CHAPTER 36
SHE WAS UP ALL NIGHT, mind running through possibilities and probabilities.
She examined the handwriting for hours, trying to remember the shape of Cordelia’s R’s, attempting to recall some of the notes Didion had written her before she’d thrown them away, wondering if she’d ever seen Sammy’s handwriting.
But the letters were cramped and shaky, as if making those four words fit on a small enough paper had affected the entire shape of them.
Instead she considered how the note had gotten to her. The strawberry- blonde must have very limited interaction with the world outside of Biltmore, but Briony remembered the way Ilana had passed her a grape two weeks ago.
Ilana had access to everyone who walked through the door at Biltmore Palace.
So who could have gotten a note to Ilana? Sammy and Didion were on the outside. Either of them could have remembered her pet name for Rory.
Cordelia was moved frequently, if Canning was to be believed, but she had intimate knowledge of the Biltmore parties. Would Cordelia know how to coordinate with Ilana?
Briony sat in her chair, watching the first rays of sun over the grounds, holding the scrap of paper between her fingertips. She was still in her black dress. She knew Larissa would be upset if she didn’t clean off her powders
and creams. After putting the note inside the jewelry box on her bedside table, she heaved herself up and went into the bathroom.
With a clean face, she sat in the tub, thinking through a bigger issue. no dragon, don’t Worry What a fascinating series of words. “No dragon” could mean many things.
Briony wondered when the last time she’d heard about the dragon was. One of the men had said last night that the dragon had been spotted in the Tampet Mountains. That was where the Bomardi school had been located and where
the Quill estate was.
But how long ago was the sighting?
Could the note possibly be telling her that the dragon was dead?
Don’t worry about the dragon, it’s dead.
Could that be it?
So then who could know such a thing?
Briony got out of the bath, wrapped herself in a robe, and returned to her seat at the window.
She needed to know more. She needed to return a message, to show that she was open to communication.
One thing was clear. She needed to get back to Biltmore. And that would only happen if she and Toven could keep from killing each other.
Briony took a long sip of tea, considering. Three things had seemed to upset Toven last night: kissing Canning, trying to play the part in the dining room, and letting the strawberry-blonde get close to her. Briony could see his perspective about Canning, but she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Surely he had
to understand why.
The rest of his anger made no sense.
She closed her eyes, fighting back her irritation at the impossible riddle that was Toven Hearst. Perhaps understanding the root cause of his anger wasn’t as important as making sure it wouldn’t happen again. She needed to know what she could and couldn’t do. Or else he might try taking Larissa in
her body.
Briony frowned into her teacup.
That couldn’t happen. She needed to make amends with him.
Even though he was in the wrong.
* * *
After collecting her thoughts, she searched the hall for him. She found him in a study on the first floor, the door slightly cracked. There was no response after a few knocks, so she pushed the door open with her fingertips, holding her breath as it swung backward. He was bent over a desk, sealing an envelope with the Hearst wax seal with an impassive expression on his face.
She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Can we have a discussion?”
“A discussion.” He sighed and sat back.
The anger that only he stirred in her started to boil before she refocused.
Staying put in the doorway, almost blocking his exit, she said, “I’d like to talk about the fact that we haven’t had a successful evening at Biltmore yet.”
His eyes flickered up to her. “Successful.” She nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “And what would that look like?”
“You tell me,” she said quietly. “I’ve been twice, and both times I’ve felt like I’m drowning.”
A flash of something in his face—guilt, perhaps. She pushed forward, holding his gaze.
“I want to continue going to the Biltmore parties. I don’t want you to take
someone else in my body.”
He inhaled sharply. “Rosewood—”
“As terrifying and disgusting as it is, Biltmore is the one place I get to see my old friends and feel a little less alone,” she continued, rushing over him.
“And hear a bit about the world outside.”
She paused, biting her lip. She wouldn’t tell him about the note or the communication channels. He’d kept her in the dark about so many things.
“We need to be on the same page at these parties,” she added.
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“Well, for starters, if I must refrain from kissing Canning Trow in the future, I suppose I can make the sacrifice,” she said dryly.
He rolled his eyes and crossed back to the desk. “How magnanimous of you.”
“I think we need to be more comfortable with each other,” she said,
jumping right to the point.
His eyes snapped to hers, unreadable.
