“Yes, you’ve said that, but it doesn’t quite answer my question, does it?”
He says nothing.
I narrow my eyes at the wall of paper between us. The real Mr. Blackwood is so different from the man of my dreams. While dream-Thorne is a man of few words, he’s normally at least quietly curious about my dreamscapes, amused by our dances, and amenable to light conversation. At least he was after we both adapted to his surprising appearances in my dreams. Dream-him grew so comfortable with our strange interactions that he was even a willing participant in…that one dream. That’s how I refer to one particular dream when I had very little control over who was there or what was happening—but that’s better left forgotten in the presence of Mr. Blackwood. Stars, if only he knew I’ve dreamed of him nude. My gaze dips below his broadsheets. I can’t help wondering if he looks the same as he did in that dream. I recall black ink trailing over his skin in a pattern like scales. That and his massive—
I shake depraved memories from my mind and remind myself dream-Thorne and real-Thorne are two different people. Adopting as cordial a tone as I can, I say, “We can talk, you know. I doubt that conflicts with the terms of your bargain.”
“Conversation is unnecessary.”
I clench my jaw. Dream-Thorne is preferable indeed. Well, if he wants to be difficult, I can too.
“What if your silence hurts me?” I ask.
He turns down a corner of his papers to meet my eyes.
I give him a look of pure innocence. “You did promise not to hurt me on our travels, did you not? It would be a shame if you unintentionally broke your bargain.”
Slowly, he folds his broadsheets and sets them on the bench beside him, holding my gaze the entire time. We both know what it means to break a fae bargain. Whether human or fae, anyone who breaks such a magically binding promise is subject to repercussions. Temporary breaches cause extreme pain. Permanent ones cause death.
His expression shifts, eyes narrowing, a corner of his lips quirking the slightest bit. Perhaps it’s only my imagination, but I sense something akin to respect in him now. He removes his spectacles and a silk kerchief from his jacket pocket. Still keeping his eyes on mine, he wipes his lenses. “Were you born so wicked, or is this something you learned at the convent?”
I’m taken aback by the change in his tone. His voice is less cold and abrupt and more…soft, almost seductive despite his cutting words. The space between us no longer feels cold and vast but warm. And quite narrow indeed.
I lift my chin and try not to reveal how flustered I’ve become. “I don’t do well with boredom, Mr. Blackwood.Thatis what I learned at the convent.”
“Very well, Miss Briar.”
“My name—” I’m about to address his butchering of my name when I realize he wasn’t mistaken at all. I’m not Briony Rose but Rosaline Briar. Still, the moniker feels all wrong. “You can call me Briony.”
He replaces his spectacles. “We aren’t acquainted enough to be on a first-name basis. Besides, is your name not Rosaline?” Just like that, he’s back to that cold, formal tone. I’m almost disappointed.
“I don’t feel like aRosaline Briarjust yet. I’ve been Briony Rose my entire life.”
“Then I’ll call you Miss Rose. That is, unless my refusal to address you by first name causes you some…pain.” His emphasis on the last word is barbed.
I pretend not to notice and bat my lashes instead. “It doesn’t, but what does distress me is that I know nothing of my future husband. Distress is very much like pain, wouldn’t you say?”
He releases an aggrieved sigh. “What would you like to know?”
“What is he like?”
“A wealthy, handsome human.”
I scoff. Does he really think that’s the kind of answer I’m looking for? He might as well be talking about himself. And a thousand other men on the isle. I suppose I’ll ask more specific questions. “I recall you saying something about Mr. Phillips being wary of our situation, which is why you are acting as the intermediary between him and my parents. What exactly is the reason for his wariness? Why didn’t he come for me himself?”
“I daresay he’s about as keen on an arranged marriage as you are.”
“Then why did he agree to it?”
“His father and your parents arranged it, as the match suits both parties. He had very little say in the matter.”
An unexpected pang of indignation strikes my chest. Even though I’m annoyed at having been engaged without my consent, the thought that I’m unwanted by my future husband only increases my anger over the arrangement.
Thorne’s jaw shifts side to side. “I do think he’d like you if he met you. You have…nothing to worry about.” His tone is both conciliatory and begrudging. He could be lying, but I appreciate his effort.
“Do you have any idea how my marriage to Mr. Phillips might save my family?”
“I have some idea.”
