Page 28 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

An awkward silence descended, punctuated only by the quiet murmurs of conversation around them.

Mariselle found herself at a loss for words—a rare occurrence.

The script for this particular social scenario simply didn’t exist. What did one say to the mother of one’s fake fiancé when decades of family animosity stood between them? Perhaps she should?—

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her expression brightening with feigned excitement as she remembered the slim volume inside her reticule. “I nearly forgot! I have something for you, my love.”

Evryn’s eyes narrowed slightly, clearly suspicious of her sudden enthusiasm. “Do you indeed?”

“Yes.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew the palm-sized leather-bound volume. “I saw it this morning in Thornberry’s Rare Books and thought of you immediately. The shopkeeper assured me it contains the most romantic verses ever penned.”

She extended the gift toward him, beaming with affected adoration. The book— Devotional Poetry Collection: Sonnets for My Beloved —appeared entirely innocuous. What Evryn didn’t know was that she had spent the afternoon carefully modifying the contents.

“How thoughtful,” Evryn said, warily accepting the gift. He lifted the cover to examine the first page, and Mariselle had to suppress a smile. The truly embarrassing poems didn’t begin until page twenty-three .

“The shopkeeper said it’s quite moving,” she continued innocently. “I do hope you’ll read it aloud to me sometime.”

A nearby couple glanced their way, the woman sighing dreamily at this apparent display of spontaneous affection. The man nudged his companion and whispered something that caused her to blush.

“I shall treasure it,” Evryn replied, closing the book and slipping it into his jacket pocket. His smile was filled with apparent tenderness, but his eyes met hers with unmistakable suspicion, a silent message that he didn’t for one moment believe this to be a genuine gift.

Movement near the room’s entrance caught Mariselle’s attention, and she spotted Petunia being all but dragged into the gallery by her mother. Petunia’s expression conveyed such profound ennui that Mariselle had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“My dear cousin has just arrived,” she said to Lady Lelianna, a note of genuine warmth creeping into her voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I simply must greet her properly.”

“Of course.” Lady Lelianna replied. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, dear, and you simply must come to tea. At Rowanwood House. Tomorrow, perhaps? Or next week, if that would be more convenient. I shall send a formal invitation, of course.”

Mariselle blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

Tea? At Rowanwood House? This was venturing far beyond the public performance she’d anticipated.

The charade was meant to be maintained at social gatherings, not intimate family settings.

Though tea at Rowanwood House would at least provide Mariselle’s mother with the ‘intelligence-gathering’ opportunity she’d been promised.

“That would be lovely,” she heard herself say, the practiced social response emerging automatically. “Though I believe I’m having tea at The Charmed Leaf tomorrow afternoon with Lord Evryn.”

“Oh, indeed! The Charmed Leaf!” Lady Lelianna gave her son a look filled with meaning. “How very interesting. Well, it shall have to be next week then, my dear.”

“Yes, of course, my lady. Thank you. And I’m honored to have made your acquaintance.”

Mariselle sank into a graceful curtsy as Lady Lelianna looped her arm through her son’s and steered him away. Glancing up, she caught the unmistakable relief washing over Evryn’s features as he allowed himself to be led away from her.

The feeling is mutual , she silently assured him.

She made her way across the gallery as Petunia was steered past Lord Jasvian and Lady Iris, who had apparently just arrived as well.

Iris caught Mariselle’s eye briefly, and Mariselle slowed, not wanting to endure the awkwardness of forced conversation with the half-fae woman.

The memory of the encounter in the Thornharts’ garden maze last Season still caused an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. But Iris merely regarded Mariselle with a carefully neutral expression before turning back to her husband.

“Cousin!” Mariselle called, reaching Petunia and her mother. “How lovely to see you both.”

“Mariselle, dear,” Lady Dawndale greeted her, her gaze immediately drifting past to scan the room for more important social connections. “You look well,” she added, though her eyes never once settled on Mariselle’s face.

“Thank you, Aunt. Might I borrow Petunia for a moment? I was hoping to show her a particularly fascinating piece in the west gallery.”

Before Lady Dawndale could object, Petunia had already stepped forward, linking her arm through Mariselle’s. “Do excuse us, Mother. I’m simply dying to see this extraordinary marvel.”

They escaped toward the adjoining gallery, Petunia leaning a little on Mariselle’s arm.