“I’m too stiff, you’re too...skittish.” He opened his mouth as if to argue with her. “Against ‘intimacy,’ whatever,” she said with a flippant gesture. His mouth closed, and she looked away from his intense gaze. “I like to go into situations with all the necessary information. I didn’t know you had an aversion to kissing.” She tore her gaze from his desk and found his eyes staring at a point over her shoulder. She swallowed. “I believe Canning read
my discomfort.”
“And capitalized on it,” he finished.
She nodded. Taking a deep breath and remembering the note, Briony voiced the request that had brought her down here to begin with.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” she said. “Just the two of us.”
His eyes jumped to her face. He was still, except for the muscle in his jaw.
“Have...”
“Dinner.” She nodded. “I want to discuss what a successful evening at Biltmore looks like to you. What it would take on my part to convince your friends of the kind of relationship we are supposed to have.”
He scratched his neck, and she saw pinpricks of pink under his collar.
“I’m out this evening.”
The response was swift, and it made Briony’s eyes narrow.
“Tomorrow then,” she said. He shifted on his feet, and she cut off the excuse she knew was coming. “Or any day, really. My schedule is wide open.”
He stared a hole into his desk as he responded, “Tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. Just the two of us.” She paused. “Larissa isn’t still in the
house, is she?”
He shook his head.
She ached to ask where it was Larissa stayed while she was “dead,” but she continued, “I’ll arrange everything with the kitchen.”
He lifted a brow and, with a tinge of reluctance, said, “It’s a date.”
Her pulse pounded and her cheeks grew hot. She mumbled something in
the affirmative before disappearing from the doorway and racing up the stairs back to her room.
* * *
The word “date” stuck in her head like glue, flustering her as she tried to prepare the following evening. Briony changed dresses several times, back and forth between two of them, finding fault with each. When her hands had reached for the powders and creams in her vanity, she busied them with tying her hair into a braid to rest on her shoulder instead, chastising herself for considering something as silly as dressing up for Toven Hearst.
This wasn’t “a date.” This was preparation for another outing to Biltmore.
She needed to get back to Cordelia or Sammy or Didion, and Toven needed to ward off suspicion.
At a quarter till eight, she headed down to the dining room to check on preparations. The house had set two places, just as she’d asked—one at the head of the table, and one just to the left. A bottle of red wine had been decanted, and the serving dishes were full of vegetables and roast beef.
She awkwardly took her seat at the side of the table and had to wait only five minutes before Toven’s footsteps drew her gaze to the door. She stood swiftly as he entered, her gaze lingering on his dark-blue button-up shirt. His eyes skimmed the wine and food on the table before landing back on her, quickly assessing her braided hair.
“Rosewood,” he greeted before sweeping to his chair at the head of the table, with the confidence of someone who enjoyed dinner with his captive as a matter of course.
She managed a quick nod. Retaking her seat, she focused on placing her napkin across her lap as she asked, “How was your day?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine. And yours?”
“Lovely, thank you.”
She reached for her wineglass and drank deeply, trying, but failing, to think of something to break the silence. Toven filled his plate with food before pushing the serving plate in her direction, his lips in a thin line. Briony played with her utensils, heat creeping up her neck.
They ate in silence for thirty-six seconds before she could bear it no longer.
“Clearly neither of us are ones for small talk, but I don’t intend to sit for two hours in silence.” He lifted a brow at her, and she felt the flush spread to her cheeks. “I have more questions. But I know you hate questions—”
“I don’t hate questions—”
“They put you into a ‘mood’—”
“They do not. You put me into a mood.”
She scowled at him and speared her vegetables with a forceful clink.
He sipped his wine, studying her. She took a large, defiant bite of food
and held his gaze.
“What are your questions, Rosewood?”
She swallowed thickly. “Who is Ilana?”
“Her mother is Bomardi but was disowned for marrying an Eversun. She was raised across the sea, and she lived there until after the fall of Evermore, when her father started organizing against Mallow, at which time she was taken and given to the Barlowes.”
Briony’s mind whirred, taking it all in. “And why has she been given so much authority at Biltmore? She seems to have more freedom than any other Barlowe Girl.”
“I couldn’t say, really.” He sliced into his roast with small, precise cuts. “I suppose it’s because she’s...quite good at what she does.”
A cold suspicion crashed over her. “And what exactly does she do?”
