Page 38 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

I reach for Tinsel, and she slips her hand into mine.

Twinkle twines his arms around my neck. And I don’t even feel the gravel underfoot as we cross to join my father and Anne.

The Mertons are reluctantly ushered toward the stairs, then through the wide-open carved double doors that lead to the central hall.

“We want to stay with Mir!” Hanging off my arm, Tinsel pronounces her wishes loudly as we draw near.

“Well,” a deep, smooth voice announces from behind me, “who wouldn’t want to stay with Mir?”

I spin, spotting him. His hands are casually thrust into the pants pockets of a bespoke designer navy suit.

The dark-blue dress shirt he wears underneath the jacket is unbuttoned enough to show off his long neck and collarbone.

His light-gray eyes flash with amusement.

He’s kept his hair dyed that deep blue. And he’s even more breathtaking in person.

A work of art, really. Which is ironic given that he’s more a facilitator than a muse.

A deliberate choice on his part, I believe.

Salvatore.

I instantly close the space between us with Twinkle still in my arms. Tinsel gleefully races next to me.

Sully’s hands are out of his pockets, reaching for me before I recognize that the enthusiasm of my greeting is even more unseemly than the twins escaping and disrupting the guests as they arrived.

But I don’t stop.

The gravel is still rough under my feet. My sweater is rucked up, my pants practically falling off me where Twinkle has his own bare feet hooked, and my hair curlers are unraveling.

Sully’s hand slips around the back of my exposed neck, the other hand closing over my upper arm. He dips his head toward me as I practically bow into him, into the welcoming warmth of his body. His energy is woven tightly, neatly but barely contained, under his skin. So he’s taken his meds .

For one perfectly insane moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Then Twinkle thrusts his face between us, eyes narrowed on Sully. “Who dis?”

I take a breath.

Blinking up at my best friend. My only remaining best friend.

I remember who I am. And somehow, I manage to take a step back.

Sully’s hands fall to his sides, though his grin doesn’t falter.

“This is Sully,” I say. “You’ve met.”

Twinkle isn’t immediately convinced. But Tinsel releases my hand to launch herself at Sully, giggling.

He sweeps her up in his arms, spinning her around as she laughs. Twinkle, still in my arms, throws his head back and laughs along with his twin.

Sully settles Tinsel on his hip, who’s spotted someone she knows over his shoulder and is now waving madly. He steps into me, each of us holding a squirming twin on an opposite hip, and leans down to brush a kiss across my lips.

His lip balm is creamy and smooth. Sully has never, ever kissed me on the lips before.

“You’re here,” I whisper. An odd sort of hope flutters through my chest, warring with a burbling well of disconcertion.

“I am,” he murmurs, holding my gaze.

I’ve come outside without sunglasses, but Sully blocks out some of the daylight that would normally be too bright for my sensitive eyes. Either way, my purple orbs have never bothered Salvatore, not even when we first met at age seven.

Sully straightens, grinning broadly and smugly at whatever reaction we’ve garnered from the gathering behind me at the front entrance. My father, Anne, and the Merton bond group, I presume.

I hesitate for just a moment when Sully offers me his arm.

Because I’ve just seen who Tinsel is waving to.

Bolan.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit. The color is typical for him, but it’s the first suit I’ve seen him wear in years.

A white dress shirt hides all his tattoos except the words that decorate the backs of his hands and ring his fingers.

But under the tailoring, Bolan is too pale and too slim.

He’s lost enough weight that it shows despite the genetic attributes— his height, shoulder breadth, and strength— that come with his shifter nature.

His naturally white-blond hair is freshly dyed black, and he’s clean-shaven.

His cobalt-blue gaze is intense. Focused.

On me.

“Hello, Mirth,” Bolan says quietly, not smiling. Maybe because I’m just staring at him in disbelief.

“Bolan? Okay?” Twinkle whispers against my cheek.

I’m not sure what my little brother is asking, but I answer with one of my perfectly perfected smiles, ignoring my disheveled state and the fact that I’m only a step away from being plastered against Sully.

“Bolan,” I say, sounding utterly delighted, “I didn’t know you were attending.” I cast my gaze behind him, looking for his band members. Maybe Anne has hired the Blitz to play? Even though she also booked an orchestra …

Christoph, the Duke of Habsburg, and Elias, the Earl of Hereford, are crossing through the inner gate behind Bolan.

Christoph I recognize only from other formal gatherings.

We’ve never met. Quietly chatting to each other, they lift their heads at the same time, slowing their pace as both their gazes lock on me .

