We move on to the next display, which features a gown in indigo spider silk with a plunging neckline and a skirt that flares out beneath the mannequin’s hips in a waterfall of chiffon. It’s a slightly more modern style than the others we’ve looked at so far, blending human fashion with a hint of fae flair. I haven’t a clue if Monty will like it, but if I could choose something for myself, this just might be it.
I glance at Thorne, ready to ask for his opinion despite knowing full well he won’t have one, when I’m distracted by him running a hand through his hair. His dark tresses fall in tousled waves around his face, and I’m reminded of how it looked yesterday when he brought Monty the tonic.
Thorne catches me staring and narrows his eyes. “What?”
I avert my gaze. “You had your hair pulled back yesterday.”
“I tied it back when I made the tonic,” he says. “I don’t normally mind having my hair down, but if I’m working on a time crunch, I can’t stand it near my face.”
“Wasn’t my birthday cake rushed? Your hair was down then.” My chest tightens. Why did I bring up my birthday? While our encounter in the kitchen had been cordial, what followed was a nightmare.
Thorne glances away from me and gives the skirt of the indigo gown on display an absent touch, as if sampling the feel of the chiffon. His tone takes on a tense quality despite his neutral words. “A bit, but I knew I had enough time.”
I’m determined to lighten the mood for both of our sakes. In a teasing tone, I say, “I wonder if that cake was any good. You ruined my life before I got a chance to try it.”
He huffs a halfhearted laugh. “Perhaps I’ll make your wedding cake then.”
Mention of my wedding sours my mood once more. Then a startling realization dawns. “Wait…should I be shopping for a wedding dress?”
“No need,” Thorne says. “I spoke to Lady Phillips this morning. She wants you to wear her wedding dress and will have it altered before your nuptials take place. That is, if Lord Phillips agrees to resume your contract.” He says the last part between his teeth, then mutters, “Damn Monty.”
Meanwhile, my mind is stuck on the part where he said I’d be wearing Lady Phillips’ wedding gown. I still haven’t met her face to face, and my only impression of her was when I spotted her napping during the garden party. “Will it even fit?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You say that, but are we even remotely the same size? I’m not exactly slender, you know.”
His eyes meet mine. “You’re perfect, what does it matter if you’re slender?” His delivery is so dry, so matter of fact, he almost sounds annoyed.
My breath catches, my cheeks growing far too warm.
He blinks rapidly behind his spectacles as if he only now realizes he gave me a compliment. Or…was it a compliment at all?
You’re perfect.
What a strange thing to say.
The energy between us grows taut, an awkward air stirring in the intervals between our too-quiet breaths. I force my attention back to the indigo dress and try to pretend I feel nothing amiss. “What matters, Mr. Blackwood, is that the dress won’t fit, regardless of alterations, if Lady Phillips is significantly smaller than me. I’m not short either.”
He clears his throat and studies the gown on display with far more interest than necessary. “Quite right.”
I nearly laugh at his overly formal tone. He’s truly flustered. Despite my efforts to shake the uncomfortable tension, it’s grown. There’s only one thing I can think to do now.
Turning to face him, I angle my head and bat my lashes. My lips curl in a coy grin. “So, you think I’m perfect, hmm?”
He blushes—actuallyblushes, like a damn schoolboy—for one glorious second. Then his mouth mirrors mine, a sly smile that has my stomach flipping. His posture eases and he tucks his hands in his pockets. Then he leans in close, eyes locked on mine. I hitch a breath, but I force myself not to flinch back. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to turn the tables on me, to make me flustered as revenge.
Well…it’s working.
He inches incrementally closer, and my heart nearly gallops out of my chest. Still, I keep my chin lifted, back straight, as he stops with his face mere inches from mine. He speaks, voice low, his breath warm as it brushes over my skin. “I think you’re a nuisance.”
He steps back, and his confident demeanor returns. It makes me wonder if I imagined his moment of bashfulness all along. He gives the skirt of the indigo gown another brush of his hand. “I like this one.”
I can do nothing but stare after him as he strides away. When he’s out of sight, I press my hand to my chest, feeling the pound of my heart, still racing after his nearness.
Damn.
Thorne and I may not be the ones playing a game, but he certainly won that round.
