Ian gestured to the window. “What are you looking at, with such an intent expression on your face?”
Wren swallowed. He’d been paying attention to her expression? She hoped that she hadn’t been scowling or chewing on her lower lip, a habit which her mother had always chided her about, saying it made her look like a sheep chewing its cud. “The landscape,” she admitted. “It’s such an extraordinary view. I could look at it for hours.” And a good thing, too, since nobody wants to talk to me.
He studied her face, oddly intent. “Is that so?”
Belatedly, Wren remembered that anyone familiar with the Court of Smoke had probably seen the view so many times that it no longer registered. She smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know, it is terribly unfashionable to admit to being impressed with the view. Probably anyone who is anyone has seen much better. But I still like it, anyway.”
Ian shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Never admit that you have been caught being
unfashionable. And never apologize for enjoying something.” He leaned his elbows against the broad windowsill and gazed out at it himself. “It is beautiful. My home, I fear, is rather flat.”
“Mine’s all hills,” said Wren, turning to look out the window again and wondering when she could steal another glance at his face without being too obvious. Now? No, too soon. Wait until he says something else.
He did not say anything else, not for several minutes. When Wren finally gave up and glanced toward him, his eyes caught hers and held them.
“Is there a husband waiting for you, back in those hills?” he asked softly.
Wren’s pulse, which stayed steady even when she was trying to put an axe in someone’s brain, jumped. “I…err…no,” she stammered. Did he mean that like it sounded?
Really, though, is there any other way he could have meant that?
She couldn’t think of one, so she swallowed around a dry throat and asked, “Is there a wife waiting for you, back in your land?”
Ian shook his head, his smile turning wry. “Astonishingly, there is not much market for penniless younger sons without even a courtesy title.” He turned back to the window. “But enough of such self-pity. Tell me about your hill country. Is it steeper than this?”
“No,” Wren said, “it’s more rolling. The mountains are a long way away…” To her mild astonishment, she found herself telling him all about Sedgemoor, about the cold dry winters and the hot green color of the hills in spring and the capricious rivers that were so violently contested by the people who depended on them.
And he listened, that was the wonder of it. He listened and nodded and asked intelligent questions and she didn’t feel as if she was boring him to tears.
“My…err…friend is holding a gathering to sample perfumes in two nights,” she said finally. (Was she supposed to call Marguerite her friend? She couldn’t remember.) “You should come! I’m sure I can arrange an invitation.”
Ian put a hand over his heart in apparent anguish. “Two nights hence? Alas. I am slated to dance attendance on my aging mother that evening.” He gave her a hangdog look. “Believe me, I would far rather be sampling perfumes in pleasant company.”
Wren swallowed. I almost believe him. But maybe that was just a polite excuse? She dropped her eyes. Have I been nattering on to him, but he’s too polite to leave?
“When may I see you again?” Ian asked. “If not over perfumes?”
Her heart leapt. She knew that the accepted thing for a lady to do would be to say something flirtatious but noncommittal. She wracked her brain for something flirtatious, but all she could think of was Istvhan, who would probably have said, “Here’s my room number, I’ll be there all night.” Istvhan did not do noncommittal.
Instead she said, “When would you like to?” and felt her heart leap again when he smiled.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT HAD TAKEN Marguerite an entire week to set up the perfume sampling, and now that it had arrived, it was going better than it should have.
People streamed in, chattering. They chattered to each other, they sniffed samples from tiny, cut-glass bottles, they chattered about the samples. They drank wine and chattered about the wine. They sniffed more, they chattered more. The room filled up with sweet scents and gossip and Marguerite circulated through it, smiling warmly, listening hard, and watching people watch other people.
She had, in truth, been braced for something to go wrong. Something always did. Someone would mortally offend someone else, a duel would break out, one of the bottles of wine would have gone to vinegar, a minor noble would have an allergic reaction to one of the perfumes and need to be rushed to the healer.
But so far nothing had gone wrong. It was almost uncanny. Marguerite didn’t trust it. Sure, her feet ached from the shoes, which added three inches to her height and took three years off the lifespan of her ankles. Sure, her hair had been scraped and teased into a confection with multiple combs that made her scalp feel as if it was caught in a vise. Sure, she had smelled Grace’s perfume selections so many times that she could no longer detect any of them, and her commentary was based on having memorized the color of the paper strips.
But she had expected all that. It was the lack of the unexpected that was throwing her.
One of the people who had refused the invitation had shown up anyway. She suspected that his previous engagement had proved dull. Unfortunately, he proved even duller. After admiring his latest medal and listening to an interminable tale of how he’d acquired it, she crossed him off her mental list. There were operatives who worked by being stultifyingly boring, but his was clearly an impressive natural talent. She eventually excused herself to speak to one of the cloth merchants from Baiir, not without a certain relief.
“Lovely,” said Fenella, as Marguerite approached. Her shawl was embroidered in a hundred colors, like a peacock’s tail, and she was making distinct inroads on the wine. “Simply a lovely selection, Mistress Florian. We’ll certainly want to place orders.”
“You are too kind,” said Marguerite warmly.
“Lovely gathering, too,” Fenella said. “Such handsome men at Court, and you’ve invited so many of them.” She winked at Marguerite, who laughed.
“I fear that reflects more to the Court’s credit than mine, madam.”
“Bollock—” She coughed. “I mean, balderdash. Look at that fellow over there. Do you think he’s available?”
Marguerite followed Fenella’s gaze and coughed. “I fear that is my bodyguard, madam.”
“Oho!” Fenella nudged her in the ribs. “Wouldn’t mind him guarding my body. I don’t suppose he’s available too?”
“Sadly, it’s only the perfumes.”
“Ah, well.” Fenella lifted her wineglass in salute. “I’d probably break him anyway.”
“I don’t doubt it in the slightest.” Fenella was clearly slightly tipsy. Too clearly? Marguerite had no reason to suspect her, except that she suspected everyone.