Chapter 10
Edwina isn’t cute. She isn’t cute at all. There’s no way William Haywood the Poet would find a woman attractive after she threw up on him. So why do I find my eyes flicking back to her again and again in the coach? I went out of my way to sit nowhere near her, which is why I’m across from her beside Daphne and Jolene Vaughn. That, however, was a mistake, for if I look anywhere but out the window, Edwina is all I see.
Her pale shoulders.
The dip of her cleavage.
The swell of her breasts.
The freckles that dance over her collarbones, mirroring the spattering of dots over her nose and cheeks, like a lake reflecting a starry sky.
I realize I’m staring again and firmly look away. What’s come over me? I’m no stranger to the amount of skin Edwina is showing. Solar was my home court for four years. I graduated from the very university where our signing will be held. I’m used to seeing women out in public in sleeveless dresses and flimsy fabrics. More so, I’ve seen my share of naked bodies. Male, female, human, fae. Sex might as well have been my major at university, for I performed in bed as often as I did on stage, just to a different script. One was flesh and fucking, the other was projection and prose.
So why should this strange human woman with her horrible temper and even worse personality fluster me so?
She doesn’t, I try to tell myself as she nudges the bridge of her spectacles back in place, but my distraction has pitched me out of my poet’s persona. William the Stage Actor can only lie when he’s immersed in his role as William the Poet. Why I’m struggling to stay in character in the first place is beyond me. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep. Unlike Edwina, I didn’t sleep in until thirty minutes after our agreed time of departure.
I slide my gaze from her—yes, I’ve caught myself staring again—to Monty. His attention is already on me, his eyes narrowed while mischief plays around his mouth. I didn’t like the questions he asked me on the train. What did I do with Edwina last night? Why did I go to her rescue? Why were we avoiding each other on our way to the station?
He claimed his questions were for the good of determining whether either of us made progress toward our bet. He’s deemed himself the overseer of our bargain and will keep track of our points on our behalf, though I can’t fathom how any of his questions were relevant.
He holds my gaze a beat longer, then scoots closer to Edwina. His legs are crossed toward her and his foot is dangerously close to brushing her tartan hem. “You got creative with your top after all. You fit right in with the Solar Court ladies now.”
“It was Jolene’s idea,” Edwina says, speaking to him without an ounce of the ire she reserves for me. I’m not sure whether I should feel envy or hubris.
“Brilliant, Miss Vaughn,” he says to Jolene, giving her a soundless round of applause before returning his attention to Edwina. “Yes, a lovely chemise. The color reminds me of something. A type of dessert. What is it? Do you know, Mr. Haywood?”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” I say with an air of indifference.
“That’s because you aren’t looking. Just look. You must know what I’m thinking.”
I look anywhere but at Edwina. “I do not.”
“Ah, I remember,” Monty says with a snap of his fingers. “Meringue. That fluffy white dessert.”
“I haven’t had meringue,” Edwina says.
“It’s a lovely confection,” Monty explains. “You see, my best friend is a baker. He makes the best meringue as a pie topping. I’ve made it with him before. You take egg whites and sugar and whip them into stiff peaks.” His eyes meet mine across the coach as he says the last two words.
Bastard. I know what he’s playing at now. He’s trying to keep Edwina’s breasts at the front of my mind.
“I prefer small soft peaks, personally,” Monty says, somehow managing to keep his tone somber. “What about you, William? Do you prefer small peaks or large peaks? Of meringue.”
“I’m not keen on dessert,” I say, fixing my gaze out the window as our coach crosses a bridge over a sunlit canal.
“Mr. Phillips,” Edwina says, “may I inquire about the bruises on your hand?”
“Oh, this?” Monty spreads his fingers over his knee. Purple bruises flush his knuckles, and a few are even scabbed over.
“It’s nothing, Miss Danforth. I simply petted a cat a little too hard in the alley last night.”
The soft look in Edwina’s eyes tells me she knows exactly how he got those bruises. Which also means she must remember what happened last night. While I’m grateful Monty taught the lion fae a lesson, I would have done so too if my priority hadn’t been seeing Edwina safely to her room. Now he’s the one receiving her tender gaze while I was treated like a common criminal for spending the night in her room.
“Don’t admire me too much,” Monty says. “I was bored last night, that’s all. I’d take any excuse to beat a man senseless. You may not know this, but beneath my smile, I’m a fount of bottomless rage.”
He says it all with a dimpled grin, so I haven’t a clue if he’s jesting. I’ve only known the publicist for just over a week, and so far he’s seemed equally flippant about life and work.
“Still, it is rather heroic,” Jolene says from beside me. Her hand falls upon Daphne’s back in an idle stroke.
The pine marten stiffens and rounds on the girl, teeth bared. “I am not a pet.”
Jolene flinches back. “Sorry! It was just a force of habit. I have six cats?—”
Daphne leaps off the bench and bounds to the other side of the coach, planting herself beside Monty.
“Daffy Dear is feral indeed,” Monty says to Jolene, then poses another question for Edwina. “How are you feeling about the bet you made last night?”
“Oh, fine. Just fine. Everything is…fine.” Her words come out in a rush.
Damn. I still need to find an opportunity to let her beg me to dissolve our bargain. But if I’ve learned anything in the last twenty-four hours of our acquaintance it’s that her pride only swells before an audience. I’ll need to get her alone. The less I say about it now, the better.
So I clench my jaw and firmly hold my tongue, even when Monty speaks again.
“Want any tips?” he asks. “I consider myself a bit of a romance expert. An unofficial matchmaker if you will. In truth, it’s the job I wanted before I applied at Fletcher-Wilson, but the matchmaking agency didn’t take my track record of one seriously.”
“You’ve matched a couple before?” Jolene asks, leaning subtly closer to me. “How much do you charge?”
