Page 38 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Morning sunlight dappled the Starspun garden, casting golden patterns through the leaves of ancient oaks and carefully tended magical flowering vines. Beneath a pergola draped with climbing roses that emitted a different scent each day, Iris sat across from Hadrian on a delicate wrought iron bench. Her maid, Brenna, maintained a respectable distance at the garden’s edge, pretending great interest in a patch of shimmering dragonsbreath flowers while still fulfilling her duties as chaperone.

“I must say, your note was a delightful surprise,” Hadrian said, his smile warm and sincere. “I had only expected to see you later today when you joined Mother for tea to discuss the wedding arrangements.”

At the word ‘wedding,’ Iris felt her stomach clench painfully. She had dispatched a messenger pixie to Hadrian’s residence the moment her grandparents had departed for their morning promenade, believing Iris to be safely ensconced at The Charmed Leaf. The deception weighed heavily upon her, adding yet another layer to her already substantial guilt. They would have to be told the truth soon enough, but Hadrian deserved to hear it first.

“I’m glad you could come,” she managed, her voice emerging steadier than she’d feared it might.

“I would have come at midnight had you asked,” he replied, his earnest devotion making her chest ache with remorse.

“Lord Hadrian,” she began, then stopped. The practiced speech she had rehearsed throughout the remainder of her sleepless night now seemed hopelessly inadequate. How did one graciously withdraw a promise that should never have been made?

“Is something troubling you, Lady Iris?” Hadrian leaned forward slightly, concern etching lines across his brow. “You seem … distressed.”

Iris drew a deep breath. There was no gentle path through this conversation, no way to soften the blow she was about to deliver. She could only move forward with as much honesty and compassion as possible.

“There is no easy way to say this,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze directly. “But I find I cannot go through with our marriage. I must … end our engagement.”

For a moment, Hadrian’s expression remained unchanged, as if her words had not yet penetrated. Then his face went utterly still, the warmth draining away to leave behind a mask of shocked disbelief.

“You … wish to end our engagement?” he repeated, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

“Yes.” The single syllable felt inadequate, almost cruel in its brevity. “I am so very sorry.”

He stared at her, his eyes searching her face as if seeking some sign that this was merely a misunderstanding, a jest in poor taste. Finding none, he straightened his shoulders—a gesture so reminiscent of Jasvian that Iris felt a fresh pang of guilt slice through her.

“May I ask why?” His voice had regained some of its steadiness, though a slight tremor remained. “Have I given offense in some manner? Said or done something to displease you?”

“No! Not at all.” Iris’s response came swiftly, vehemently. “You have been nothing but kind and considerate. The fault lies entirely with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

A soft breeze whispered past, bringing with it the curious scent of mint—the fragrance the climbing roses appeared to have opted for today. Iris brushed escaping tendrils of hair from her face, tucking them hastily behind one ear.

“I should never have accepted your proposal,” she admitted, her voice soft with regret. “I was … overwhelmed by everything. Your kindness, my family’s expectations, the pressures of society. I allowed myself to believe that admiration and respect would be a sufficient foundation for marriage.”

“And you’ve since determined they are not?” A flash of hurt crossed his features.

“No,” she replied quietly. “Not for me.”

Hadrian’s shoulders sagged slightly. “You don’t love me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Iris answered anyway. “I care for you, my lord. But not in the way a wife should love her husband.”

A heavy silence stretched between them. Just beyond Hadrian’s shoulder, several roses quivered as two hedge pixies attempted to swing from one bloom to another like miniature acrobats, entirely oblivious to the drama unfolding in their presence.

“Is there nothing I might say to change your mind?” Hadrian asked at last. “Perhaps, with time?—”

“I fear not.” Iris shook her head, feeling the weight of her decision pressing down upon her. “It would be a disservice to us both to proceed with a marriage built upon such an unstable foundation.”

Hadrian nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. He was silent for several moments. Then he raised his gaze to meet hers, holding it with a quiet, searching intensity. And then he spoke.

“Is this because of Jasvian?”

The question sucked the breath from Iris’s lungs. She had not prepared for such directness, had hoped to avoid mentioning Jasvian entirely. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Your silence is answer enough,” Hadrian said, nodding to himself as he drew in a deep breath.

“I never meant—that is, I didn’t intend—” Iris stumbled over the words, horrified by her own transparency.

“Do you know,” he continued softly, “that I had not the faintest idea until that night, mere minutes after you accepted my proposal. Until that evening, I had been convinced that Jasvian barely tolerated your presence, which was why I hesitated to share my intentions with him. I dreaded inviting his obvious disapproval when what I truly sought was his support.

“But then,” Hadrian went on, “after you accepted my proposal, I saw the way you looked at each other when you nearly collided with him. The pause between you stretched, the moment lasting far longer than mere courtesy demanded, and then was something in his gaze—something almost … desperate—that gave me pause. And then he followed you to the kitchen.”

Iris felt heat rise to her cheeks as she recalled the confrontation in the tea house kitchen, the harsh words exchanged before she had fled into the storm. And what had followed … the near-kiss that still haunted her dreams.

“You didn’t return for quite some time,” Hadrian observed. “And when you did, you were soaking wet, having apparently been outside in the rain for reasons that made little sense. The following morning, Jasvian departed without explanation. It certainly made me wonder.”

Hadrian met her gaze directly once more. “But then you seemed happy this past week, genuinely pleased with our engagement. I told myself I had imagined the whole thing.”

Guilt pierced Iris anew. She had tried so desperately to embrace her decision, to convince herself—and everyone around her—that she had made the right choice. That she could be content, perhaps even happy, as Hadrian’s wife.

“I wanted to be,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Happy, that is. I tried to be what I thought I should be, rather than what I am.”

