But now I have experienced attraction. Desire. And, more recently, bone-deep pleasure and satisfaction at the hands of a lover.
I can’t help wondering…will I miss out on something greater, a love of the heart, if I settle on a marriage of necessity?
After the ceremony, I make my way to the ballroom with the other guests. I do my best to keep my breathing steady amongst so many strangers, so much chatter. The wedding party left the ceremony separately, which means I am without anyone I know. For now. Monty promised he’d come find me as soon as he could.
My chest tightens at the thought of him. Of the unfettered emotion on his face during the ceremony. For how often he acts flippant and careless, there’s a deep well of empathy and kindness inside him. And a deep well of pain, too. Pain I don’t fully understand.
Once inside the ballroom, an usher guides me to a table where I find my name on a place card. My heart leaps with relief when I find Monty’s and Angela’s cards at the same table. Other than me, the table is empty, and I’m not sure whether to feel anxious or relieved about that. I’ve done my best to prepare myself for the inevitable—talking to strangers—but I can’t help dreading it. I sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting and mentally rehearse polite small talk.
Finally, once everyone is settled at their tables, the bride, groom, and their wedding party enter the ballroom to soft applause. The string quartet plays a lovely melody as the group makes their way across the dance floor to the empty tables. Monty gives me a wink as soon as our eyes meet, and I feel every muscle in my body relax.
He, Angela, and two others from the wedding party settle in at the table. I smile at Monty as he takes his seat beside me. He leans in close and I find myself leaning in as well, as if magnetized to his presence. “Did you like the ceremony?” he whispers.
“I did,” I say, my voice a little breathless as my eyes drop to his mouth.
Then my breath catches.
Because that’s when I notice the warm hand on my stockinged thigh, just beneath the hem of my skirt. The touch isn’t groping or belligerent. It’s…comforting. The way Monty placed it there felt as natural as breathing. It’s only my mind that realizes this isn’t the kind of touch one generally does in public. Not that anyone can see us, hidden as we are beneath the table skirt.
Monty stiffens, realizing what I already have. His ears burn crimson and he drags his hand away, straightening his posture. I’m grateful he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he gives me a shy smile.
“Mr. Phillips,” says a voice on my other side. My shoulders tighten as the stranger angles himself toward us. He’s a male with rounded ears—human, or perhaps half human like Thorne; it truly is impossible to tell with most hybrids—and expertly styled brown hair. He glances from Monty to me and back again. “Are you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
I curl my fingers at my sides, bracing myself for the small talk I’ve dreaded. When Monty doesn’t speak, I look his way, finding his jaw tight. Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a tone that lacks all warmth, he says, “Mr. Wright, allow me to introduce Miss Daphne Hartford.”
I startle at the sound of my newly acquired surname. I’d almost forgotten about choosing it, what with the mind-blowing pleasure that followed shortly after its conception.
“Miss Hartford,” Monty says, “meet Patrick Wright.”
“A pleasure,” the man named Patrick says, offering his hand for me to shake. I’m surprised, as a handshake is considered an almost vulgar greeting between opposite sexes—a gender divide I’ve never been fond of. I suppose it earns him at least a smidge of my respect.
I place my gloved hand in his and remind myself of my purpose during tonight’s ball. My courtship lesson. I train my voice into something soft and feminine and reply with the expected greeting. “The pleasure is mine.”
During dinner,Mr. Wright seeks my attention again and again, asking casual questions about me, my work, and my hobbies. To my surprise, he doesn’t so much as blanch when I mention the covers I’m illustrating, nor does he belittle my choice of career. Unlike some men I’ve spoken to in the past, he doesn’t talk about my workplace aspirations like they’re something temporary, a passing fancy until I marry. Instead, he praises my work ethic and my involvement with the arts. He tells me about himself as well. He’s the youngest son of a wealthy family and an attorney.
Despite coming across as a respectful and decent man, I’d rather be talking with Monty or even Angela. Still, I force myself to maintain conversation, to continue to modulate my voice, speak in a feminine tone, and keep eye contact at the right times. Tonight isn’t about enjoying my time with Monty. It’s about performing for his case study.
Aren’t I doing this to find a husband too?a small voice inside me asks. It’s almost mocking, as if it’s aware of the doubts that have taken root inside me. But of course it’s aware. That voice is mine, just like the doubts are. The doubts that question whether I truly want to secure a husband like this.
I must get out of my handfasting, I argue back to those doubts.
Do you?
Yes.
But do you truly need a husband to do so?
My mind goes blank at that. It won’t be entirely necessary if I’m promoted during my performance review. If I can state, without an ounce of deception, that my career is so secure and so important to me that I must remain living in Jasper, Clyde and Elder Rhisha will free me from my vow. But that’s only if I’m promoted to full-time illustrator. My position as an editorial assistant isn’t enough. One short-term commission for four book covers isn’t enough. I know that down to my bones, and belief is everything when it comes to speaking truth as a fae. Which means marriage is still the surest way. A legal bond that’s stronger than my year-and-a-day engagement to Clyde.
Yet my doubts pierce my heart whenever I catch Monty watching me and Patrick. The tightness that never leaves the set of his jaw. The way his hand brushes my thigh now and then, his touch too lingering to be accidental. Though he does nothing to pull me from my conversation with Mr. Wright, I can sense how badly he wishes to.
Or perhaps I’m the one who wishes he would.
After dinner, Briony and Thorne take their places at the center of the dance floor. The string quartet plays a waltz, and the couple swishes and sways alone under the beautifully painted dome, their steps graceful. Then the air shimmers and the painting…moves.
No, it’s not the painting but an enchantment that casts the room under an indigo haze, glittering with luminescent auroras that ripple overhead. My mouth falls open at the magic on display. Monty told me Briony is a succubus with powerful dream magic. She can pull subjects into dreams and can even conjure dreamscapes for others to see while awake.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Monty whispers. A shudder runs down my spine, doubling as his knuckles caress the back of my hand beneath the tablecloth.
