Page 48 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

“I must say, Lord Rowanwood,” Lady Brightcrest continued after chewing thoughtfully on a sliver of asparagus, “you’ve been most tolerant of our daughter’s limitations.” Her smile was brittle as she gestured toward Mariselle with her fork. “Not every gentleman would be so understanding.”

Evryn had to pause for a moment in his attempt to mask his incredulity. Was Mariselle’s own mother truly speaking of her this way? “Tolerant is hardly the word I would choose, Lady Brightcrest,” he replied.

“Oh?” Lord Brightcrest’s eyebrow arched. “What word would you choose, then?”

Confused. Fascinated. Increasingly enchanted. None of which he could admit out loud. “Fortunate,” he said instead, reaching for his wine glass once more. “Exceedingly fortunate that the soulbond chose the two of us.”

Across the table, Mariselle’s fork paused halfway to her lips, her eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest moment before returning to her plate.

“How diplomatic,” drawled Ellowa, twirling her wine glass between slender fingers. “Though I wonder if you’ll feel the same once you’ve spent a winter with her. Mari does tend to grow rather tedious with prolonged exposure.”

Petunia, seated beside Mariselle, set her knife down with slightly more force than necessary.

“I’m sure Lord Rowanwood has already discovered Mariselle’s shortcomings,” Lady Brightcrest added, as if discussing the weather rather than eviscerating her daughter’s character before company.

“She was never quite as quick to master the social graces as Ellowa. We’ve tried, of course, but one must accept that some plants simply won’t flourish no matter how carefully tended. ”

“Mother,” Mariselle said, lowering her fork and directing a polished smile at Lady Brightcrest, “perhaps we might discuss something else? I’ve been meaning to enquire about the plans for?—”

“Of course not, dear,” Lady Brightcrest interrupted. “Lord Rowanwood is to be your husband. He ought to know precisely what he’s getting.”

The silence that followed Lady Brightcrest’s pronouncement stretched like a taut wire.

Evryn’s grip tightened on his wine glass as he absorbed the casual cruelty of her words.

Around the table, the other family members seemed perfectly content with this assessment, as though discussing Mariselle’s perceived deficiencies was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Indeed,” Lord Brightcrest added, dabbing at his mouth with a pristine napkin. “We do apologize, Lord Rowanwood, for the rather unfortunate circumstances. Had the soulbond not appeared, I’m certain your affections would have naturally gravitated toward someone more suitable.”

Ellowa’s laugh tinkled. “Poor Mari. At least the soulbond ensures you won’t have a choice in the matter, Lord Rowanwood. Otherwise, I fear she’d have remained quite permanently unattached.”

Evryn glanced at Petunia as something cold settled in his chest. Petunia’s knuckles had gone white around her fork, though she kept her gaze fixed resolutely on her plate. Even she, who clearly cared for Mariselle, remained silent in the face of this systematic dismantling.

“Of course, we’ve done our best with her,” Lady Clemenbell continued, gesturing toward Mariselle as though she were an unsatisfactory piece of furniture.

“But some deficiencies simply cannot be corrected through proper guidance. Her artistic pursuits, for instance. Hardly the sort of accomplishments that benefit a family of our standing. ”

Hardly the sort of —Evryn almost blurted out that she’d created an entire wonderland from nothing but her imagination. But that was Mariselle’s secret to reveal, not his.

Across the table, he watched as her lips pressed into a thin line and she inhaled deeply through her nose. Her eyes took on a glassy quality as she stared through her plate rather than at it, retreating somewhere deep within herself.

Lord Dawndale cleared his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps we might speak of more pleasant matters? The weather has been quite?—”

“Nonsense,” Lady Clemenbell waved him off. “Lord Rowanwood is to be family. Better he understand precisely what sort of burden the soulbond has saddled him with. At least he’ll be aware of how low to keep his expectations.”

The remark struck Evryn with the force of a clenched fist wrapped in silk.

This wasn’t merely family teasing or gentle correction.

This was an artfully delivered gutting, wrapped in the veneer of parental concern.

And Mariselle didn’t flinch. She merely sat there, spine straight, like someone who knew better than to bleed where her parents could see.

And all of a sudden, there it was. The truth presenting itself plainly for the first time: The mask Evryn had mistaken for years as Brightcrest arrogance was in fact a shield, painstakingly crafted to deflect the constant barrage of familial disappointment.

She hadn’t built walls to keep others out, but to keep herself intact within the very place that should have nurtured her.

“Well,” Lady Brightcrest continued airily, “at least she’s learned not to argue when corrected. That’s some improvement, I suppose.”

“A blessing indeed,” Lord Brightcrest agreed. “Nothing quite so unattractive as a woman who cannot accept criticism gracefully.”

Something inside Evryn snapped.

“I’m afraid I must disagree,” he said, his voice cutting through the conversation.

The table fell silent. Every eye turned to him, and he could feel the sudden tension crackling in the air.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Brightcrest’s eyebrows rose in delicate surprise.

Evryn set down his wine glass with deliberate care and leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the assembled faces before settling on Mariselle’s parents.

“I said I disagree. With your assessment of Lady Mariselle. And I feel compelled to correct what appears to be a fundamental misunderstanding.”

Lord Brightcrest’s brow drew lower. “I assure you, Lord Rowanwood, there is no misunderstanding. We are merely being forthright about our daughter’s limitations and?—”

“With all due respect, Lord Brightcrest,” Evryn continued, his tone remaining pleasant even as his eyes hardened, “there is indeed a grave misunderstanding if you believe that I consider myself in any way tolerant of Lady Mariselle’s ‘limitations,’ as you put it.

One cannot tolerate that which does not exist.”

Lord Brightcrest blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“What I mean to say,” Evryn elaborated, “is that Lady Mariselle possesses no limitations of which I am aware. Quite the contrary.”

He turned to meet Mariselle’s wide-eyed gaze directly.

“In my observation, Lady Mariselle possesses an intellect that is nothing short of extraordinary and quite possibly one of the most vibrant imaginations I’ve ever encountered.

And beneath her carefully maintained reserve lies a remarkable warmth and optimism that is nothing short of magnetic.

I find myself captivated by the genuine light she carries within her, carefully hidden though it may be from those who don’t care enough to look. ”

A hushed stillness fell over the table as he continued, his voice gathering quiet strength.

“Beyond these traits, she has shown herself to be possessed of remarkably sharp wit and resourcefulness. She observes and understands the subtleties of social dynamics with a perception I’ve rarely encountered.

” A pointed glance around the table. “A skill I imagine has been honed through considerable practice.”

Lady Brightcrest’s mouth had thinned to a tight line.

“As for her magical capabilities,” Evryn continued, warming to his subject, “I can only assume that if she has ever appeared anything less than exceptional, it was by deliberate choice rather than any inherent deficiency.”

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 accident rather 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?”