“And what are you, Lady Iris?”

The question caught her off guard. She hesitated, considering. “I am someone who values truth above comfort,” she said after a moment. “Someone who cannot live half a life, pretending to feel what I do not, denying what I truly feel.”

“And what you truly feel is for someone else.” Again, not a question.

Iris could not bring herself to speak the words aloud, but her silence was confirmation enough.

For the first time since she had delivered her devastating news, Hadrian’s composure cracked. A flash of genuine pain crossed his features, followed by a flare of anger that transformed his usually gentle countenance. Iris had never seen him like this—had not believed him capable of such raw emotion—and the sight was somehow both unsettling and oddly comforting. At least he would not pretend this did not wound him.

“I see,” he said, his voice tight. He rose abruptly from the bench, then seemed to catch himself, forcing his body to stillness. When he spoke again, his words were measured, carefully controlled. “I appreciate your honesty, Lady Iris, though I confess I would have appreciated it more had it come before you accepted my proposal.”

“I’m so sorry,” Iris whispered as she stood, feeling utterly wretched. “I never meant to hurt you. And I … I do so hope this will not negatively impact your work with Lord Jasvian?—”

“You believe me so petty?” Raw hurt warred with disbelief in Hadrian’s gaze. “That I would jeopardize a project affecting the livelihoods of hundreds over … over this grievous personal slight?” He paused, visibly reigning in his emotions. “Whatever trust existed between Jasvian and myself may well be fractured beyond repair, but I will not allow that to affect our work.”

A thick knot of emotion clogged Iris’s throat. “Hadrian, I am so?—”

“Please.” He held up a hand, cutting off her tear-choked apology. “My family will devise some suitable explanation for society. We shall say it was a mutual decision—that you wish to focus more fully on your apprenticeship, and that this doesn’t align with the future I had envisioned. That we both agreed it better to part ways.”

Iris pressed her shaking lips together and took a deep breath. Then she slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring from her finger. “I believe this belongs to you,” she said, extending her hand. Hadrian stared at the ring for a long moment before accepting it, his fingers brushing against her palm as he took it.

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you certain it was not you I danced with at the masquerade? I was quite convinced it was you, despite hearing you would not be in attendance.”

The unexpected question gave Iris pause. “No,” she said, baffled. “I was there, but we did not dance together. Or if we did, it was not for long.”

Something flickered across Hadrian’s expression—a subtle shift she couldn’t quite interpret. “Ah,” he murmured. “Then perhaps this is all for the best, after all.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he had turned away once more, striding back into the house with measured steps. Several moments later, the distant sound of the heavy front door closing echoed faintly across the lawn.

Brenna, noticing his departure, hastily approached Iris. “My lady?” she inquired softly. “Are you quite well?”

Iris nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Relief that the terrible conversation was over warred with a heavy guilt for the pain she had inflicted, and yet, stirring beneath it all was a strange and hesitant hope.

“I believe I shall retire to my room for the remainder of the morning,” she told Brenna. “Should my grandparents return, please inform them I am studying.”

“Yes, my lady,” Brenna replied.

Hours later, Iris lay stretched across her bed, an ancient leather-bound tome propped open before her. The scandalous history of enchanted tea brewing families had seemed like the only text capable of holding her attention on this most tumultuous of days. In truth, it was also the only book she had brought home from the tea house—a place she desperately wished to return to, though she knew a confrontation with her grandparents must come first.

She traced her finger beneath a line she had now read four times over, finding that, in truth, even scandalous history could not entirely distract from?—

The door to her bedroom flew open with such force that it struck the wall behind it. Iris sat up immediately. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, face flushed with anger, her grandfather’s tall figure looming behind her. Both were still dressed in their walking attire, suggesting they had come directly to her room upon their return—a completely unprecedented breach of propriety.

“What have you done?” The elder Lady Starspun’s voice vibrated with barely contained fury.

Iris felt the blood drain from her face. “Grandmother, I?—”

“How dare you end your engagement without consulting us?” her grandmother continued, advancing into the room with quick, sharp steps. “Do you have any notion of the consequences?”

“How did you—” Iris began, only to be interrupted by a familiar, irritating sound from the open window behind her.

A glossy black gossip bird with iridescent wings swooped into the room, alighting on the windowsill with a flutter of feathers. It cocked its head, beady eyes gleaming with mischievous intelligence.

“Lady Iris jilts Lord Blackbriar!” it shrieked in its shrill, grating voice. “Her heart belongs to another!”

The color drained from Iris’s face as she stared at the bird in horror. Before she could gather her thoughts to respond, three more gossip birds landed beside the first, each taking up the cry with slight variations, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of scandal:

“Half-blood breaks wealthy lord’s heart!”

“Star-witch refuses diamond ring!”

“No respectable family will have her now!”

“Get out!” Iris shouted at the creatures, losing her composure. “Get out of my room this instant!” The birds obeyed, launching themselves from the windowsill with indignant squawks before continuing their relentless chorus.

In the terrible silence that followed, Iris stood frozen, the magnitude of what had just happened crashing over her. The gossip birds’ shrill voices still echoed in her ears, but she knew they were now carrying those same cruel words to every corner of Bloomhaven—every drawing room, every garden party, every shop.

This was not the careful, private dissolution of an engagement she and Hadrian had intended. This was not the discreet conversation that might have preserved some dignity for both parties. This was public humiliation laid bare in the worst possible way—twisted, embellished, and broadcast without mercy.

As she turned slowly and met her grandmother’s devastated gaze, the full weight of her actions settled upon her shoulders. In a single morning, she had not merely disappointed her family or complicated their financial situation, she had utterly, irrevocably ruined the Starspun name.