Page 43 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

F ar too early the next morning, Mimi and Tavi are waiting for me.

The mage stylists have laid out three possible outfits and way too many makeup options as I step out of the steamy bathroom.

Wrapped in a plush robe, I’ve twisted my freshly washed hair up, not bothering to put more than cream on my face.

Mimi is dark skinned and slim, her hair a vibrant halo of dark curls, and wearing at least a dozen bracelets on each arm.

Brown-eyed Tavi is tan, her light-brown hair chopped at chin level and styled in a just-caught-in-a-sea-breeze look I covet, but which would look ridiculous with my square jaw.

Both of them are mid to late twenties and currently dressed in designer jeans and silk tops that keep their arms bare.

Not matching each other, but very practical.

A giggle-laden verbal assault commences a moment after I enter the bedroom, greeting them both with a genuine smile.

“Couriers have been coming and going all morning,” Mimi gushes.

“Too many packages,” Tavi says with a dismissive sniff. “You’d think they would have figured out their tithes before last night.”

Tithes. As if I’m some entity or religious figure who demands tribute.

Mimi gives Tavi a look. Then they both visibly snap their mouths shut. It took me three hours yesterday — three intimate hours as they exfoliated, creamed, and painted me — to get them to stop using my title with every request, after every sentence.

I should be feeling excited for breakfast. Excited to get to know people I might form a family with.

Except it’s just … it just really is too much all at once.

Even with all the planning and the few weeks to get used to the idea, I feel as if I need to hold myself slightly distant from it all just to make it through each day.

In retrospect, my oddly intimate reaction to Christoph last night, and even to Sully’s blatant flirting, is feeding that need to distance myself.

As is my aching awareness of Bolan sleeping somewhere in the castle.

I have no doubt the rock god is still asleep at this early hour.

I also doubt he’ll bother to show up for breakfast.

I honestly still have no idea why Bolan even accepted the invitation.

The answer to that would take having an actual conversation with the glam rock star.

But I can’t actually remember the last time the two of us talked about anything of any significance— at least without Armin steering that conversation.

And I’m way too unbalanced right now to deal with Bolan.

I’m honestly terrified of any truth he might be keeping from me.

Afraid to ask him for the clarity I might need to …

help me heal from Armin’s death. As if that truth might tip me so far over the edge of despair that I’ll never come back from it .

Just to confuse this whole matchmaking process even further, I now have a second photo from Rian tucked away on my phone.

A photo of him sprawled naked across his bed, arm flexed behind his head, with a clearly tented sheet barely covering his cock.

I found it waiting for me when I woke up.

Thankfully, I’m not cruel enough to have immediately vid-called him like I desperately wanted to.

I did, however, double-check that the bathroom door was locked before utilizing a massage setting on the shower wand for noncleaning purposes.

Trying to keep the sexy shot of Rian in sight while keeping my phone out of the spray.

Granted, my phone would easily survive a complete dunking with all the essence-laced protections on it.

I’ve orgasmed more in the last month — thanks to Rian and his proclivity for sexting — than I have in the last six months. Actually, if I’m being completely honest with myself, more like a year.

“The kitchen sent up a smoothie,” Mimi murmurs sedately, clearly reacting to my lack of glee over the so-called tithes. She swallows the end of the statement instead of tagging on the proper ‘Your Royal Highness.’

“Thank you.”

I turn my attention to the outfits they’ve laid out, struggling to not simply hate them on sight. It’s breakfast. In my own home — on paper, at least — I should be able to wander down barefoot in my pajamas.

Last night, Bolan had liked the silk dressing gown.

Sully too, for that matter.

Okay … that’s a line of thought best not explored right now …

I have no idea how many so-called suitors stayed the night, nor do I know which are leaving this morning.

I could ask. No doubt Mimi and Tavi know.

Even if Anne hasn’t deliberately armed them with the information so it can be filtered through to me, their contacts among the other staff throughout the castle would have filled them in.

I find the clothing laid out on the bed oddly vexing and completely banal.

So I abandon it, crossing to the silver tray on the low bureau situated across from the base of the bed.

A glass pitcher filled with a green-tinged smoothie is nestled in a bowl of ice next to a dome-covered silver bowl.

