“She is! And she hosts a book club in the form of a monthly periodical. She chooses each month’s book, we read along and send in letters about our thoughts. She publishes some of our reviews, and a dozen club members are selected at random to join her for an in-person meeting each month. So far, the club has read half of theGoverness in Loveseries. I daresay we’d have read them all if she didn’t try to play fair and give attention to other authors. But she simply adores you!”
I fall into my chair, my knees too weak to hold me up any longer. A queen. An actual queen is my biggest fan and she’s been promoting me for over a year. I…I can hardly process this news.
When my publisher wrote to me with the proposal for the book tour and informed me I’mslightly famouson the isle, I thought he meant my new book was making its rounds. I had no clue I’d already established a name for myself here based on my prior works. The meager royalties I earn in Bretton have done nothing to suggest my book sales have increased. My old publisher certainly hasn’t treated me like I’ve become more in-demand. It’s always been war with him, each sale a heated negotiation that always ends in me getting less than I think I deserve, followed by his unsolicited advice that I should consider writingfine literatureor somethingtargeted for the educated male reader.
The bastard forgets I did write a literary piece, and he refused to publish it since I wouldn’t agree to let him do so under a male pseudonym.
I stare at the spread of books before me, emotion clogging my throat as I experience what it’s like to have my work so thoroughly appreciated for the first time.
“Are you all right, Miss Danforth?” the woman whispers, concern etched upon her face. “I hope I haven’t upset you in some way.”
“No, of course not!” I shake my head to clear it. “It’s quite the opposite. I’m just so moved.”
I manage to return to my feet. Asshole Poet comes back into view, and I sense him staring at me. This time I meet his gaze and hold it with triumph.
Who writes drivel now, you smug bastard?
I give him too much credit by expecting he’ll finally look abashed. A corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that oddly feels like a challenge.
I grind my teeth and give all my attention to my dear reader and her mountain of books waiting to be signed. With my largest, most genuine smile of the day, I ask, “What is your name, my book-loving friend?”
CHAPTER FOUR
After two more hours, the crowd thins out and the end of the line is in sight. William Haywood’s line, that is. I never manage to gain much of a line myself. In fact, only a few more readers approach my table at all, but each interaction is heartfelt, genuine, and a boon to my pride. It’s enough to keep me from being too jealous of Mr. Haywood’s incessant stream of fans. Besides, the lack of attention on me provides the perfect opportunity to covertly remove my shoes and rub my aching feet.
I dread the thought of putting my shoes back on. At this point, I’ll be happy never to don them again. Perhaps I can get away with going barefoot until I’m reunited with the luggage Mr. Phillips fetched from the station. I haven’t seen the publicist or Daphne much at all in the last hour. I reach into my dress pocket and retrieve my brass pocket watch. It’s a quarter to three. In a matter of minutes, the signing will come to its official end.
Only one reader remains in the loft, and once he leaves Mr. Haywood’s table, it will only be me and Asshole Poet. I decide I’d rather be busy when that happens, so I set about packing my remaining books into the two crates. I only sold a total of fivesince most of my fans already had a copy ofThe Governess and the Fae.
The last guest says his farewell to Mr. Haywood, then his footsteps sound down the stairs. The silence left in their wake makes my skin crawl. I pour all my attention into rearranging the books in the crate, making far more noise than necessary.
Even with my purposeful distraction, it’s impossible to miss the sound of Mr. Haywood’s movements as he rises from his chair. Every inch of my body is aware of his footsteps and the shift of his shadow as he leans against the edge of his table.
“I truly didn’t expect you to show up.”
I bristle. That’s how he greets me? No formal introduction? No,Sorry I made an ass of myself with that poor first impression. I never should have insulted your life’s work by calling it smut and drivel. Let’s start over? I know most fae are less formal than humans are. Hell, some don’t even have surnames, which is one of the main pillars of formality amongst human society. But I’d have taken even a casual greeting without offense.
I finally bring myself to look up at him, a cold smile on my lips while I bat my lashes. “Were you hoping I’d let you steal my tour entirely?”
“I was.” His posture is leisurely, ankles crossed, hands propped at the edge of the table beside his hips. The light from the strings of glowing bulbs that crisscross the ceiling above him catches on his gold earrings. I notice he has more on his right ear than his left, lacking all sense of symmetry.
That, of course, means I’m staring. I shake my head and drag my gaze to my pen and ink pots, which I place in the crate. “You admit it.”
He shrugs. “The tour should have been mine in the first place. I was here. I showed up.”
That familiar discomfort writhes in my chest, begging me to explain myself again like I did outside the bookshop with Mr. Phillips. This time, I manage to stop myself before the deluge can leave my lips and instead give him a curt, “Well, I’m here now. So don’t get too comfortable.”
“Oh, I don’t think my comfort is at risk. I may have been a tad worried when you first arrived, but you’re no competition after all.”
His words send fire to my cheeks. I rise to my feet and face him with my hands on my hips. “No, Mr. Haywood, I’m not your competition. We don’t write in the same genre. We don’t share the same readers. But for some asinine reason, we’ve been forced to share this tour. What was supposed to bemytour. You’re lucky to be involved at all, so I suggest you get down from your high horse and thank me for being late and bestowing upon you the honor of being in my company.”
His expression goes slack for all of a second before a corner of his mouth lifts. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he almost looks impressed. Or perhaps just amused. But the deeper his smirk grows, the more it makes my skin crawl. It looks a little too much like that seductive grin he first used on me when I arrived. After which he proceeded to shine it upon guest after guest after guest. His cheeks must ache after donning such a contrived expression without end. I can’t fathom how I found that look even remotely dazzling when I first laid eyes upon him.
I wish I could say I found him less attractive now that I’ve gotten the full scope of his personality, yet he remains a work of art. A portrait of a devil, perhaps, but a beautiful one. I can’t help but feel the contrast between us, with my dirty hem, bare feet, and undoubtedly wild hair.
He breaks my gaze with a sigh and rubs the back of his neck in an aggravated gesture that gives the ends of his hair an extra tousle. Then, swiveling to the side, he reaches for something onhis table before facing me once more. “A peace offering then,” he says, tone brimming with reluctance.
I stare down at the hand he’s extended toward me, bearing a green book with gold foil. It’s Mr. Haywood’s book. The title reads:A Portrait of June, Etched in Solace.