Toven’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Host. With a smile. Flirt and joke. Be seen when she needs to be seen, be invisible when she needs to be invisible.”
Briony pursed her lips as she cut her roast. The arrogance of the Bomardi was astounding. It seemed like an awful oversight to give a woman with a background like Ilana’s the keys to the Biltmore, allowing her to move from room to room largely at will.
“The tattoos. How did you and Finn find a way around them for Larissa?”
“We didn’t.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he shrugged. “A blood- purifying spell and pure luck. We weren’t sure if it would work. It’s my
understanding that if Larissa had crossed the estate line, it would have been all but impossible to remove it.”
“And you have no idea how to find a way around these tattoos.”
“It’s not exactly the kind of question I go around asking other Bomardi, no,” he said dryly. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Making your grand escape plan, Rosewood?”
“Hmm,” she said innocently, ignoring his question. “You were willing to divulge information on who escaped at Castle Javis during the card game.
Care to share?”
She watched him chew, lips pressed tight with small bites, just like his mother, his aristocratic jaw moving quickly.
“Billium Meers made it out.”
Briony blinked, pulling her gaze from his lips. “He’s alive? I thought he died on the battlefield?”
“He lived, apparently, and portaled out of Javis. The Journal page wouldn’t have said anything about it. They wouldn’t publicize a weakness like that.”
Briony squeezed her napkin in both palms, letting out a shaky breath of relief. She had never gotten on with Sammy’s father, but he had been her father’s trusted general. It was a major loss for Mallow that he’d escaped.
“Do you know where he went?”
“Starksen.” He drank his wine, and she watched him swallow. “They’re causing quite a few problems for Mallow there.”
Briony smirked into her napkin. Good. When she glanced back up at him, the smile still fading on her lips, he was still looking away from her.
She took a deep breath and braced herself for the second half of her plans for the evening. Grabbing her wineglass and taking two huge gulps, she stood.
His eyes snapped to her. “What are you doing?”
“I think”—she swallowed, hating the reedy sound in her voice—“I think we should practice.”
His fork and knife hovered over his plate. His eye twitched. “Practice.”
“To get more comfortable around each other.” She moved to the other
side of him, reaching for the wine bottle. He didn’t move an inch while she filled his glass, as she usually did at Biltmore. Standing just to his side, she pressed her lips together when he didn’t look up at her, still frozen in his chair. “I think you should pull me into your lap now.”
He placed his utensils down and sucked in a sharp breath. “This is your master plan, Rosewood?”
“Yes. We need to be more comfortable to put on a convincing show.” She twisted her fingers around each other. “We could both use a bit of rehearsal
—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I disagree. You saw that stunt Canning pulled, and he’ll try it again if we
keep giving him reasons to—”
“This whole idea is just childish.”
“What’s childish is that you can’t bear to touch me!”
“I touch you enough, it’s absurd you’re asking for more—”
“—and although it’s quite obvious that I physically repulse you—”
A dry laugh burst from him.
Her nostrils flared. “I don’t know how you behave toward women you’re sleeping with, Hearst, but if this is your idea of intimacy, then you clearly need more help than I could ever offer—”
His hand darted out and grabbed her opposite hip, tugging her into his lap.
She swallowed her squeak and steadied herself on the table, heart pounding.
In an attempt to save her dignity, she lifted her chin, shifting until she could sit properly. It seemed it was no less difficult to find a balanced position in her long wool dress than it was in short silk and heels.
“What now, Rosewood?” he rumbled, and she felt it vibrate through her rib cage.
The tips of her ears burned. “Just...behave normally. Like this is...normal.” She cleared her throat and reached for her wine, stretching back to her table setting. “Eat dinner as if I’m not even here.”
Toven seemed to take a long, slow breath before picking up his fork again. He pushed his vegetables around, staring at his peas intently.
She had a few choices of where to focus her gaze. She could awkwardly
stare at his face. She could watch him play with his food. Or the safest option: She could stare at his neck, studying the way the pink blush spread under her gaze.
“How often do they play cards at dinner?” she asked softly, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
“They play maybe every other week. There’s no schedule,” he said.
“And that’s not dangerous? To have the women as witnesses?”
“Quite.”
Briony frowned. She thought of the strawberry-blonde and her intent eyes during the game, listening to every detail. The Barlowe Girls might be on a tight leash, but they had access to a wealth of knowledge.