“I must apologize for abandoning you last night,” she said once they were safely out of earshot.

“Mother insisted I help her select coordinating shawls for her summer wardrobe. A riveting three hours of my life watching her vacillate between ‘blush pink’ and ‘dawn blush’ as though the fate of the United Fae Isles hinged upon the distinction.”

She sighed dramatically as they approached a bare-chested, larger-than-life fae male figure sculpted from silver-veined marble. The figure was posed mid-lunge, brandishing a glittering lumyrite sword as though frozen at the climax of some glorious myth.

“Then, to make matters worse,” Petunia continued, “those darned gossip birds living outside my window kept me awake until all hours of the night, beside themselves with excitement over ‘The Great Floral Exodus.’ Something about mountains of flowers being carted out of Brightcrest Manor yesterday morning. I don’t suppose you know anything about that particular horticultural phenomenon? ”

Mariselle groaned. “My insufferable suitor. His wretched flowers multiplied overnight! I woke nearly suffocated beneath them. It took over an hour to clear them all away.”

“How tragic for you, to be buried beneath tokens of devotion from your beloved.”

“It wasn’t devotion; it was sabotage,” Mariselle insisted, though she couldn’t help smiling at her cousin’s teasing.

Her gaze traveled past Petunia and over the male sculpture.

His arms bulged with improbably corded muscle as he held the sword aloft, and his torso was carved with such precision that each abdominal ridge caught the light.

A cunning arrangement of sculpted leaves twined artistically over the lower part of his torso, doing its best to preserve his modesty—and failing by several strategic inches.

“Goodness,” Mariselle said. “That’s … quite something.”

Petunia, who had been examining the sculpture as well, let out a dry hum of agreement.

“Nothing says ‘timeless artistic merit’ like an impractically large weapon and a gratuitous display of torso.” She folded her arms over her chest, her head tilting back as her gaze rose higher.

“Ah, there it is. The noble anguish of a man who’s just remembered he left his shirt in another realm. ”

A sound escaped Mariselle—something between a cough and a snort. She smacked a hand over her mouth.

“Or perhaps it’s the eternal sorrow of realizing his sword is compensating for something,” Petunia mused.

A strangled laugh burst from behind Mariselle’s hand, which she tried in vain to smother, her shoulders shaking.

“In either case,” Petunia added, “if one must swing about a lumyrite blade the size of a festival banner pole, one ought to at least wear breeches.”

“Stop!” Mariselle hissed, eyes watering with mirth. “This is a public exhibition.”

Petunia arched an eyebrow. “So is he.”

Without warning, the sculpture shifted, stone muscles flexing as the sword swung in a wide, slow arc overhead.

Both girls shrieked in alarm, stumbling backward and clutching each other before dissolving into full-bodied giggles.

Mariselle grabbed Petunia’s arm and pulled her behind a nearby sculpture of a benign-looking tree, its marble branches swaying gently as if stirred by an enchanted breeze.

They peeked out from behind its trunk to observe the fae warrior from a safer distance.

The warrior had assumed a new pose of breathtaking arrogance, chin tilted at an angle that displayed his chiseled jawline to maximum effect, sword held casually at his side as though it weighed nothing at all.

His gaze was fixed on some invisible horizon, his expression a perfect blend of noble suffering and smoldering intensity that suggested he alone carried the burden of understanding the universe’s deepest mysteries.

“Is it just me,” Mariselle said, “or does he look like he composes sonnets to his own reflection?”

Petunia snickered. “I daresay he’s rehearsing a ballad to his upper arms.”

“The upper arms are a bit much. Does one really need that many muscles to hoist a lumyrite blade?”

“Don’t be absurd. Those are clearly conversational muscles.”

Mariselle choked on another snort-laugh. “And what, pray tell, are conversational muscles?”

“Well, dear cousin,” Petunia said, “they are, of course, muscles so unnecessarily prominent that they demand to be discussed in hushed tones behind a fan, ideally while someone’s mother is scandalized and someone’s aunt is intrigued but pretending not to be.

” She shifted her weight and winced slightly, reaching down to touch her ankle.

“What’s wrong?” Mariselle asked immediately, her amusement fading to concern.

“It’s nothing,” Petunia said, straightening. “I tripped coming out of the house earlier and twisted my ankle. Simply my usual gracelessness on display.”

“Did you not apply a healing charm in the carriage? Surely there was time before you arrived.”