Page 9 of My Fae Lady

Rook Manor seemed to be in agreement with me about the need to clean up the Unseelie lord, but I grabbed the pile of his old clothes on my way out of the bathing chamber just in case. Away from the perfumed air surrounding the bath, I could smell the loamy forest floor, the rich scent of growing plants, and the musk of unknown predators imbued in every stitch and feather. It was surprisingly appealing and suited my future husband better than the artificial floral scents favored by humans.

I entered the next room the house provided and dropped the clothes on a chest. A feather floated free of the waistcoat, and it was a wonder they didn’t all fall, given the poor-quality stitching. I stooped to pick it up. It was inky black, with a green iridescence that shifted in the light. Though I didn’t have such an ability without my tools, I swore I could feel the Unseelie magic it emitted. Instead of dropping the feather atop the clothes, I slipped it into my pocket.

“If you can repair his waistcoat, please do,” I asked the manor, not certain why. Lord Sylvan wouldn’t be wearing the thing again until he returned to his home in the trees. At which point, it wouldn’t matter to me if he shed feathers everywhere. My association with the fae was temporary.

Our marriage would be empty words, a legal fiction and nothing more, but I couldn’t convince myself that this arrangement wouldn’t alter my life. My fingers drifted up to my lips, which still tingled, even hours after we had sealed the agreement. A remnant of the magic, of course. I had never felt so much power gathering in one place. Magic that tied me to Lord Sylvan until our bargain ended.

Magic that would tie me to him the rest of my life, as I had no intention of ever having a child.

I dropped my hand and shook my head. I was being foolish. Bargain magic lay dormant unless one party tried to break the terms. Once we married, and Lord Sylvan returned to his tree, I’d never notice it. My life could carry on as it always had.

My chin high, I returned to my bedroom. I stripped out of my dress, washing up with a few swipes of a clean cloth, and donned a fresh gown suitable for supper with company. I pulled my hair back into a simple plait, not wanting to take the time to put it up properly, and made my way to the dining room.

The pale wooden table was set for two, our places at opposite ends, as was proper. I took my seat and wondered what was taking Lord Sylvan so long.

The door slammed open, and he stormed in. “Where are my clothes?”

I lowered my lashes, hoping he couldn’t see my eyes shifting to mauve in amusement. He was old enough to recognize what the different colors meant when a Seelie’s eyes changed. Now that so many Seelie families had intermarried with humans, claiming titles in Alidra as well as Faerie, the trait didn’t appear as often as it once had; I rarely had to worry that my eyes would betray me to anyone but Father. If my father were ever around, that was.

I couldn’t take the risk that Lord Sylvan would recognize my amusement, though. Not when I needed him to take me seriously as I turned him into a gentleman. Even if, at present, he wasn’t the sort of gentleman anyone would take seriously.

Rook Manor had provided him with evening wear, but not from this century. The pink brocade frock coat, with its wide, folded-back cuffs, was ridiculous enough, but it was the shirt that had me biting back laughter. The sleeves and collar dripped with ruffles of ivory lace.

Mastering my mirth took so much effort, I almost didn’t notice that he wore no hose under his breeches, his calves—and feet—bare. “Lord Sylvan, a gentleman does not go to supper wearing fur and feathers. If you wish to dine in this house, you must dress the part. That includes footwear.”

He brandished a pair of polished leather shoes at me. “These are not footwear; they are some sort of weapon meant to weaken the wearer.”

“If the fit is too tight, I’m certain Rook Manor can provide a different pair.” I’d have to see what clothes were stored in the house before we left. I wouldn’t tell Lord Sylvan this, but if he arrived in Windonbury—or even the border town of Isthmuston— wearing that outfit, he’d be as much of a laughingstock as if he wore his own clothes. There had to be something more modern somewhere in the depths of the manor.

“It isn’t the size that is the issue.” He turned one shoe, letting me see its full profile, the stacked heel higher than any I ever wore. “Are humans’ feet shaped differently? I can’t walk in these.”

“Because you don’t know how to walk. You stomp. Now put your shoes on so we can dine.”

“I’m not wearing these.” He dropped the shoes to the ground and stomped—naturally—to the open seat. Before he could sit, silver cloches materialized over every dish on the table. He grabbed one, but it wouldn’t budge. Even under the frilly layers of his clothes, I saw his muscles bulge, but no matter how hard he tried, the cover would not lift off the table. Finally, he released it and glared at me. “Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything. Rook Manor is expressing its own opinions, though I certainly agree. No shoes, no supper.” I was actually quite surprised by the house’s antics. The manor hadn’t shown this much initiative in ages.

Hazel eyes narrowed, but he must have decided I was telling the truth. He snatched the shoes from the floor and slid the first onto his foot. Then he tried to balance on that leg as he put on the other and almost tumbled to the ground. I pressed my lips together, and though I made no sound, Lord Sylvan’s attention swung to me, his expression dark, daring me to laugh.

He wobbled the few steps to his chair, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer. My laughter filled the room, Rook Manor taking the sound and multiplying it. Lord Sylvan said nothing, instead focusing on ripping each cloche off the table and tossing them to the side. The silver domes never made contact with the walls, disappearing into the aether the moment they cleared the table.

His failure to dent the papered wall only made Lord Sylvan's glower darker.

He piled food onto his plate, an ungainly heap of meat and vegetables, sauces and gravies. My laughter died as horrified fascination took the place of amusement. When he speared his fork into the mixture, lifting up a clump larger than any mouth should be able to accommodate, I found my voice once more.

“Stop.”

He paused, glaring at me as a glob fell off his fork and splattered onto the rest of the travesty he had made of supper. “I bathed. I dressed. I am wearing your ridiculous shoes. Now I will eat.”

“Now you will remember that you are not a beast living in the woods. A gentleman dines; he does not devour.”

Even without his wings, Lord Sylvan’s very nature was too Unseelie to fool anyone about his heritage. But by the goddesses, I would have him at least behaving like a gentleman before we left Faerie. A fae born to the wrong bloodline—but a gentleman at heart—I could peddle to Mr. Hilferty. A beast was out of the question.

He shoveled the food into his mouth, speaking while he masticated the cursed mixture. “I'm hungry.”

I looked away from his mouth. “You will enjoy your food much more if you respect the integrity of each dish. Goddesses' light, you have mint jelly on your mashed potatoes. How can you even want to eat that?” I shuddered. “I thought we would work up to formal dining, but I can see now this was a mistake.”

I pressed my hand against the dining table and prayed the house wouldn't choose this moment to conserve energy by ignoring my request. “The duke’s celebration menu, please.”