Page 81

Lachlan had spent each of his birthdays at a party. Each year the nobles and ladies attended. Each year there was a decadent dinner, dessert, and dancing. All for him. Each year he was given elaborate gifts from people he barely knew and who barely knew him, sycophantic gifts meant to outdo the next. And he’d expected it.

But this.

He hadn’t expected it, only wished for it, and somehow Tarley had made it come true.

He swallowed.

“I made you this,” Trevis said and slid a band of leather toward him. “It’s a cuff, you know, like those bracers soldiers wear, but smaller. I didn’t have enough…” His words faded.

“Trevis. This is–” Lachlan picked up the dark leather. Trevis had worked it so it was supple and soft, with leather laces to wrap and tie it. It was less bracer and more bracelet, but Lachlan was touched by the thought. “This is incredible. Can you tie it on for me?”

Trevis’s cheeks reddened, and he dipped his head as he helped Lachlan fasten it.

“I made the sweetcake,” Mrs. Barnwell said.

“It looks delicious. Can we eat it?” Lachlan asked.

“No. Gifts first!” Credence exclaimed. “Then the sweetcake ceremony.”

Lachlan had never heard of a sweetcake ceremony, but he nodded, delighted at the prospect.

Genevieve had embroidered a kerchief with the letter “O.” Horance and Credence had bought him some ready-made clothes—a new pair of dark trousers and a linen shirt that looked his size.

Then it was Tarley’s turn. She wouldn’t meet his gaze as she slid him something wrapped in purple fabric that reminded him of her. When he pulled at the string the fabric fell away to reveal a bar of soap and a familiar fragrance—the rosemary and lemon.

“You said you liked it,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

He nodded, though she probably didn’t understand why he liked it so much. He picked it up and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes to inhale the scent as he imagined her underneath him, her lips swollen with a kiss, her chest heaving as excited breaths pulsed through her lungs, her vibrant gray eyes shining with desire. Lachlan snapped his eyes open to quell the thought and keep his cock from announcing to everyone else where his mind had gone. He nodded at Tarley. “Thank you.”

“Ceremony!” Trevis said.

“Tarley,” Mrs. Barnwell called. “You do the honors, since you planned it.”

Lachlan couldn’t keep his eyes from her. She had planned this. For him. Maybe she was warming to the idea of marrying him. It made his heart feel light, floating inside his chest with buoyant hope. But why would he hope for a marriage of convenience? The thought confused him. He would be marrying for Jast, but just then, feelings had pulsed through him that hadn’t reflected duty.

Tarley moved around the workstation until she stood in front of him, a knife in hand.

“Please don’t stab me,” he joked.

She arched her eyebrows and said, “You don’t have a birthday ceremony where you’re from?” It was said like a challenge, though Lachlan was sure he wasn’t hearing her properly with her standing this close.

He shook his head. “We celebrate birthdays, of course, but I’m not sure what you mean by a sweetcake ceremony.”

She lifted the knife. “This is for the sweetcake. Not for you. But don’t tempt me.”

Everyone laughed.

“She has been known to hit men with steins,” Mrs. Barnwell joked as she met Tarley with a dish.

Tarley grinned and cut a slice of the cake. “Another year, another sweetcake layer,” she said, as if reciting a passage. “Each layer on the cake represents a year of the life you’ve lived. This celebrates your past and who you were.”

“Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-five.”

Lachlan looked at the cake. Sure enough, there were layers upon thin layers of light brown cake, as if a tree had been sliced open to reveal its rings, only these were parallel lines inside the cake. The labor that must have gone into making it—he met Mrs. Barnwell’s eyes.

“It was a breeze.”