Page 7 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

And oh, that stung.

It needn’t. Shouldn’t. But it did.

She squared her shoulders and sent him her most dazzling smile. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she was going to feel awkward, she would make sure he felt equally as awkward. Twice as awkward.

It was better than being ignored.

Probably.

Maybe not.

Too late now. Her mouth was already open and words were pouring out, entirely unbidden. “Lord Coventry, I did not know you were still on the island.” Had that sounded casual? Or accusatory? And why did it matter to her so much?

He bowed. “How do you do?”

How do you do? How do you do?

She had spent weeks trying not to think about the shape of his mouth and his mildly exasperated, slow blink when she said something outrageous, and she received a how do you do?

And he had not used her name.

Had he forgotten her name?

She had lain awake at night aching, and he did not remember her name.

For some reason she did not care to examine and that she was quite certain had to do with the after-effect of curses, it made her bristle. He was used to ladies like her cousin Lydia, after all, with the curtsying and the flattery. Had she even remembered to curtsy? She couldn’t recall.

There was a time when the idea of not curtsying would have been as preposterous to her as willingly sticking her hand into a fire. It would never have occurred to her. And she had nothing against curtsying, it was only that her skull was now full of red cloaks and bread recipes and dead-but-still-opiniated grandmothers. And how to keep fleas from the sitting room rugs.

She curtsied now, just to prove to herself that she still retained the ability. And because the Winterwells had noticed her noticing Aidan. And no doubt, his not noticing her.

“What brings you to Hallow?” Aidan asked. It was such a benign question. She wanted to ask him where he had been, if he had undone any more curses, if he believed that Atlantis had been a real place, an island like Lyonesse. If he had ever seen any monsters in Loch Ness.

If he ever thought about that kiss.

But that was not how the game was played. His smile was polite, bland. The same smile she imagined he had offered to a hundred debutantes and dowagers and patrons of the museum. Students in his classes, if he gave classes. He seemed the type.

“So you do remember me, then,” she said instead, like an absolute cabbage.

“You are not easy to forget.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.” She was fairly certain it wasn’t meant as one. The last time they had met, he had been intent on recovering that stolen moon charm, and she had been intent on stopping him. He had been such fun to tease, all solemn focus and befuddled glances in her direction, the clenched jaw when she pushed too far. And that kiss. The roses. She could still smell them.

The guests moved around them in a sea of silks and moonstones. The chatter swelled as they took note of the glass-fronted cabinets and the shiver of old magic. There were a few witches like Sorcha—most were wolves.

“Welcome all,” Lord Winterwell boomed from the elaborate raised dais in the center. The moonlight touched his graying hair, the powerful span of his shoulders. Sorcha had not a single doubt that it was intentional. The light poured over Lady Winterwell’s moonstones, making her glow. A tickle of a glamour spell made Sorcha want to sneeze. They always did. It was one of the reasons she avoided Haven so assiduously. One could sneeze a hundred times just walking from the baker to the modiste one door over.

“We are so pleased to present to you the collected treasures of the nine Packs of Britain. There has never been a collection like it on Lyonesse. Or, indeed, anywhere in the world. And we have the director of the London Museum of Magic to attest to it. Isn’t that so, Lord Coventry?”

Aidan inclined his head. There was a pause, as if Lord Winterwell expected some sort of praise. Aidan did not oblige. He only continued to appear his mild, well-mannered self.

Not like a man who kissed as though he craved her.

“We have here the tooth of Lord Bisclavret himself,” Lord Winterwell continued. “I don’t need to tell you how rare it is. The Ossory tooth is the only one with as important a provenance, and it has never been found. We also have a ribbon worn by the first Luna priestess of the goddess Luperca herself. Moonstones brought from Skara Brae, more found buried under the standing stones of Callanish. We have the wedding gown of Lady Bisclavret. And the fang-teeth charms from each of the noble Families, on loan from the Pack leaders themselves.”

There was a murmur at that. They were clearly important.

“And, it seems, my youngest son.”