“Find me a book to teach me how to play the game. I can use mind magic to see everyone’s cards.”
“How do you think I keep winning, Rosewood.”
She glanced at him, bringing their faces impossibly close. As he sipped from his wineglass, she realized that Toven Hearst was an endless vault of secrets.
“Oh, how could I forget,” she said at last. “You have a habit of getting into people’s heads, don’t you?” She shook her head and sighed into her glass.
His fingers drummed on the tablecloth. “Contrary to your memory of events, Rosewood, I never entered your mind until last week.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. That couldn’t be. The leg tingles from year three. The knowledge of Didion fumbling with her corset laces. He had to be lying.
She steadied her heartbeat and asked the question she’d been fearing.
“So what do I do?” she continued. “How do we get...comfortable.”
He heaved a great, laboring sigh. “Your behavior on Friday was fine. We can keep doing that—”
“All right then.” She reached up and ran through the hair on the back of his head. Brushing her fingers along his scalp, letting the smooth locks thread through her knuckles.
His head jerked away. “What are you doing—?”
“Oh, you have a No Hair Touching Rule as well?” She rolled her eyes.
“Relax.”
He let out a ragged breath as her fingers dragged through the hair over his ear. She saw him pick up his fork again but do nothing with it. Brushing through his hair as if it were silk, she curved over his ear, her fingertips rounding the shell.
She’d dreamed of running her fingers through his hair like this. So many nights.
Remembering Larissa’s advice, she drifted soft fingers across the back of his neck, where his hairline ended.
As he shivered, she thought of the way Collin and Lorne held their women close and just watched the card game. The way the strawberry-blonde had massaged Liam’s neck and kissed his cheek for luck. The way she’d seen other Barlowe Girls smile and whisper into men’s ears or nuzzle into their necks.
“Relax,” she repeated quietly. She brushed his hair over his ear again, her fingers trailing around and down to his neck, flushed pink with the wine. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to the skin below his ear.
The earth ceased to spin in the heartbeat it took for his arm to curl tighter around her waist, his hand splayed on her ribs. She parted her lips and kissed him again. His skin was clean and minty, and she felt his throat bob under her mouth as he swallowed.
And then in quick movements, she was pushed to her feet, and he was up
out of his chair.
“The fuck are you doing?” he hissed.
She steadied herself on the table as he touched his neck, where her lips had just been. His mouth moved wordlessly as he stared at her. Maybe he felt like she’d contaminated him.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to,” she snarled. “If you’d just calm down —”
“You can’t just sit in a man’s lap and kiss his neck, Rosewood!”
She blinked at him, breathing quickly as he dragged a hand through his hair.
“And why not? That is precisely what happens at Biltmore—”
“That’s Biltmore!” he snapped. “This is here, in my house!”
Her eyes were wide as she watched him move toward the exit.
“What is your problem? We’re practicing—!”
“You cannot be this dense,” he muttered, striding out of the dining room.
She stormed after him, stopping at the doorway.
“We’re not done, Hearst! I expect you at dinner tomorrow evening!”
He disappeared around a corner, and Briony cursed under her breath.
She stomped to the table, drained her glass of wine, and finished her plate —and his, too, in case he planned to ask the house for it later.
* * *
After sending Toven a formal invitation to supper, Briony spent the rest of her Monday creating mind barriers.
She was perfectly prepared to spend another meal in his lap, and she’d work harder to convince him of the necessity. Pushing away her stray thoughts about the scent of his skin and the warmth of his chest against her side, she focused on how to stay focused.
At a quarter till eight, she made her way downstairs. She sat on a chaise longue at the side of the room and wondered if they should also practice being comfortable away from a dining table. As images flooded her mind of Toven Hearst and the versatility of a chaise, she quickly dismissed the idea.
She was still waiting for him to arrive at eight oh five, glaring into her wineglass despite her self-assurance that she’d be less reactive this time. At eight twelve, she finally heard footsteps scuffing across the stones. When she turned to lift a brow at him, he looked very much like a child who had been dragged to a dinner party with adults, scowling with bored eyes, resigned to
having a terrible time.
“Good evening,” she lilted.
He took his place at the table without a word. Once he was seated, she stood, poured his wine, and sat determinedly in his lap, as if daring him to object. His expression didn’t change as she tugged her plate of food closer,
sipped her wine, and munched on the canapés that the kitchen had sent as their first course.
