~Florence

  Despite my apprehension, the Lady Charlotte’s tea party is rather lovely. The weather is pleasant, especially in the shaded area where our table is set up, the music is charming, and the refreshments—rose-themed—are unique and delicious.

  When I arrived, I was immediately escorted to a reserved table, where the hostess and several other ladies were already seated. This area of the immense garden is semi-private, with hanging wisteria acting as a natural screen. However, when the gentle wind blows, it’s possible to glance through the flowers and see beyond, and—heavens!

  It’s him—the man who snatched off my wig! Why in Saint Dora’s name is he here?!

  “Is something amiss, Lady Florence?” Lady Ruby Bloodwell asks, her head cocked to the side, eyeing me with…amusement. Not concern. Her amber eyes sparkle with mischief, almost matching the gems in the apricot-colored ensemble she wears today.

  I rearrange my face into what I hope is a neutral expression, despite my pounding heart. Darn nerves.

  “Not at all, Lady Ruby,” I smile at her and her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

  She, her sister Lady Pearl, Lady Catherine Higby, Lady Ivy Windsor, and myself are the lucky few chosen by our host, Lady Charlotte Liptoff, to be seated at this particular, lavishly decorated party table in the Liptoff garden. Everyone is dressed in the expected pastels for an afternoon tea party, with rose pink reserved for our hostess. The Rose Garden Quartet plays nearby, at a perfect volume where we can enjoy the music, but it doesn’t drown out our conversation.

  Many other young ladies and lords are present, meandering about the blooming garden or sitting at some of the smaller, less ornately decorated tables scattered around. It was at one of these tables I spotted that man, sitting with a lady I am not acquainted with, through the wisteria.

  More than likely, he has seen me as well—likely when I arrived and was paraded through the garden to this table, being a guest of status.

  More than likely, it’s no coincidence he and I are both present at this event. After all, tea parties are the best places for drama and gossip.

  I suppress a sigh and sip my tea instead, though it’s grown cold. These silly ladies and the games they play. Do they have nothing better to do than try to provoke me?

  I should’ve known better.

  The conversation turns to men of marriageable age and I make sure my neutral expression is still in place. Quite frankly, I don’t care about the Rowanward brothers, Lord Kerwin Grayson, or even the princes! No matter who they mention, I have no interest in getting married any time soon—I have far too much to do.

  Besides, I have no experience with the feelings these ladies are discussing. I’ve never had “butterflies,” or a racing heart when thinking about someone I like. I’ve never liked anyone of the opposite sex well enough to spend time thinking about them, let alone daydreaming and fantasizing about a future life with them. My time is too precious as it is!

  My mind begins wandering to my mage class when something Lady Catherine says piques my interest, “—warm sensation in your middle? Similar to feeling flushed in your cheeks but…” She pats her cheeks delicately a couple of times, then brings her voice down low to a conspiratorial whisper. We all lean in to hear her, “...in other, intimate places.”

  Lady Pearl gasps and whips open her cream-colored fan to cool herself. I sit back, nearly spilling my tea. Someone titters.

  I think I know what she’s talking about.

  I do my best to appear no more interested and scandalized than the rest of the ladies at the table, without giving away what I know. That is…what I may have felt that night riding back to the annex with Sir Thorne seated behind me.

  His hands holding me tight around my waist, with nothing but my chemise beneath the cloak. Carrying me in his arms through the garden, holding me close to his warm body.

  “You’re engaged, Lady Ivy, have you felt it before?” Lady Catherine asks, jolting me out of my thoughts. Her pale blue gown beautifully complements her golden hair, and it somehow also makes her slightly darker blue eyes more noticeable.

  Lady Ivy’s cheeks redden on her ivory face, giving her away. “It is indeed a, ahem, passionate sensation. But I find it only occurs with someone you truly care for. Such as my dear Sir Welby,” she brings a hand up to her cheek and wistfully looks into the distance. Like Lady Pearl, Lady Ivy is also dressed in cream, however, her accents are gold today—regardless of the occasion, Lady Pearl always wears her signature pearls, a fact other ladies rely upon when choosing their ensembles.

  “You’re hopeless, Lady Ivy!” Lady Catherine titters from behind her fan. “But at least that confirms it. Who else?”

  I spy Sir Jerrome walking with a lady about fifty feet away. He bows slightly when our eyes meet, but I use it as an excuse to get up. This topic is turning dangerous and I decide to exit swiftly, before my own cheeks turn pink.

  “Pardon me, ladies, but I see someone I must greet.” I get up from my seat carefully, so as not to knock anything over. “Please excuse me.”

