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Across from me, Ayan makes an amused grunt and turns back to his meal. Elbow resting on the table, with his head propped up on his palm, he shovels seasoned skillet potatoes into his mouth.

“How much did the two of you drink last night?” I ask, my eyes going between them.

“Too much,” Lawrence mutters.

“Serves you both right.” I pause with my scone halfway to my mouth. “Pranmore, can’t you help them?”

The elf shakes his head, looking perfectly chipper this morning. “I cannot—it’s against the Woodmore code of ethics. He who overindulges must pay the price.”

Ayan says something under his breath, and though I can’t make it out, I doubt it’s complimentary.

“How are you feeling this morning, Lady Clover?” Pranmore asks, merrily changing the subject. “Any lingering headache from your injury?”

“No, I feel fine.”

“You seemed shaken when I arrived at the estate,” the elf continues. “Do you remember much of the evening?”

My eyes fly to Henrik’s. The commander sets down his fork, crossing his arms as he sits back in his chair, assessing me with those stormy blue eyes of his.

Why must he be so handsome? Why must my heart race every time I think about him embracing me in the lamplit courtyard?

I can still feel his arms around me and easily remember how soft his hair felt next to my face as he held me close. How warm his body was next to mine, how muscular his—

Stop.

Looking away, I shake my head. “I don’t even remember how I got back to the estate.”

“You rode with Henrik,” Lawrence says darkly.

A bite of scone suddenly feels dry in my mouth, and I force myself to swallow. “Did I?”

“You did,” Bartholomew answers, suddenly sounding just as irritated as Lawrence. “We had to bring your horse back.”

His tone startles me, and I wonder if last night’s bad mood is still plaguing the usually cheerful young duke.

I studiously avoid Henrik’s eyes as I look down at the plate in front of me. Moments later, the commander excuses himself from the table, saying something about our horses.

“I’m finished as well.” Pranmore rises. “I’ll join you.”

I look up and watch as Henrik leaves the room, feeling like a lovesick puppy.

“Why are you staring after him like that?” Lawrence says sulkily. “I’ve never seen stars in your eyes before.”

I quickly look down. “You’re imagining things.”

Bartholomew huffs, and then he leaves the dining room as well.

“What’s his problem?” I ask.

Ayan glances up, giving me a skeptical look. “Like you don’t know.”

“She probably doesn’t,” Lawrence grouches as he points his fork at Ayan. “She’s unusually unobservant for a woman.”

“Hey!” I say, tempted to flick him again.

“The boy thinks he’s in love with you,” Ayan says, returning to his meal. “So, he’s angry that you’re going to marry Lawrence, and even angrier that you’re smitten with Henrik.”

My mouth falls open, and I raise a finger in the air, only to pause before I respond. There’s so much to address in that statement, I don’t know where to start.