“I have another question,” she said primly, breaking the silence. He didn’t respond, ignoring her gaze boring into him as he drank deeply from his wine.
“Where is your father?”
That earned her a scowl, and he plunked his glass back on the table. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“You were about to gamble that information away on Friday.”
“I knew I was going to win.”
“You tied. That was hardly winning.” She felt his ribs expand against hers with a deep breath. “You were only going to name the country,” she continued, in a gentler tone. “You can’t even give me that?”
The expression that flashed through his eyes momentarily stunned her. A softness that told her maybe she could ask anything of him. She blinked at him over her wineglass, and it was gone.
Perhaps she’d imagined it.
“Southern Camly.” His long fingers toyed with the white tablecloth.
“That’s all I know.”
Juliana was the daughter of Southern Camly’s president. It was also where Finola had trained in strategy and espionage—where many of Finola’s
contacts and acquaintances were.
“He’s gone indefinitely?” she asked.
Toven nodded. “He’s not to be disturbed unless strictly necessary.”
She frowned, knowing she had nothing but pure speculation.
Not wanting to push him too much after the previous evening, she refrained from asking more questions. She sat quietly in his lap as he finished his wine and ate his meal, her mind sorting through all she’d learned.
She was disappointed by how much he didn’t know—how much she still didn’t know—but at least it was a start. She didn’t have the sense that he’d lied or withheld information from her. More important, they seemed to be making progress on an interpersonal level. Despite the evening’s rocky start, they hadn’t fought, which was a significant improvement.
The next night, she ate early and finished her wine quickly, giving her the
courage she needed to push their boundaries a bit farther. She spent the meal curled into his side, running her fingers through his hair as he poked at his vegetables. She noticed that he held her eye longer than usual, and she tried her best to ignore the fluttering in her chest each time it happened.
“Will things get out of hand again at the private dinners, do you think?” she asked. “I know the atmosphere seemed calmer, but—”
“This is fine,” he cut in. “What we’re doing here”—his hand gestured between them—“will be fine for Friday.”
She lifted a brow but kept her reservations to herself. They’d cross that bridge later. For now, she didn’t want to upset their progress. It was still too fragile.
As the week progressed, Toven began to distract her thoughts even more than usual. She woke in the mornings with the memory of what it felt like to be curled against his body. The scent of it. She had to increase the amount of time she spent meditating in the morning so she could stay on task the rest of the day while she scoured the news and continued researching.
But at night, when it was just the two of them, she pulled his shelf forward, letting his volumes flutter open to vibrant colors and patterns.
It was dangerous, she knew, given her history of feelings for him, but she couldn’t see a way around the need to build trust. A solid connection with him, if not a friendship. She ignored the voice in her head that told her she didn’t want to find another way.
On Wednesday, she picked food off his plate while sitting against his chest. He fought her for the last of his potatoes, his fork jabbing at her fingers when she reached for them. Her heartbeat thrummed as she smiled and tried to offer him the potato, pressing it to his lips. He rolled his eyes and turned his face away.
That’s how Serena Hearst found the two of them—with Briony in her son’s lap, his arm wrapped around her waist, and her trying to feed him as he dramatically twisted his head from side to side.
“Oh,” Serena said.
Briony gasped, tumbling out of Toven’s lap. Toven jumped up, knocking over his wineglass.
“We weren’t—”
“This isn’t what it looks—”
“It’s only that—”
“Couldn’t you have knocked, Mother?”
“My,” Serena hummed, and Briony felt her face turn beet red at the barely concealed grin spreading across her features. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting anything,” Toven said quickly, almost shouting the words. He started to push his chair in, shoving it roughly after it skidded noisily on the floor.
“No, no.” Serena waved her hands. “Please finish your meal. I insist.”
Briony stared at her shoes, pulse pounding in her ears. Her skin itched with guilt and embarrassment in every place that had just been in contact with Toven’s body.
“Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” Serena glided out of the room, and Briony thought she could hear a light laugh echo in the corridor.
Briony dropped her head into her hands as soon as she turned the corner.
“Oh waters,” she groaned.
Toven shifted on his feet before excusing himself with an unintelligible mumble, leaving her alone in the dining room with only her burning skin and guilty conscience.