  I curtsy and leave as quickly as I dare, heading straight for Sir Jerrome, who has stopped to wait for me. When I get closer, I wonder how I was able to recognize him at all—he looks so different from the knight I met in the woods, with his dark blonde hair neatly combed and wearing a dove-gray suit.

  He’s handsome, I realize.

  “Sir Jerrome,” I say, dipping my head in greeting.

  “Lady Florence,” he replies, bowing deeply. “Lizabetta, allow me to introduce Lady Florence LaVelle. Lady Florence, this is my younger sister, Lady Lizabetta Medford. I am her chaperone for the day.”

  Ah, his sister. She curtsies deeply, lowering her curious, but friendly, brown eyes. Eyes her brother shares.

  “I wanted to thank you for your help that day,” I say, enjoying the slight flush creeping into his cheeks. Perhaps he’s still embarrassed about his behavior that day, which is what I would call less than chivalrous.

  “It was entirely my pleasure, my lady,” he replies shamelessly.

  “Indeed.”

  Footsteps approach from behind me, boots on the garden gravel.

  “Ah, Lady Florence, have you been acquainted with Lord Trevor Rowanward?” Sir Jerrome asks me.

  “Not officially,” I say, turning to take in the tall man with dark, wavy hair, wearing dark glasses that completely hide his eyes. “Though, I believe we played as children a time or two.”

  ????

  ~Trevor

  Stolen story; please report.

  Trevor spied Lady Florence right away. It was almost too easy—he told himself it was due to her unique hair, not the unique awareness he seemed to have developed for her and her alone. Which had only developed because of the nature of their combat lessons. Obviously.

  He didn’t couldn't quite hate tea parties and garden parties and the like—after all, they were a great way to gather information—but they were ever so tiresome. All slight variations of the same, boring thing, over and over. The same tea, the same too-sweet confections.

  Yet, here he was.

  Trevor wandered the garden, a cup of strawberry lemonade in his hand, listening to the faint sounds of the Rose Garden Quartet, ears open for anything of interest…perhaps a clue to this ‘Raius’ person, the name he’d briefly read in the shared journal before it disappeared. Florence had somehow erased it, which made him curious…in more ways than one. It shouldn't have been possible to erase, yet she had. Now he knew something she didn't want him to know.

  And it wasn't just the name itself, but the way it had been written—the only word scrawled across the page at an angle, the letters hurriedly—or perhaps groggily—formed. It hadn't been there the night before, but it was there first thing in the morning. At some point in the night, Florence had written it down. He had questions, but he couldn't ask her any of them because she'd erased the evidence. She didn't want him to know about it. At least, not yet.

  Instead of hearing anything about 'Raius,' it hadn’t taken long for Trevor to learn that Florence was still a major topic of conversation, and not in a good way.

  By the Saint, some of the things he had overheard were downright abhorrent—

  “How dare that evil witch show her face here? Can’t she tell where she’s not wanted?”

  “Did she not get the hint at her debut?”

  “What the hell is wrong with her hair? At the very least, she should cover it! It’s such an eyesore…”

  “Do you think she believes she’s welcome here? The only reason she was invited was for our entertainment! Ha!”

  “She’s so scrawny, no bosom to speak of. Who on earth would want to marry that?”

  “I heard Vester Tyrell was locked in the LaVelle dungeons for weeks…weeks! They say Florence got her revenge by practicing curses on him. He’ll never touch a woman’s hair again in his life!”

  “She says her hair is a ‘blessing.’ Psh! Can you believe some spirit from the Great Beyond would bestow a blessing like that? Of course, it’s fake! She must be dying it on purpose to look like that, for attention.”

  “There’s no gentleman in Dorandia that would want to marry her—I don’t know why she bothered debuting. She’ll have to move to Kirva or Liutan?ia to find a husband. Maybe Straya-Swon! I heard they don’t mind women who look like girls.”

  Eventually, Trevor had to walk away. It was maddening. She had done nothing, nothing, to deserve their scorn, yet they acted as if she were a murderous villainess. How had the rumors gotten to this point?

  Not a single person had anything nice to say about Florence. Not a single person defended her. Did she know her position in society? Perhaps she didn’t…Perhaps she was blissfully ignorant.

  Trevor gnawed on his lip. He hadn’t come here to learn all of this. But…perhaps it was better that he knew. Now he could do something about it.

  He hadn’t been paying attention to where he was wandering and suddenly realized Jerrome and his younger sister, Miss Lizabetta, were right in front of him—talking to Florence, of all people.

  Shit.

  Well, there’s no helping it, he thought.

