Mariselle’s face had gone perfectly still, her eyes never leaving his.
“I am continually impressed by her creativity and her determination in the face of discouragement. She is, without a doubt, the best thing the Brightcrest family has ever produced—though clearly by happy accidentrather than through any nurturing influence from her family—far superior to anyone or anything else in this room.”
A fork clattered against fine porcelain. Ellowa’s mouth had fallen open.
“And I,” Evryn concluded, holding Mariselle’s gaze across the table, “am singularly privileged to soon call her my wife.”
Complete silence reigned. Evryn could hear the crystal chandelier tinkling overhead as a breeze drifted through the open terrace doors.
Mariselle’s face, previously so disciplined and controlled, now betrayed a storm of emotion. Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming in quick, shallow intervals. Her facade—that perfect, polished mask of composure—had fractured, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath. And in her gaze, as it held his with an intensity that seemed to strip away all pretense between them, Evryn saw a question burning so fiercely it almost spoke aloud: Did he truly mean those words, or was this merely another performance?
“Well,” Lord Dawndale said, breaking the uncomfortable silence with forced joviality, “it appears the soulbond has had quite the effect on young Rowanwood. Most … passionate.”
The conversation awkwardly resumed, though the atmosphere remained charged. Evryn noticed how Lord and Lady Brightcrest exchanged terse glances, how Ellowa stabbed at her food with renewed vigor, and how Mariselle seemed unable to look directly at him, her cheeks flushed.
After the main courses had been cleared, a footman approached and murmured something to Lady Brightcrest, who brightened immediately.
“Ah, excellent,” she declared. “The Starlace Soufflé will soon be served. We shall take dessert on the terrace.”
As the party rose and began to migrate toward the open doors, Evryn found himself falling into step beside Petunia. “Starlace Soufflé?” he inquired quietly. “Is that a Brightcrest specialty?”
Petunia gave him a sideways glance, her expression sardonic. “It’s an enchanted dessert,” she explained in low tones. “Rather showy—rises only when it’s exposed to cool starlight. Traditionally served outdoors because the warmth of the faelights makes it wilt like an offended debutante.”
“Ah.” Evryn nodded. “A birthday tradition for Lady Mariselle, I take it?”
Petunia’s lips quirked. “It’s Ellowa’s favorite, actually. Mariselle preferssimple blushberry tart. But I don’t believe anyone bothered to ask her preference.”
Of course they hadn’t. Evryn suppressed a surge of indignation as they stepped onto the balcony, where servants were arranging chairs in a semicircle, facing outward toward the gardens.
The family spread out around the edges of the terrace, and Evryn found himself awkwardly positioned beside Lord Brightcrest and Lord Dawndale, who were discussing the art auction from two weeks prior and expressing their mutual horror at the exorbitant sum bid for “that shockingly improper sculpture of the nearly nude fae warrior.” He shifted discreetly to one side, increasing the distance between himself and the two men. Though he doubted they would make an attempt to draw him into their conversation.
Looking around, he spotted Mariselle approaching her mother, who was directing one of the servants to reposition several chairs to her satisfaction. Mariselle leaned close to ask Lady Brightcrest something, her hand resting on her mother’s arm. Lady Brightcrest flinched and twisted just enough to dislodge her daughter’s hand, her gaze narrowing as she offered a reply through gritted teeth.
Mariselle stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself, her expression settling into that familiar mask of poised indifference. But Evryn had seen beneath it now, had glimpsed the yearning that lay behind her practiced composure.
And frankly, he’d had quite enough of this appalling spectacle.
He crossed the terrace in several long strides. Without hesitation, he slid an arm around Mariselle’s back, drawing her closer to his side.
“Darling,” he said, dipping his head so his words brushed against the shell of her ear, the picture of improper familiarity, “you seem cold. Shall we step inside for a moment?”
Lady Brightcrest’s eyes flared wide, fixed on Evryn’s arm around her daughter. Her eyes snapped to his, and he met her outraged stare with cool composure.
Then, quite deliberately, he lifted his free hand and trailed his knuckles from the curve of Mariselle’s shoulder down the length of her arm. When he reached her hand, he slid his fingers between hers and laced them together with casual intimacy.
His expression didn’t change, but the glint in his eyes said it clearly:Do go on. I dare you.
Lady Brightcrest drew herself up with all the imperious hauteur her modest stature could muster and inhaled sharply. “You will not?—”
But Evryn was already turning Mariselle away from Lady Brightcrest, guiding her toward the doors. Inside—within view of the terrace, though blessedly out of earshot—he guided her toward a corner of the dining room where an arrangement of moonlilies and twilight roses spilled from an urn atop a low side table.
“Thank you,” Mariselle said before he could speak, her voice light and airy, a practiced social laugh escaping her lips. “It was becoming a touch cold outside.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve before her gaze traveled to somewhere over his shoulder.
Evryn studied her face, noting the careful way she avoided meeting his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she replied with a bemused smile, finally glancing at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He blinked, momentarily stunned. Was she truly going to stand there and pretend that the evening’s cruelty was so commonplace it didn’t warrant acknowledgment? He curled his fingers at his side to keep from reaching out for her again. The urge to touch her, to offer comfort, was becoming increasingly difficult to resist.
