Miranda’s jaw locked as she lowered herself back into her seat. She wanted to punch that fake smile off his face.
“Might the younger Miss Wilde and I take our walk?” He held out a hand to Cordelia, who eyed it like it was made of snakes.
Her mother had to say no, but why would she? There was no reason to deny his request unless one knew all the facts and her mother didn’t.
“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible today, Lord Graves,” her mother said, taking Cordelia’s hand and pulling her youngest daughter close. If Miranda didn’t know better, she’d mistake the gesture as protective. Graves frowned, visibly. He had not anticipated being denied. Why did he want to walk with Cordelia? Did he want her alone to…
Miranda closed her eyes as she attempted to fight the panic in her chest. Her mother had denied him. There was no further cause for alarm. She may not have done it for the right reasons, but her mother had saved the day.
“Cordelia has a previous appointment that I cannot cancel. We were just finishing our tea when you arrived and I’m afraid are already running behind.” Her mother stood and Lord Graves was forced to rise as well. His grip on his hat kept shifting, and though he smiled, it was strained. He was short for a fae, matching her mother in height and losing an inch on Miranda.
She could easily beat him in a fight. It was an option that her dreams had indulged, more often than her waking mind. He was too well positioned to be attacked. Even now, completely unarmed and vulnerable in their parlor, he was protected by the conventions that frowned upon murder. If she were to strike him, the ramifications would be too perilous to navigate and would only create more problems. Still, it was a satisfying fantasy.
“Of course, Lady Wilde, I’m so sorry to have kept you.”
“Not at all, Lord Graves. You are to be family soon. You must stop by whenever you wish.”
He set his hat on his perfectly styled hair. “I may take you up on that, Lady Wilde.”
Miranda’s gaze did not leave him until he disappeared under the watchful eye of Martin. Only then did Miranda’s chest ease enough for her to catch her breath.
“But, mama, what app—”
“Come now, Cordelia, surely I told you about the appointment with the…milliner.” Her mother turned on her, “Do not think you have escaped, Miranda. We will talk later.”
As the women quit the room, Miranda sprinted for her bedchamber.
“Miranda Olivia Wilde you will walk like a lady in this house. Unless you are hiding a uniform under that dress.” Her mother’s voice carried after her and Miranda adopted a controlled walk until she was far enough away that her mother wouldn’t hear the thump of her feet.
She slammed her door shut and tucked her trembling hands into her chest. She itched to break something, to fight. Her breathing hefted her shoulders as she tried to calm herself for the grueling task ahead. If she wanted to be rid of Graves, she couldn’t rely on her fists. A level of tactics was needed that she had never excelled at, despite years of training.
Still shaken, Miranda prepared to head out under the excuse of taking a turn in Legacy Park. It was still before noon and she hoped to catch Drake during luncheon.
She would have to tread carefully to get what she wanted. Drake was a known flirt and could be dangerous to her goals. After meeting him last night, she had witnessed how he might draw you in. That dangerous air about him that breathed of adventure and life. He was entirely too handsome, and there was something in the way his eyes locked with hers, that calledto the part of her that craved challenge. And hecouldchallenge her, she was sure. If she could just avoid being drawn in by his charm, his flaws would surely keep her senses in check. His reek of alcohol and exceedingly annoying banter. It would be easy to keep him at a distance if she just focused on his flaws.
Chapter Three
Devinwokesober.Astate he actively fought during his every waking hour.
The vivid details of his father’s ancestral home spanned before him. The hand-carved inlay in the wood. The texture of the canvas that held the masterful brushstrokes of some famous painter Devin wouldn’t know the name of, given his education had been rather less Upper Ring than his father’s. It all legally belonged to him now. And while he actively fought to suppress and hide the fae part of himself, he openly detested his entirely human father.
His father’s will intended the estate fall to Devin’s human and legitimately born half-brother. However, his brother passed not even a few months after their father, leaving the estate in legal limbo until the next in line to inherit could be found. Too bad Devin wanted nothing to do with the place.
There was a brief time, when he was young and hopeful, that he might have sought to be part of his father’s world. Devinquickly soured to that dream. Age had shown him that his father and all he stood for were nothing that Devin wanted for himself.
Then, fate’s mocking hand had bequeathed him his seven-year-old heart’s desire: the home of his father. But his heart no longer worked and these walls held more poison than promise.
Sober, awake, and tormented by an unforgiving sun, Devin grew more irritated by the second. A headache formed near his temple. Moonlight was his solace, thanks to his mother’s Night Fae heritage, yet it highlighted his in-between existence. Not human enough for the social elite that sired him and spurned by the Night Fae because his mother had followed her heart to far from Court.
But the worst part of waking sober each morning was how his senses returned to their full clarity. A servant had shuffled past and hesensedher. Her urgency, her fear, her prejudice, it flitted toward him like the gentle brush of the tide, like scents he could see.
Devin growled as he rose to a sitting position on the overstuffed sofa. It was not meant for sleep. It was a decorative piece designed to impress important guests. Devin was creating uneven lumps in the cushions, since the good alcohol was stored in the study and he was usually too far gone to bother searching the labyrinthine hallways for a bedroom.
The vintage scotch from the previous night sat near his boots, still open. He scooped it up and started chugging. It burned, and he nearly sputtered twice—it was not the sort of drink one chugged, but he was desperate to go back to the haze that allowed him to pretend he wasn’t half-fae. He got it down and let it settle. His stomach nearly protested his chosen breakfast, rolling with the threat of chucking the lot of it back up, but he kept it down.
Slowly, very slowly, inebriation began to dull his aura sight. His heightened awareness began to drift into a hazy fog. Anotherservant passed without the faintest hint of an aura. His fae gift was properly drowned once more.
He headed for the main hall and more servants scurried past. He sensed nothing, as it should be. Smothering his fae nature had been a necessity since childhood. The lingering prejudice from an eighty year war was still in force thirty-two years ago, when Devin’s mother had fallen for a worthless aristocrat with no intention of allowing his fae proclivities to taint his ancestral seat. The whole unified races bit was recent.
