“I’m sure,” Dyfri says, gently extracting his hand.
“Of course, there are some rather disturbing elements to fey society that we simply can’t ignore,” Whitfield presses on, apparently oblivious to Dyfri’s increasingly rigid posture. “The concept of... what do you call them? Rhocyn? Sexual servants, essentially. Quite barbaric by modern standards.”
The temperature around us seems to drop several degrees. I feel Dyfri go absolutely still beside me.
“Professor,” I interrupt, stepping closer to Dyfri. “Perhaps we could discuss something else...”
“Oh, but this is precisely the sort of cultural exchange we need!” Whitfield exclaims, his eyes bright with academic fervour. “We can’t simply ignore the more problematic aspects of fey culture in favour of pretty dresses and exotic customs. The subjugation of certain classes, the lack of basic consent laws...”
“That’s enough.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, sharp and cutting through Whitfield’s lecture. I don’t know why Dyfri is upset, I just know that he is. And that’s the only thing I need to know.
The professor blinks at me in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said that’s enough.” I step fully into Dyfri’s space, not quite between him and Whitfield but close enough to make my position clear. “You’re not here to conduct academic research, Professor. You’re here as a guest at a diplomatic reception, and you’re being incredibly rude to my husband.”
“I hardly think...”
“You’re making assumptions about an entire culture based on incomplete information,” I continue, my voice carrying more authority than I knew I possessed. “And you’re doing it in a way that’s deliberately provocative and offensive. That’s not scholarship, that’s just bad manners.”
Whitfield’s face flushes red. “Young man, I’ve been studying comparative cultures for thirty years...”
“Then you should know better than to ambush someone at a social gathering with accusations disguised as academic inquiry,” I say firmly. “If you’re genuinely interested in fey culture, I’m sure the embassy wouldbe happy to arrange a proper interview through official channels. But this isn’t the time or place.”
Lady Pemberton has backed away, sensing the tension. A few other guests have started to take notice, their conversations faltering as they glance in our direction.
Whitfield straightens, clearly preparing to assert his academic authority, but before he can speak, another voice cuts through the tension.
“Professor Whitfield!” A younger woman approaches, tablet in hand and apologetic smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the Telegraph would like a quick word about your latest publication.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Whitfield’s demeanour shifts instantly, academic pride overriding his annoyance. He shoots me a look that suggests this conversation isn’t over, then allows himself to be led away.
The silence that follows feels deafening.
“Well,” says Lady Pemberton faintly. “I think I’ll just... go find the champagne.” She flutters away, leaving Dyfri and me alone in the middle of the crowded reception.
I turn to face my husband, expecting... I’m not sure what. Gratitude, maybe? Acknowledgment that I’d stood up for him?
Instead, Dyfri is staring at me with an expression I can’t read. His dark eyes are wide, almost shocked, and there’s something vulnerable in his face that makes my chest tight.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“Yes, I did.” The words come out more forcefully than I intended. “He was being a prick.”
Dyfri’s lips twitch, just slightly. “A prick?”
“A complete and utter prick,” I confirm. “The sort of academic who thinks being clever gives him the right to be cruel.”
“He wasn’t wrong about everything,” Dyfri says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Maybe not. But he was wrong about the way he said it, and he was wrong about the place and time.” I meet his eyes directly. “And he was definitely wrong if he thought I was going to stand there and let him make you uncomfortable for the sake of his intellectual curiosity.”
Something shifts in Dyfri’s expression. The careful mask he wears slips just a fraction, revealing something raw and surprised underneath.
“No one’s ever...” He stops, shakes his head slightly. “That is, people don’t usually...”
“Don’t usually what?”
“Defend me,” he says simply.
