Page 42 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

I find myself smiling. Just a little. It’s pretty bold to be fucking at a royal ball with all its implied formality, whether or not the participants are also here for the matchmaking event. That pleases me for some reason.

I twist slightly in Christoph’s arms, angling my head so I can see his expression. He turns his head in response, but he’s not smiling. I don’t get the sense that he’s bothered, but he’s also not amused. Or titillated.

“That’s a complicated question,” I say at last.

Eyes still bleeding golden-brown against the expanse of night sky over his head, a slow smile spreads across the towering shifter’s otherwise forbidding face. “Complications are generally self imposed.”

I laugh quietly. “You think such things should be easily discussed?”

Still smiling without baring his teeth, he shifts his gaze back to the garden, all shadow to me but clear to his eyes. “Between us? Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t ride.”

I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m sorry?”

“Horseback riding. I’m supposed to spend a week here with you and your other suitors. During our etiquette lesson, we were given a schedule of activities, beginning with the dinner we just had where no one could get anywhere near you. Except the elder Lord Merton, who bothers you —”

“He … doesn’t … bother me. ”

“He doesn’t interest you.”

I huff but don’t argue further.

Christoph continues, “Now, the dancing. I don’t know any of the steps. Then there will be breakfast tomorrow. There will be fewer of us there than were at dinner, yes?”

I nod. The bond groups will choose among themselves who will remain for the rest of the week— most likely the younger members. At least I hope I’m not forced to endure Lord Merton hanging off my arm for the entire week. Or even longer.

“And you won’t eat a thing. Just as you didn’t at dinner. Because we’ll all be watching you.”

Despite the chill of the evening attempting to slowly permeate my vital organs, a flush of shame heats my chest and neck. I shouldn’t be so obvious that a stranger can read me so —

Christoph grunts quietly, as if in discomfort. Then he squeezes me a little tighter across my shoulders and upper chest. I wrap my hand around his wrist. Not to pull away, but for the skin-to-skin contact.

I’m not quite certain what I’m doing, allowing him to hold me … no, asking him to hold me.

“Then courting gifts —”

“What?” I start to twist in his arms, but he tightens his grip just a little to keep me in place.

“We’re to present you with courting gifts after breakfast.”

I huff. That isn’t on my copy of the schedule of events. And speaking of freaking archaic practices —

“For those of us who don’t know you at all, such gifts are … calculated. They must be, under the circumstances. Then there’s the horseback riding.”

“And you don’t ride. ”

“I never had any interest. And asking a horse to bear my weight just to please you …”

“It wouldn’t please me,” I murmur. “Not that we don’t have horses that would have no trouble bearing you. But … the last thing I would want is for you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m staying,” he says bluntly.

I push past his grip to twist fully in his arms, gazing up at him questioningly.

He settles one massive hand on my hip but keeps the other arm lightly across my back, tucking me near but not pulling me flush to his body.

I shiver as my previously toasty warm back is exposed to a sudden chill.

But I ignore the impulse to press my hands against his chest, shoving them again into the pockets of the borrowed jacket instead.

“Why?”

He flashes me a quick, toothy grin. “That’s a complicated question.”

“Complications are generally self imposed,” I say, echoing him— as he’s completely set me up to do.

He chuckles.

The sound warms me almost as much as his broad chest across my back did. “So … conversation over activities,” I say.

He inclines his head. “For this week, at least.”

“And after this week?” I ask breathlessly, as if I’m flirting. Except I already know I shouldn’t be flirting. Because whether he’s Lord Williams, Duke of Hapsburg, aka the Archduke of Austria, or not, Christoph alone is not enough to anchor me.

“Do you like Vienna?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I have an estate there.”

I laugh. “I’m aware. Your duchy is the largest intact estate that any of the peerage still holds. Other than my father, of course.”

He looks away.

I’ve said something wrong. Mentioning anything having to do with land or money? He’s not young — thirty-six — but knowing even a little of his upbringing, I can’t imagine that he’d be so sensitive about —

“I’m revitalizing the vineyards,” he says, as if there’s been no awkward pause in our conversation.

“But … I think … you might be more interested in the orchards. The …” He clears his throat.

“The peaches, specifically. Peaches only account for 2 percent of Austria’s fruit exports, but they grow well in certain areas. ”

It’s too dark to see him clearly, but I’m almost certain he’s blushing.

“Why peaches?” I ask. My own heart rate picks up. Just a little, but enough that I know I’m crossing lines I should have firmly drawn myself before this moment.

“They, ah … there are heritage varieties that are … practically extinct.”

“And your estate is old.”

“Yes.”

“Plus …” Oh, gods. I’m actually flirting now. “Something specific with me, and why you think I might like peaches?”

I don’t wear perfume. My soap and shampoo is deliberately unscented. My skin is too pale to be considered peach-toned. And —

“A dress,” he blurts. “You were … wearing it. When I got the invitation, I couldn’t remember if we’d ever met … but I remembered seeing you about nine months ago …”

I frown slightly. I wear a lot of pink. Deliberately. But it never verges very far into peach tones.

“The dress was … tight. ”

Oh, he’s full-on blushing now. And I’m warming from within myself, softening and swaying into him a little.

