Jolene accepts his aid with a flutter of her lashes. “You’re too kind, Mr. Haywood.”
The smile he gives her makes my lips curl into a snarl. Does he never stop flirting? I step up to him next with my head held high. He sucks in a breath as his gaze falls on me for the first time since we set off for the coach. His posture goes rigid as his eyes fall on the expanse of skin I’ve exposed above the neck of my chemise, then trail over my bare shoulders.
Everything inside me begs to curl forward and shrink from his scrutiny. Before I can do anything, his blue irises flick back to mine, his cheeks flushing pink.
I’m so surprised by the color rising in his face that I can only blink back at him for several beats.
Understanding dawns.
I made him flustered.
My urge to shrink in on myself dissolves. No, I will not make myself smaller before my rival. In demonstration of my resolve, I straighten my posture and lift my chest higher, accentuating the subtle peaks I’ve put on display. His throat bobs. Holding his eyes, I place my palm over his hand and take my time entering the coach.
CHAPTER TEN
WILLIAM
Edwina isn’t cute. She isn’t cute at all. There’s no way William Haywood the Poet would find a woman attractive after she threw up on him. So why do I find my eyes flicking back to her again and again in the coach? I went out of my way to sit nowhere near her, which is why I’m across from her beside Daphne and Jolene Vaughn. That, however, was a mistake, for if I look anywhere but out the window, Edwina is all I see.
Her pale shoulders.
The dip of her cleavage.
The swell of her breasts.
The freckles that dance over her collarbones, mirroring the spattering of dots over her nose and cheeks, like a lake reflecting a starry sky.
I realize I’m staring again and firmly look away. What’s come over me? I’m no stranger to the amount of skin Edwina is showing. Solar was my home court for four years. I graduatedfrom the very university where our signing will be held. I’m used to seeing women out in public in sleeveless dresses and flimsy fabrics. More so, I’ve seen my share of naked bodies. Male, female, human, fae. Sex might as well have been my major at university, for I performed in bed as often as I did on stage, just to a different script. One was flesh and fucking, the other was projection and prose.
So why should this strange human woman with her horrible temper and even worse personality fluster me so?
She doesn’t, I try to tell myself as she nudges the bridge of her spectacles back in place, but my distraction has pitched me out of my poet’s persona. William the Stage Actor can only lie when he’s immersed in his role as William the Poet. Why I’m struggling to stay in character in the first place is beyond me. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep. Unlike Edwina, I didn’t sleep in until thirty minutes after our agreed time of departure.
I slide my gaze from her—yes, I’ve caught myself staring again—to Monty. His attention is already on me, his eyes narrowed while mischief plays around his mouth. I didn’t like the questions he asked me on the train. What did I do with Edwina last night? Why did I go to her rescue? Why were we avoiding each other on our way to the station?
He claimed his questions were for the good of determining whether either of us made progress toward our bet. He’s deemed himself the overseer of our bargain and will keep track of our points on our behalf, though I can’t fathom how any of his questions were relevant.
He holds my gaze a beat longer, then scoots closer to Edwina. His legs are crossed toward her and his foot is dangerously close to brushing her tartan hem. “You got creative with your top after all. You fit right in with the Solar Court ladies now.”
“It was Jolene’s idea,” Edwina says, speaking to him without an ounce of the ire she reserves for me. I’m not sure whether I should feel envy or hubris.
“Brilliant, Miss Vaughn,” he says to Jolene, giving her a soundless round of applause before returning his attention to Edwina. “Yes, a lovely chemise. The color reminds me of something. A type of dessert. What is it? Do you know, Mr. Haywood?”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” I say with an air of indifference.
“That’s because you aren’t looking. Just look. You must know what I’m thinking.”
I look anywhere but at Edwina. “I do not.”
“Ah, I remember,” Monty says with a snap of his fingers. “Meringue. That fluffy white dessert.”
“I haven’t had meringue,” Edwina says.
“It’s a lovely confection,” Monty explains. “You see, my best friend is a baker. He makes the best meringue as a pie topping. I’ve made it with him before. You take egg whites and sugar and whip them intostiff peaks.” His eyes meet mine across the coach as he says the last two words.
Bastard. I know what he’s playing at now. He’s trying to keep Edwina’s breasts at the front of my mind.
“I prefer small soft peaks, personally,” Monty says, somehow managing to keep his tone somber. “What about you, William? Do you prefer small peaks or large peaks? Of meringue.”