“You wouldn’t believe it by his actions, but Monty already has a job,” Daphne says in her dry monotone.
“Clever,” Monty says with a smirk at the pine marten before returning his attention to Edwina. “Come, Miss Danforth. Ask me anything.”
“Well,” she says, reaching for the seat beside her. She frowns when her hands meet only air. Perhaps she was looking for her carpet bag. Or that little notebook I’ve seen her scribbling in. She smooths her hands over her skirts instead. “What stirs your desire, Mr. Phillips?”
Her cold and methodical tone contrasts her words. They’d sound flirtatious coming from someone else, but she poses the question like an inquiry about the weather. It takes some effort to hide my grin.
“Oh, I’d rather not make you blush,” Monty says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But I can say, in general, men simply want to please their lovers. We want to do whatever makes you feel good.”
“What makes me feel good.” She echoes his words slowly as if they’re foreign to her.
Monty’s brows lift. “Don’t tell me…do you not know your own preferences? Your favorite positions? The places you like being touched most?”
Edwina’s mouth falls open, her cheeks turning pink. She’s saved from answering as Jolene sits forward in her seat. “Oh, she absolutely does. She has so much experience. Did you not know? She’s done everything she’s written about.”
Edwina grimaces.
“Is that so?” Monty says, stifling a laugh. “Well, if you’re ever curious to explore in a safe and neutral place, Miss Danforth, come to me.”
“Swine,” Daphne mutters.
It takes all my restraint not to voice my agreement. My fingers curl into fists.
“Oh?” Edwina tilts her head. The moment she comprehends his offer is marked by an even deeper flush of her cheeks. “Oh! That’s…rather…”
Monty angles himself closer to her, propping his elbow on the backrest. “I assure you, I would be a fully neutral test subject. I don’t do attachments, and I mean it. This isn’t one of your little books where love changes a man. I am incapable of love.”
I expect her to roll her eyes, but she elicits a gasp instead, then reaches toward the empty spot beside her. “Damn,” she mutters when her fingers come away empty once more.
“Did…did you just swoon, Miss Danforth?” Monty’s voice is rich with laughter.
Her shoulders slump. “It’s just…it’s exactly what one of my heroes would say, right before they settle down. I wanted to take a note of your words, but my notebook is in my carpet bag?—”
“Trust me, I’m not a hero.” There’s a somber note in his voice, reflected in the lack of mirth in his eyes.
Edwina shakes her head. “Back to the topic at hand. One I believe you misinterpreted. I wasn’t asking about what you like to do with your lover, but more what makes you interested in a lover in the first place? What would make you want to take a woman you just met to bed?”
Monty tilts his head, expression thoughtful. “An eye patch,” he says. “A peg leg too.”
“Really?” Jolene stares at Monty, then exchanges a confused look with Edwina. “Why?”
“It makes me think she’d be willing to do things that are arrrrrgh-rated.”
I close my eyes with a groan and rub my brow. A fucking pirate joke.
“I don’t understand,” Edwina says.
“R-rated,” Monty says with a shrug.
“What does R-rated mean?”
“It stands for restricted,” I say, gathering my composure enough to speak with feigned disinterest.
Jolene nods emphatically. “It’s a new regulation placed on stage plays. Don’t you know? The Governess and the Rake was the first to earn such a label. It’s the reason the regulation system was created.”
Edwina bolts upright, eyes wide. “Are you telling me there’s a play of The Governess and the Rake? And it was so inappropriate for the stage that it required the implementation of a special rating system?”
“Yes,” Jolene says.
Edwina gasps. “No.”
“It’s true.”
“No. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Weenie,” I say, tone firm. “She’s telling the truth.”
Edwina’s eyes lock on mine. The sweet, elated smile that curls her lips is so open, so genuine, it makes my chest feel tight. I know her smile isn’t for me. It’s for the stage play she apparently didn’t know existed. I open my mouth, about to confess something else, something that might make that smile shine more firmly upon me, but I stop myself. William the Stage Actor may have performed in an adaptation of The Governess and the Rake, but William the Poet would never admit as much. William the Poet hates fiction. And romance.
Besides, why would I seek to make her smile?
The coach rolls to a stop. We’ve arrived at Hyperion University, and as we disembark from the coach to the cobblestone courtyard, the coachman saves me from having to aid Edwina’s exit. Thank fuck for that. The last thing I need is a repeat of earlier when I gawked at her, struck dumb as she sauntered into the coach wearing that damn top. My hand still feels warm where she touched it, and I don’t think I could maintain a straight face if she touched it again.
I force my full attention to the building before us, my gaze sweeping over the four-story dormitory lined with ivory columns and ending in a domed roof of blue tile. It’s the same dormitory I lived in during my four years at the university. Nostalgia settles over me, a mixture of longing, comfort, and the painful dissonance between a past and future forever divided by time.
Edwina and Jolene huddle close together, admiring the architecture as they head for the front doors. Daphne bounds after them, and Monty nearly does the same—before I stop him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
He faces me with an amused look. “Can I help you, Mr. Haywood?”
I step closer and lower my voice. “You will not touch Edwina.”
“I won’t?”
“It’s unprofessional,” I say, keeping my voice as level as I can. “You’re our tour manager and publicist. It’s a conflict of interest for you to start any kind of physical relationship with her.”
Monty narrows his eyes, and for a moment I wonder if he was serious about gladly taking any opportunity to brawl. I could take him on with my slight height advantage, but I’ve never been in a fight that wasn’t choreographed. Still, I hold his gaze without falter.
His face breaks into a grin. “That’s my boy. Next time, say all that in front of her. Oh, and you still owe me an answer about your preferred size and shape of peaks…of meringue.” He waggles his brows, then jogs the rest of the way to join the women.