He clapped a hand over his mouth, his nostrils flaring with indignation as he inhaled sharply, eyes darting around the tea house as if to see whether anyone had overheard his mortifying outburst.
Mariselle stared, momentarily stunned, before a delighted laugh escaped her lips. She caught herself, cleared her throat, and reached for the teapot. “Is something the matter, my love? You are not usually so … effusive.”
Evryn lowered his hand cautiously. “What have you done to me?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” she replied, pouring tea into the first of the two cups. “Would you care for sugar?”
“Lady Mariselle,” he growled, leaning even further forward, “if this is because of that ridiculous—My darling muse, you radiant bean, the brightest sprout I’ve ever seen. Your smile, a sunrise on a trout—Ugh!”
Mariselle nearly choked on her tea, hastily covering her mouth with a napkin as several nearby patrons turned to stare. Evryn’s face flushed crimson, his expression wavering between murderous rage and acute mortification.
“You devious, conniving little—Oh dearest heart, my sugared ham, my golden goose, my velvet clam. No poet’s pen could ever convey?—”
He slapped a hand over his mouth once more as a matron at the next table sighed dreamily. Her companion pressed a hand to her heart. “How romantic. Young love is so refreshing.”
An undignified snort of laughter escaped Mariselle as she raised her teacup to her lips once more.
Evryn clenched his jaw as he reached for his own cup, clearly struggling to maintain composure. “This is because of that absurd book of poems. What did you do to it?”
“I merely made a few artistic improvements,” she replied innocently. “The original verses were terribly dull. I simply rewrote a few to give them the passionate flourish they so desperately needed and added a touch of enchantment to help you … remember them.” She lowered her teacup and gave him her most dazzling smile.
“Youwrote those dreadful verses?”
She placed a hand over her heart, her expression a perfect mask of wounded dignity. “I’m afraid my poetic talents cannot rival your own, my lord. Some of us must make do with merely adequate literary skills.”
“And this enchantment,” Evryn said through gritted teeth. “I trust it will fade with time?”
“Oh, eventually,” Mariselle agreed vaguely. “Though strong emotions do seem to trigger it. Perhaps you should endeavor to remain calm.”
Evryn set down his cup with exaggerated care. “I am the very soul of tranquility,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. “Despite having justembarrassed myself in front of the entire—I ache, I yearn, I hum and whine, each time I see your nose so f—oh for goodness’ sake.”
Mariselle bit her lip in a vain attempt to suppress her laughter. “I quite liked the one about burning toast. I thought it was one of my better?—”
“Don’t. Do not even mention that blasted—I burn like toast when you glance my way, crisped by the heat of your?—”
The rest of the verse became a mumbled groan as he covered his face with both hands.
“Yes, that one! Oh, darling, I do so love it when you recite poetry to me. It makes me?—”
“Stop,” he groaned, then lifted his teacup and drained half its contents in a single desperate swallow, as though he might drown the enchanted verses before they could force their way past his lips. Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression had shifted from outrage to something closer to resigned amusement. “I suppose I deserve this after the flowers.”
“Indeed you do,” Mariselle agreed, surprised by his ready admission.
“Though I’m certain this is worse. My humiliation is far more public than yours.”
Mariselle tilted her head, conceding the point with a slight nod. “Perhaps, though I believe waking up nearly suffocated beneath a mountain of enchanted flora is somewhat more alarming.”
He frowned, genuine concern crossing his features. “You weren’t actually in any danger, were you? The flowers weren’t meant to—My beloved pumpkin paste, your radiant face makes my heart race at frantic pace—Oh good stars, Brightcrest,” he muttered, dragging his marked palm over his face, “that is truly awful.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, remembering his words from the cottage several nights prior. “I do try. Now.” She sat a little straighter, making sure to lower her voice as she said, “tell me when you are next able to meet.”
“Early next week, I believe,” he said, lowering his hand with a sigh. “My mother mentioned it this morning. She sent a formal invitation.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t referring to anything public. But yes, I received your mother’s invitation to tea and I’ve already accepted. What I meant was …” Mariselle lowered her voice further. “When are we next meeting about our … project?”
“Ah. Well, I had rather hoped we might ride this evening. Fin has been planning a most?—”
“My enchanting poet,” she interrupted with a pointed look, “as exhilarating as our nocturnal competitions may be, we have more pressing matters to attend to. Our endeavor requires immediate attention, unless you’re particularly fond of our current arrangement.”
