Page 49 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

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 prefers simple 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.

“Everything that happened at dinner,” he said slowly.

Mariselle waved a dismissive hand, another light laugh escaping her. “Oh, that was nothing. I’ve survived far worse, believe me.”

The casual way she said it, the matter-of-fact acceptance in her voice, made something twist inside him. He watched as she straightened her shoulders almost imperceptibly, her chin lifting a fraction higher in what he now recognized as a defensive posture.

“I should thank you,” she added, still not quite meeting his gaze, “for your defense of me at the dinner table. You played your part admirably.”

Played his part. As though every word hadn’t been absolutely sincere.

“My grandmother was supposed to attend this evening,” she continued, smoothly changing the subject.

“But it seems my mother conveniently ‘forgot’ to send the invitation and only informed me of this tonight.” A small, rueful smile curved her lips.

“They would have been a little … different in her presence.”

“I’m sorry,” Evryn said quietly.

“Oh, no, I’m the one who should apologize for subjecting you to that dreadful ordeal.

I’ve grown accustomed to the barbs and slights, but you …

” She shook her head, giving him a look of playful sympathy.

“Well, I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to endure anything quite so unpleasant at Rowanwood House.

You may have to take a few drops of Dream-Bright Elixir tonight to ward off the nightmares. ”

Evryn couldn’t bring himself to match her attempt at levity.

Though he was intimately familiar with using humor to dance away from anything serious—had built his entire social persona around never allowing a sincere moment to linger too long—there was something profoundly wrong about allowing her to minimize what he’d witnessed.

“Mariselle …” he said quietly, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words, unwilling to simply let the moment pass yet uncertain how to navigate these unfamiliar emotional waters.

Then he remembered the folded slip of parchment he’d tucked into his waistcoat pocket earlier, the delicate gift wrapped carefully inside. For a moment, he hesitated, suddenly and oddly shy about the gesture. Up until this moment, he hadn’t been entirely certain he would give it to her.

He’d woken that morning with fragments of the previous night’s musicale still playing through his mind.

He’d dreamed of how they’d sat side by side, his hand over hers, though in his dream, she hadn’t been wearing a glove.

Instead, he’d been able to trace his finger over the gleaming silver patterns of the marking on her skin.

In the dream, those delicate lines had felt warm beneath his touch, almost alive with magic.

She’d turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his, palm to palm.

He’d looked up then, startled by the intimacy of the gesture, wanting to see her face—but the moment of startled awareness had shattered the dream, waking him and leaving him strangely curious about what expression he might have found in her eyes.

After waking, his thoughts had circled inevitably to the evening ahead—her birthday dinner.

The realization that he should give her a gift had struck him with unexpected force.

The thought had immediately conjured memories of their various mischievous gifts—the embarrassing poetry book, the bracelet that had turned her hair that remarkable shade of blue—but this time felt different.

This time, he wanted to offer something genuine, something unmarked by their usual need to maintain the upper hand.

A gift that might actually mean something to her.

In a moment of inspiration, he’d risen from his bed and crossed to the writing desk positioned near his window. He’d taken the piece of lumyrite he’d been using as a paperweight and let it soften in his palms, his manifested ability glowing faintly beneath his skin.

Now, standing in the Brightcrest dining room with the distant sounds of conversation drifting from the terrace, Evryn withdrew the parchment envelope and extended it toward her. “I almost forgot. I have something for you. A small token.”

Mariselle regarded the slim envelope with a considerable degree of suspicion, her blue eyes narrowing as she made no move to accept it.

“I promise you,” Evryn said, unable to suppress a small smile at her wariness, “this gift is entirely genuine. No colorful hair enchantments or multiplying flowers this time.”

“Forgive me if I find your assurances less than completely reassuring,” she replied dryly, though after another moment’s hesitation, she reached out and took the slip of parchment. “You have something of a reputation for magical mischief.”

“Only when the occasion calls for it,” he murmured, watching as she loosened the parchment folds and let the gift slide into her hand, where it caught the light with a quiet gleam.

Her quiet intake of breath was barely audible, but he caught it nonetheless.

On her palm lay a delicate hairpin, its tip adorned with a tiny pegasus no larger than her thumbnail, exquisitely sculpted from faceted lumyrite.

The stone shimmered with opalescent light, catching the glow of nearby faelights and scattering it in soft prismatic sparks, as though the creature might take flight at any moment.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Mariselle whispered, lifting the pin with careful fingers and turning it to examine the tiny creation from all angles. “Wait.” She looked up at him. “This is lumyrite. Did you fashion this?”

He nodded. “May I?” he asked softly, stepping closer, one hand rising hesitantly.

She nodded wordlessly, still gazing at the delicate pegasus.

He took it from her, and she turned her head slightly to the side.

As he carefully gathered a section of her azure hair, the intimacy of the gesture struck him unexpectedly—this quiet moment, away from the performance and pretense.

He slid the pin into place, taking his time as he adjusted a wayward strand of hair, ensuring the delicate creature was displayed to its best advantage.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rougher than he’d intended as he stepped back.

She looked at him with her head still slightly tilted, a slow, sly smile curving one corner of her lips, and for the first time that evening, Evryn saw a genuine spark of mischief light her eyes.

“Please tell me it’s going to neigh loudly every time my mother tries to say something to me. That would be absolute perfection.”

He broke into a grin. “I knew I forgot something. Truly, I’m disappointed in myself.”

“Perhaps there’s still time to?—”

“Mari!” Ellowa’s voice rang out, cutting Mariselle off. “Lord Rowanwood! The dessert is about to be served!”

Mariselle’s smile faded, and as they turned back toward the terrace, Evryn leaned closer and murmured, “If you’d like, I could perform the neighing myself every time your mother opens her mouth.”

A laugh escaped her—bright, irrepressible, bubbling past her lips before she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I dare you,” she whispered.

“Don’t tempt me. I’ve been told I do an impeccable stallion impression.”

Mariselle nearly doubled over, clutching his arm as laughter shook her shoulders. “Of course you do,” she managed between gasping breaths.

And Evryn found himself thinking he’d gladly make a complete spectacle of himself—even in front of Mariselle’s awful family—if it meant hearing that laugh again.