A headiness sweeps through me. Not a moment of deja vu, exactly.

Something more intense than that …

Twinkle squeezes his arms around my neck hard enough to momentarily choke me. Clearing my throat quietly, I glance away from Bolan, the duke, and the earl to look down at my baby brother.

Twinkle is staring at me … scared.

I frown.

He points at me.

At my eyes?

“Mir?” Tinsel asks from Sully’s arms. “Mir … has an upset?”

My father’s eyes glow when he’s wielding an aspect of his power. But I haven’t … I’m not …

“Take my arm,” Sully murmurs. “Take my arm, darling Mir.”

I do. I turn my back on Bolan, Elias, and Christoph. I ignore the way my feet hurt on the cold gravel. I cling to Twinkle on my hip, wrap my arm around Sully’s elbow, and let him guide me back toward the entrance.

The Mertons have stepped into the great hall beyond the open doors. Though Isla and Noah, whose eyes are glowing softly purple, are still looking back at me. The other awry’s abilities are also in an active state. Perhaps he’s wielding some sort of shielding or sound barrier spell …?

I can feel Bolan at my back. Just behind him, I swear I can feel Elias and Christoph as well. Their presence doesn’t make any sense. None of them were on the guest lists Anne gave me, not even for the ball.

“You’re not here for the ball,” I say softly to Sully. “Or … just the dinner?”

“And you weren’t expecting me,” he says, not fully answering. “Or Bolan? ”

“You didn’t tell me,” I say, trying to keep all of what I’m feeling out of my tone.

“I assumed you invited me,” he says. His voice is suddenly tight.

Sensing his ire, I try to remove my hand from his arm, but he squeezes his elbow to his side lightly, telling me he wants me to hold on.

So I do. I do. I gaze at his fucking perfect profile and ask something I really shouldn’t ask of him. “But you’ll stay? You’ll stay?”

“I will,” he says. His gaze remains on my father, who in turn is watching us approach.

The twins’ nannies, red-faced with embarrassment, but also flicking wide-eyed gazes between Sully and Bolan, are standing off to the side. Anne is inside with the Mertons.

I can feel the tension in the air. Visceral, and thickening the closer we get, as if it radiates through the open doors.

My father, partially blocking the entrance, playfully glowers at each of the twins in turn. “You’ve ruined your sister’s surprise.”

Both twins go still, eyes widening. Then they cry in unison, “Sorry, Papa.”

“With your nannies now,” he says sternly. “You may beg their forgiveness for sneaking off. And then you may ask their permission to stay with Euphrosyne as she gets ready. Remember, you’ll be going home in the morning.”

That middle bit is a poke at my disheveled state. As if I can’t feel the curlers bouncing loosely around my head with every step I take.

But even as I stiffen, Sully drawls, “I’m happy to help Mir get dressed.”

I swear my father’s mouth almost quirks into a smile. Almost.

In unison — and it really is odd the way they’re so in sync at such a young age — the twins smack wet kisses to my and Sully’s cheeks, then wiggle to be let down.

I have to let go of Sully to release Twinkle. Then I can’t figure out a legitimate reason to touch him again as the twins scamper off, chatting excitedly with their nannies as they’re led swiftly back through the gardens.

I take a step to the side, turning slightly to Sully. “Father, you remember my good friend —”

“Lord Savoy.” My father’s tone is cast low so as to not carry to the other guests. He also holds his hand out to Sully. It’s a seemingly friendly gesture — for anyone without blazing purple eyes. When someone of my father’s power level offers their hand, it’s a clear challenge.

But that’s not what shocks me. My father’s posturing isn’t unexpected. Nor am I shocked when Sully accepts the handshake, then closes his other hand over to cup my father’s hand intimately. All while staring him directly in the eyes.

“Lord Savoy?” I whisper, completely confused. Not at the fact that Sully is technically a Savoy, through his mother. We’ve always known that. But at the fact that he’s chosen to take up the title.

My father releases Sully’s hand.

Sully turns to execute a full sweeping bow in my direction, not a hint of irony or sarcasm in the gesture. “At your service, Your Royal Highness.”

Some kind of automated polite response should pass through my lips without thought. But all I can do is stare down at my friend, who swore our entire lives together that he’d never be one of the peerage.

Figuring out that I’m not going to release him from the bow, Sully rises, smoothing a hand over his suit jacket and offering me a flirty wink. “Now, while I adore this look for you, shall we —”

“I believe your time is spoken for, Salvatore,” my father rumbles. “For the rest of the afternoon. And you as well, Euphrosyne.”