The ice is just for show because I inadvertently disperse a preservation spell as I reach for the handle.

Dispelling essence-wrought spells or charms is another innate awry ability that I usually keep dampened, alongside my more nefarious abilities.

Most purple-eyed essence-wielders are naturally resistant to maliciously intended spells and such.

But I find inadvertently collapsing helpful spells more annoying than useful.

Almost twelve years ago now, my father’s brief, frustration-infused training sessions weren’t particularly helpful when it came to me learning how to wield some of my awry abilities.

Some, but not all. As a result, I’ve lost most of what I could once actively wield.

Along with what I never, ever want to tap into again.

“Have the two of you eaten?” I ask politely as I pour the smoothie into a tall crystal glass.

“Yes … thank you.” I sense a ‘ma’am’ getting swallowed in the middle of Tavi’s answer. “But …” She laughs a little breathlessly. “If you are offering …”

Mimi slaps Tavi’s shoulder playfully, suppressing another giggle. “Don’t be impertinent.”

“If I’m offering?” I ask, begrudgingly intrigued.

Tavi’s grin widens, and she nods toward the silver bowl. Sipping my smoothie, I pluck the surprisingly weighty dome lid off it, then blink as I see what it holds .

A bowl of peaches.

Six perfectly ripe peaches.

“Completely out of season,” Mimi says. She’s practically vibrating.

Tavi talks on top of her. “Couriers running back and forth before dawn.”

“From a greenhouse. In Vienna!”

“Part of some revitalization project.”

“No one has eaten this variety in, like, a century. I mean, not commercially.”

I set the lid to the side and abandon my smoothie to gently pluck a peach from the bowl. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale the scent deeply into my lungs. I’ve never really been a fan of peaches. It’s the fuzzy skin. And they’re tender … easily bruised. Often mushy even when well-preserved …

But my mouth literally waters at the scent alone.

Grabbing a silver paring knife set next to an array of utensils on a linen napkin, I slice the blade easily through the peach twice, tugging a section free from the pit.

Instead of peeling it, I suck the flesh off the skin. Making a complete mess. The scent, then the taste, floods all my senses.

And … suddenly I’m just … here.

I’m in this moment, in this breath, settled in my bones. Not holding myself slightly distanced from it all. I’m present in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever truly been.

A way I definitely haven’t been since I lost Armin.

“He’s seriously going to regret not seeing that first bite in person,” Tavi smirks suggestively.

Mimi screeches playfully, slapping the other stylist’s shoulder again.

I laugh involuntarily. Sucking the juice off my fingers, I hold the remainder of the unmolested peach out to the stylists. They grab it from me even while protesting the ‘gift.’

I smile widely, still feeling gently but perfectly rooted, as I watch Mimi and Tavi take their first bites of the peach, albeit with less abandon than I. They actually take the time to peel the skin. Even so, a perfectly ripe peach makes for messy eating.

Moaning playfully and cooing over the once-in-a-lifetime treat, they stand a little too close to me— and I’m glad they don’t notice. I’m glad to have them here to share the moment.

Having Christoph observe my unrestrained bite would have been too intimate. Intimate in a way I can’t trust myself to be because it promises things I have no ability, no right, to promise.

But I’ll accept the gift of this moment, this grounding, gladly.

“The sous chef was totally eyeing the peaches when they came in,” Mimi says. “Muttering about a clafoutis?”

“He can have four of them,” I say, eyeing the remaining peaches as a hopeful, playful energy infuses me. And for once, I don’t outright dampen it. “But not for anything as stuffy as a clafoutis. A cobbler. Just for the duke’s dessert, after dinner.”

Suddenly dismayed, I look over at Mimi and Tavi. “What if he doesn’t stay for dinner?”

They burst into gales of laughter, actually falling into each other in their mirth.

Momentarily disconcerted, I check that I haven’t lost hold of my essence. I haven’t. The two of them just find me hilarious.

Mimi wipes her eyes. “No man … no person … has couriers coming in before dawn with a gift this evocative if he’s not planning on fighting for you. ”

“Evocative?” I murmur. “Because of the sexual connotation?”

They glance at each other, then at me.

I try to ignore the sympathy underlying those looks. Unsuccessfully.