“Across your …” His hand flexes on my hip, but he seems unable to finish the thought.

I grin up at him, utterly shamelessly. Because my much-maligned ass makes this beast of a gentleman think of peaches. A peach.

“And you like … peaches?” I ask, not talking in any way about the actual fruit, and desperately trying to remember the event where he must have seen me. What dress I would have been wearing.

Christoph peers down at me, almost startled. Then his bright gaze flicks across my upturned face. Lingering on my lips, then along my neck, and then the rest of me swamped in his jacket.

“I never have before,” he says, complete honesty in his tone.

And I know. I know he means every fucking word he’s ever said to me, because …

“Empathy,” I murmur. “My purple eyes. They come with a form of empathy. That’s … that’s the easiest way to explain it.”

Because there’s always a flip side to every power, especially for one of the awry. Even when I choose to not practice that power. To even acknowledge it.

The flip side for me? My so-called latent empathy — the ability to pick up emotions — is actually much, much closer to mental coercion.

“I know,” he says.

I frown, slightly confused, because how I channel essence isn’t commonly known. Notwithstanding that I have it completely tamped down, channeled into … well, mostly nothing .

“Since I first touched you,” he adds. “But more so after you touched me back.”

Skin to skin, he means. When I laid my hand on his wrist.

Christoph then touches the center of his chest. “I can feel you here.”

I step back from his embrace, staring up at him. He doesn’t break my gaze. He doesn’t try to close the space between us.

I check myself. My essence is settled in a low, contained simmer. Perhaps more settled than it has been all day. “You shouldn’t be able … to feel me.”

He nods thoughtfully. “That’s why I’m staying.”

I take another step back, the chill hitting me hard as I abandon his warmth. I tug the lapels of his suit jacket around my neck, still gazing up at him.

My mind is oddly settled.

I’m only stepping away because that’s what I think I should do. What I should do …

Should do …

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

I look over to see Sully strolling lazily toward us. And yes, he’s completely interrupting. I didn’t see the curtain shift over the ballroom doorway behind Christoph. But in my defense, he is huge.

Still, I should have picked up the presence of another essence-wielder — a passive aspect of my awry nature. But Sully has always moved as he willed through our lives.

“Now isn’t that an adorable look?” Sully rakes his gaze over me, grinning. He means the oversized tuxedo jacket over the poofy ballgown skirt.

When I don’t answer, he tilts his head coyly to include Christoph. “But Mir darling, you still look like you need a warm snuggle. What do you think, Duke? ”

It’s a pointed question full of all sorts of implications that I absolutely can’t wrap my head around. It implies that Christoph and Sully know each other, but also that Sully is suggesting that they … cuddle me … together?

And the concept of cuddling paired with that heated look from Sully? That’s coded for way, way more than a friendly nap. Right?

Sully and I have never, ever crossed that boundary.

Honestly, I’ve never even thought about it.

Because even though we’re close friends, I always thought that he belonged to Armin.

Sexually, at least. Even though I know whatever liaison they had many, many years ago didn’t last more than a few months.

Christoph rumbles agreeably. “You do look chilled, little awry.”

Sully holds his arm out to me. “Shall we slip away? Your father left about ten minutes ago, and I’m tired of disappointing people.”

I snort at Sully’s distinct lack of contrition over telling anyone ‘no’ regarding anything he doesn’t want to do.

But I also know that even in a space as large as the ballroom, the combination of the orchestral music and the general chatter among the guests has to be bothering him.

The calm focus he can sometimes get from his joints must have long faded.

In silent agreement, my hands fall to the buttons of the jacket.

“I’ll follow,” Christoph says, packing a hell of a lot of intent into two seemingly simple words.

I slip my hand into Sully’s elbow. “If we sneak into the library, we can access the back halls.”

“We could rescue Bolan as well,” Sully says, all casual.

“He can rescue himself,” I say coolly.

Sully just nods. Then he presses me into Christoph’s side so that I’m surrounded by the warmth of both of them as we traverse the gravel path alongside the curtained windows of the grand ballroom, toward the darkened windows of the library.

I keep my gaze firmly away from all the partially hidden niches as we pass. Not because I’m worried about catching sight of any of the trysts that might still be in progress, but because I’m feeling slightly … unhinged …

As if I just might pull Sully, and Christoph if he’s amenable, into the shadows and have my way with the both of them.

If I request that peaches be served for breakfast, would I see that night-shrouded blush flush the duke’s cheeks as he watched me eat?

“What are you thinking about?” Sully murmurs, far too close to the suddenly sensitive— and abruptly receptive— skin just behind my ear.

I flash a grin, mostly to myself. “Peaches.”

Christoph grunts. Quietly. But as if I’ve punched him in the gut.

I laugh, warm and oddly content, nestled between them.

“I’m in,” Sully says. But then, he’s always ready for anything.

I give the suit jacket back to Christoph outside my rooms and refuse Sully’s playfully offered turn-down service.

I barely get my face washed before falling into bed.

I don’t dream.

For the first time in months, no nightmares featuring the identification of Armin’s cold corpse, or standing vigil as he’s cremated, haunt my sleep.

Not that I remember.