Fury heats my cheeks as the trio of men finally saunter off, my precious book left crooked beside the stack Daphne was so carefully constructing. My fingers curl into fists as I stare after the men. I can’t tell whether I’m more hurt, humiliated, or enraged.
“Are you next?” The deep voice shreds my every nerve.
I turn back around and find I’m still standing before Mr. Haywood, the girl beside me nearly growling with impatience.
The fae poet looks up at me, his pen poised above the empty space on the title page inside his book. His head is tilted coyly to the side, a seductive grin on his lips. “And who might you be, love?”
“Edwina Danforth.”
He lowers his gaze to his page and begins to scrawl out my name. I skirt between the two tables and settle into my chair with all the grace and trembling restraint of a vengeful goddess.
He frowns, pen frozen, then slowly meets my eyes.
I lift my chin, retrieve the crooked book, and place it neatly on top of the stack. “Author of smut and drivel.”
CHAPTER THREE
To William Haywood’s credit—or perhaps to his discredit—he quickly recovers from his surprise at discovering my identity. Without looking even remotely abashed, he closes the book with my half-scrawled name, pushes it off to the side, and turns that same seductive grin he’d shone upon me to the next girl.
“I step downstairs for three whole minutes, and everyone forgets how to form a proper line,” Daphne says from beside me. Her slinky little pine marten body is inside a wooden crate as she lifts more books with tiny paws and slides them onto the table. I aid her efforts until the box is empty, and then we unpack a second crate. After that, Daphne hands me a pen and two ink pots. “That should be enough for now. I’ll see what I can do about organizing the crowd. Again.”
Without another word, she bounds off. I wish she’d organized the crowd before I got jostled around and insulted by an arrogant fae.
I can’t stop seething over his comment. Smut and drivel. My precious book. I mean, I like smut. Smut is lovely. But drivel?
Drivel?
With a huff, I scoot my chair to the right and arrange all my books to the left of my table, building them as high as I dare to forge a wall between me and Mr. Haywood. Not that I couldn’t lean back in my seat and glance directly at him without impediment, but this at least provides me some small sanctuary. Some tangible divide to keep me from marching straight over to him and slamming a book over his head.
To add insult to injury, not a soul has stepped up to my table yet, even with the crowd taking on a more distinct shape and leaving me clearly visible. Many of the loiterers have gone downstairs and a neat line now forms down the staircase. Based on the sharp yelps I hear now and then, I wouldn’t be surprised if Daphne was biting ankles to encourage the patrons to obey her directions.
And yet…is no one here for me?
My heart sinks, taking the edge off my annoyance and replacing it with disappointment. With a sigh, I remove the top book from one of my stacks and finally take a good look at the clothbound cover. It’s a beautiful shade of mauve with pink-gold foil forming a floral frame around the title:The Governess and the Fae. A soft smile curls my lips as I trace the pattern of roses, leaves, and thorns with my fingertips, then brush every letter that forms my name beneath the title. It really is the most beautiful cover I’ve ever seen on one of my books, the care and quality etched into every line of foil, every stitch in the binding.
My pride swells, consuming all my less pleasant emotions.
Thisis why I’m here.
Thisis why I do what I do.
And to think I submitted this book to Fletcher-Wilson on a whim!
I didn’t have anything to lose, considering my publisher in Bretton didn’t want anything to do with a manuscript with a fae love interest. I hadn’t anticipated such disdain, but I often forgetthe tensions that lie between Bretton and Faerwyvae. It’s only been twenty-four years since the last human-fae war. After the fae won their independence from Brettonish rule, they placed strict regulations on Faerwyvae’s borders, which impacted immigration and trade.
At least, that’s what I learned in my visitor’s brochure.
Before coming here, I didn’t know much about the fae at all. Growing up, the children of Bretton are taught only what’s in the history books. We learn that Faerwyvae is the only place in the world where fae reside, and that humans discovered the isle and the curious people who lived here long ago. We’re taught that humans and fae were once friends. That the fae adopted seelie form after tasting human food, donning human clothes, and learning human language. Then we’re taught about the human-fae wars, the most recent of which united the humans and fae living in Faerwyvae under fae rule. Even though humans are protected here and seem to be flourishing, visitation is rare—hence the chaos that occurred when my ship docked at the wrong port—and immigration is even rarer.
I am lucky to be here indeed.
Lucky to have this contract.
Lucky to hold this gorgeous book in my hands.
I open the cover to the title page. Then I flip to the next page, which boasts a two-page illustration so stunning it takes my breath away. Leaning forward in my seat, I shove the bridge of my spectacles and study every gorgeous inch of the artwork. I was told the book would include an illustration, but it’s one thing to hear about it and another to see it. The piece depicts the most heart-pounding scene from the book, when the governess and the wicked fae succumb to their passions in an enchanted garden. The fae male has long rippling hair, an open shirt, and a musculature that has my mouth watering while the governessstares up at her lover, her form limp and supple in his arms, the sleeves of her chemise slipping from her shoulders?—
“They’re about to do it, aren’t they?”
