“Oh, so definitely not the last of the raspberry tarts.”
“Certainly not. I would never.”
“Open the bag, Juliet,” he ordered. But there was a smile on his face and in his tone.
“I am a lady and as such, my honor is unimpeachable.”
He scoffed. “You lie as easily as breathing. It’s just a miracle you choose to use your powers for good.”
Her hand found her chest in exaggerated outrage. “I would never.”
“Jules, you complimented my mother’s perfume last night.”
Oh no, that was possibly the greatest lie ever told. I’d worried, during our engagement, that she wouldn’t hold up well to life in the Hasket household, that she would wilt under the strain of it. Now… Well, whether she would or wouldn’t wasn’t really of concern. She had Wayland’s ring on her finger.
“Yes, and it distracted her from calling Michael a spiteful wretch. So I rather think it was a worthy sacrifice.”
“You’re not the one who will have to be around her every day. She’s going to use so much more of it now,” he whined.
“It is hardly every day. You visit once a week, perhaps twice.”
“Yes, and now I will have a megrim every time. I’ll have to follow her lead and take to the bed for days to recover. Which is why you should give me one of the tarts you’re hiding.”
“You are right. I am in possession of the last raspberry tarts. You cannot have them. Goodbye.” She clutched the bag to her chest and started backing away. “Your Grace, it has been an absolute pleasure. I am so sorry I cannot stay.”
“Lady Juliet,” I replied as she twirled out the door in a flurry of skirts.
“Thief!” Mr. Grayson called after her. The affectionate grin hadn’t left his lips for the entire exchange. When the door shut behind her, he chuckled silently, his chest rising and falling as he shook his head fondly.
And then he turned his gaze to me. In the light of the window, they sparkled a bluish green with a grey ring around the edge.Just around the pupil was a hint of a greenish brown. It wouldn’t even be visible were his pupils wider. But in the edge of sunlight caressing him through the window, his eyes were breathtaking.
An enticing finger clasped the teacup and lifted it to where his thin upper and full lower lip met.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” he grumbled into his cup before taking a sip.
“For what?”
“That was an unseemly display,” he explained, ruddy cheeks darkening.
“You witnessed the chaos my menace of a sister made the other day.”
His response was a strange mixture of a shrug and head tilt and in doing so, he sloshed a dollop of tea on the table. As he rushed to wipe it away with a napkin, his flush deepened.
I chose to ignore his fluster. There was something charming about it—and me being the one less flustered. “Remind me, how are you so familiar with Lady Juliet?”
“Oh, I assumed you knew. It’s a poorly kept secret. Michael—Wayland—is my eldest brother.”
A memory shifted into place. Somehow, knowing that Wayland was the late viscount’s bastard hadn’t translated to recognition that Juliet would be Mr. Grayson’s sister by law. Which was… dim-witted of me to say the least.
“Well, that explains your presence for Dav’s latest escapade. You seem… close. You and Lady Juliet, I mean.”
“Yes. Jules and I… We have an understanding.”
My brows nearly hit the sky.
“Oh! Not that kind of understanding. No. No. Absolutely not. No. We just…” he trailed off, gesturing between us as though that would clarify. “We’re the family peacemakers. A shared talent for placating volatile tempers.”
“I see…”
