There was a dark grey Aston Martin parked in the Ashwyn driveway.
Lysara drew her little Mini in behind it, careful not to block the unfamiliar vehicle, and gathered her dance bag from the passenger seat.
She closed the front door quietly behind her and paused as the murmur of men's voices drifted from her father's study.
One of Father's business associates, she assumed. There was always a steady procession of meetings through the house.
She had returned from Paris a little over a week ago for Niava's wedding and to spend a little time in Faerie before returning to France. It had only been three days since the wedding, yet life at her parents' house had already settled into a comfortable rhythm. Mornings sketching in the studio, afternoons at dance, evenings with her parents—it was surprisingly easy to slip back into old routines.
"Lysara."
She turned to find her mother hurrying out of the sitting room, clasping her hands together with barely concealed excitement.
"Oh, honestly," her mother exclaimed, taking in the untidy knot of hair escaping from its ribbon, the dance bag slung over one shoulder and the faint flush still lingering in her cheeks from class. "Look at the state of you."
"I've been dancing," Lysara replied, slightly bewildered.
"Well, hurry." Her mother caught her gently by the elbow and steered her towards the staircase. "Go upstairs, have a shower and change. Quickly. We can keep him occupied for another few minutes."
"Him?"
Her mother looked at her as though the answer should have been obvious.
"Lord Daevyn Vale, of course."
Lysara stopped halfway up the stairs.
"He... what?"
"He's come to call."
For one reckless heartbeat hope flared to life.
Perhaps she had misunderstood.
Perhaps what she had seen behind the embroidered screen at Niava's wedding had not meant what she had believed.
Then common sense returned.
No.
There was very little room for misunderstanding when a beautiful woman kissed a handsome gentleman and invited him to disappear into the night with her.
She showered anyway.
Not because Daevyn Vale had appeared unexpectedly in her parents' drawing room, but because she had spent the last two hours sweating and could hardly present herself smelling of exertion.
She made no attempt to dress for company.
A pair of well-worn jeans, a crisp white linen shirt and clean trainers suited her perfectly well. She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, studied her reflection for a moment, then gave a faint shake of her head.
Whatever Daevyn wanted, she would not pretend to be someone else in order to impress him.
By the time she reached the ground floor again, she had almost convinced herself she was entirely composed.
Almost.
Her mother looked up first.
The expression of maternal delight upon seeing her daughter lasted barely a second before giving way to unmistakable horror as she took in the jeans.
"My dear..."
Her father wisely said nothing.
Daevyn followed their gazes and turned.
The easy smile that lit his face at the sight of Lysara made her resolve falter far more effectively than any formal compliment could have done.
He murmured something apologetic to her parents before crossing the hall towards her.
"Miss Lysara."
He leaned in to brush a courteous kiss against each cheek in the old Winter Court fashion.
As he drew back, he paused for the smallest fraction of a second.
"Lavender."
She blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
His smile deepened.
"I wondered whether it was your perfume at the wedding."
Realising what he meant, she laughed softly.
"It's only my shampoo."
"It suits you."
Her pulse betrayed her immediately.
It had been easier to dismiss him as an impossibly handsome stranger after the wedding. Standing this close to him again, catching the familiar fragrance of bergamot and warm resin beneath the clean autumn air drifting through the open doorway, remembering the warmth of his hand at the small of her back as they had danced...
No.
She refused to think about that.
"Would you take a walk with me?" he asked.
She hesitated only long enough to glance towards her parents.
Her mother’s expression suggested she had already begun planning a wedding.
Her father looked considerably more amused.
Daevyn held the front door open for her, waiting until she stepped outside before following.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the great oak tree that dominated the Ashwyn gardens, dappling the grass with shifting patches of gold. They wandered towards it without speaking, the comfortable silence somehow easier than the carefully polite conversation of the drawing room.
It was Daevyn who finally broke it.
"I hope you won't think my calling here too forward."
"I confess," Lysara admitted with a small smile, "I wasn't expecting it."
"No."
He looked briefly towards the branches overhead before returning his attention to her.
"I imagine you weren't."
They stopped beneath the oak where her family had picnicked every summer for as long as she could remember.
For a moment neither of them spoke. The breeze stirred gently through the branches overhead, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and the lavender growing beneath the windows of the house. Somewhere above a songbird chattered in disapproval of their presence before taking flight.
She became suddenly, acutely aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that she could see the tiny gold flecks hidden within his remarkable green eyes whenever the light caught them.
Near enough that she was once again reminded how unfairly handsome he was.
"I've spent the last several days considering how best to approach this conversation," he said quietly. "Unfortunately, I've discovered there doesn't appear to be a perfect way."
"That sounds rather ominous." She tried to alleviate the tension, but doing so felt false.
"I'm afraid it probably does." He laughed under his breath, running one hand briefly through his hair before letting it fall again. "I'll try plain honesty instead."
He met her eyes. "I find myself in need of a wife and I should like the opportunity to court you, Lysara."
She had spent three days reminding herself that she had imagined everything at the wedding; that a smile was only a smile, that a dance was only a dance, and that gentlemen did not abandon women they felt a bond with to disappear into the night with beautiful singers.
Yet being in his company was just as powerful this time as it had seemed at the wedding. Her entire body yearned towards his and she felt as if she had to restrain herself from leaning his way.
And he had to feel it too—as asking to court was basically a marriage proposal amongst the Fae.
"I confess," she said at last when her tongue remembered how to form words, "I'm surprised."
"Are you?"
He was watching her with a small smile. "You are very beautiful, Lysara." His gaze lingered on her lips.
Heat climbed her neck before she could stop it.
His hand lifted almost hesitantly, as though uncertain whether the gesture would be welcome, and gently brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. His fingers lingered for the briefest moment against her cheek before falling away again.
Every coherent thought deserted her. She turned her head towards him, and his lips met hers as if he had planned it precisely so
She could feel the shift of muscle and bone as he breathed, the distant thud of his heart as her hands crept up and around his neck, tangling into his thick hair. The band holding it contained slid free.
He groaned, pushing her back against the rough bark, his body heavy against hers, so that she could feel the hard press of his cock against her.
“Fuck,” he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers, and his breath panted as he laughed ruefully. “Fuck me,” he repeated and pressed his lips to her cheek. “The chemistry isn’t lacking between us.”
He cupped her chin, stroking his thumb over her lower lip, his eyes intense on hers. “But this isn’t the place to explore that further.”
“No,” she agreed, her heart still racing and her breath still rapid. “No, I guess not.”
“There is a right way to begin a courtship. I have no intention of doing this badly,” he stooped to retrieve the hairband from the ground and scooped his hair back so that he could bind it back neatly again. He grinned at her as he did so. “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow night. Wear something you can dance in.”
He leaned in and brushed a kiss across her cheekbone. “Until then.”