  “Ah, Lady Florence, have you been acquainted with Lord Trevor Rowanward?” Sir Jerrome asked Lady Florence as Trevor approached.

  “Not officially,” she replied, turning to look at him. The moment her eyes met his, his heart jumped. She's breathtaking. “Though, I believe we played as children a time or two.”

  Was this his first time seeing her as Lady Florence since her debut? She looked so different in a dress that suited her, with her beautiful hair proudly, artfully arranged and cascading down her back. Her turquoise eyes looked at him questioningly and he realized they were all waiting for his response.

  “I apologize,” he said quickly. “Where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Trevor Rowanward, second son of Marquess Oswald Rowanward, at your service.”

  “Lady Florence LaVelle,” she replied. “You seem familiar, my lord. Have we met more recently than I can recall?”

  “I was present at your debut,” Trevor said smoothly. It was true, but it was not the most recent time they had been together. "Perhaps you saw me then?"

  Act as Lord Trevor, not Sir Thorne! he thought to himself. Lord Trevor was a bit of a flirt. But…could he actually bring himself to flirt with Florence?

  “Oh.” Her face fell, likely remembering the disastrous evening.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I was actually quite impressed with your ability to teleport. Was that really your first time?”

  “You’re a mage, Lady Florence?” Lady Lizabetta interjected, her admiration apparent. “That’s so exciting! I’ve always wished I had some kind of talent like that. Oh! Um, anyway—” her brother looked at her pointedly, “—we were on our way to meet my friends, so please excuse us.”

  After some hurried goodbyes, suddenly Lady Florence and Lord Trevor were alone.

  Shit.

  Behind his dark glasses, he was able to gaze longer at Florence without her knowing. He could tell she was nervous. What would Lord Trevor do with any other nervous Lady?

  “It’s quite warm, isn’t it? Shall we go get a dish of ice cream to cool off?” he said, offering his arm.

  Florence’s eyes widened and she almost took a step back—a common reaction he learned about her from practicing together. After a couple of seconds of hesitation, Florence placed her small, gloved hand around his arm and together they went to the rose-decorated table laden with strawberry-rose ice cream.

  “I’ve never had ice cream before,” Florence quietly admitted, her cheeks pink.

  “Well, I’ve never had strawberry-rose ice cream before, my lady, and may I say! This is an excellent introduction to the world of ice cream. Truly, this is a remarkable flavor combination I never would have considered. I find it quite...hm, what's the right word? Ah! Ambrosial. What are your thoughts?”

  “I agree,” she said, her eyes closed.

  Savoring. He could tell.

  His heart twitched and he realized he was smiling. Quickly, he rearranged his face and resumed his role—a genial, flirtatious gentleman providing an amiable atmosphere for an uncomfortable lady.

  “The standard flavors are vanilla—which some will argue is not a flavor at all, but it is—chocolate, and most would also include strawberry as another one since it’s so common. But lots of the shops these days are offering new flavors, especially during the summer months. Berry is good if you like blueberries and raspberries. Lemon is a favorite of mine because I think the sour combined with the sweet and cream is simply delicious, reminiscent of a lemon tart. Oh! Coffee is a newer one—”

  “Coffee? What’s that?”

  “Coffee? Who hasn’t heard of—” Trevor stopped himself cold, realizing his error. Of course, she wouldn't know what coffee is, having been asleep during its arrival to the country. “I apologize, my lady. Coffee was brought to Dorandia about four years ago. It is a very bitter beverage made by grinding up roasted coffee beans. However, since drinking it increases one’s energy, it caught on quickly despite the taste. Most people add cream and sugar to make it taste better.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps I’ll try it sometime.”

  “I could take you, if you like, to make up for my blunder.”

  Florence gazed at him critically, then nodded. “Alright. However, I’m awfully busy these days, so it might have to be between or after my classes at the Academy. Do you happen to know if there is a cafe that serves coffee on campus?”

  “Yes, my lady. There quite a few.”

  “I wonder if coffee might be the odd-smelling beverage my classmates bring in sometimes…”

  “Er, it probably is…” Trevor said. “We don’t need to go if you don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “No, I’m curious. I would like to go.”

  “Then we shall. May I take your dish for you?”

  “Thank you.”

  Trevor took both ice cream dishes back to the table with a spring in his step. Perhaps he could pull off being both Lord Trevor and Sir Thorne, at least for the time being. But it was dangerous to continue for long. Eventually, she would figure it out, and she would rightfully be furious at him for misleading her.

  His musings were interrupted when he returned to Florence to discover Vester Tyrell—of all people—kneeling in front of her, a pleading look on his face.

  ??kb