly into his path. “I was hoping for a moment of your time.”
Without conscious thought, Jasvian found himself offering his standard reply to the woman whose name currently escaped him. “I regret that I will not be dancing this evening, my lady.”
A trill of laughter escaped her. “Oh! No, I wasn’t seeking a dance. I merely wanted to inquire if you’ll be attending your grandmother’s annual tea leaf reading tomorrow night?” Her eyes brightened with unmistakable enthusiasm. “I was fortunate enough to attend last year, and it was absolutely delightful. I’ve been looking forward to it since the Season began, truly. Lady Rivenna has such a theatrical flair for the readings, doesn’t she?”
Jasvian’s thoughts turned briefly to the elaborate production his grandmother made of the event each year. The dramatic pauses as she interpreted the most mundane of leaf patterns, the exaggerated gasps from her audience, the inevitable chaos as everyone peered into each other’s cups to compare fortunes. He would rather submit to an entire day of Evryn’s unfiltered opinions on his wardrobe choices than endure another evening of such frivolity.
Nevertheless, he stiffly replied, “Yes. I will be in attendance.” Then, with a polite nod, he added, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Before he could take two steps, he found himself face to face with Lady Lycilla Whispermist, his grandmother’s other close friend.
“Lord Jasvian,” she exclaimed, “how marvelous to see you in society once more. We were all quite concerned after that dreadful business with the mines.”
“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary,” he replied politely. “The situation is well in hand.”
“Splendid to hear. Now, tell me about this revolutionary warning system your grandmother has mentioned. Something about transferring your particular magical sensitivity into … something? It sounds absolutely fascinating.”
Jasvian suppressed a sigh and launched into a carefully edited explanation of Hadrian’s work, knowing his grandmother had likely orchestrated this conversation to keep him occupied. Lady Lycilla nodded attentively, punctuating his explanationwith questions that revealed a surprisingly keen understanding of magical theory. He found himself drawn into a genuine discussion despite his earlier irritation.
He was busy describing how he and Hadrian had decided upon the optimum distance between detection rods when the orchestra concluded one piece and immediately struck up another. Lady Lycilla stepped slightly aside, and Jasvian suddenly found himself face to face with Iris, who had apparently been engaged in conversation with Lady Amarind directly behind them.
“Oh!” Lady Lycilla exclaimed with patently false surprise. “Lady Iris, there you are. Lord Jasvian, you should dance this one with Lady Iris.”
“Indeed,” Lady Amarind added immediately. “Lady Iris was just telling me her dance card remains empty for the remainder of the evening.”
Jasvian’s jaw clenched as he recognized the very obvious scheming at work. His grandmother and her accomplices had maneuvered this encounter. He glanced at Iris, whose expression betrayed nothing beyond polite interest, though a telltale flush colored her cheeks.
He should refuse. He should invent some pressing obligation. He should?—
“Lady Iris,” he heard himself say, extending a hand toward her. “Would you do me the honor?”
Her eyes met his for the briefest moment before flicking away. “Of course, Lord Jasvian.”
The cool formality of her tone twisted something in his chest. He led her to the dance floor, aware of his grandmother and her friends watching with barely concealed satisfaction. As they took their positions among the other couples, Jasvian maintained a careful distance—close enough to be suitable for the dance, farenough to minimize the contact that threatened to shatter his resolve.
The music began, a stately waltz that required them to move in careful synchronicity. His right hand rested at her waist, where he could feel her warmth through the fabric of her dress. His left held her gloved hand, the smooth silk a maddening barrier between their skin. As they began to move across the floor, the practiced steps offering a welcome structure to follow, Jasvian fought to keep his expression neutral.
