House dr
By rights, Nigel figured, he ought, at the very least, to be enjoying the view.
The King’s Crown was certainly as glittering as he remembered under the shine of chandeliers on crystal and gilt-edged porcelain.
Delectable aromas from the kitchen blended with a hundred different perfumes and colognes in a feast for the nose that rivaled even the aromatic atmosphere of The Arcane Bouquet.
The band played with gentle reserve, creating romance out of thin air via the magic of strings and woodwinds and one very demure drum set.
But all these delights Nigel had experienced before. The new and far more interesting element was the woman sitting across from him.
And man alive, did she know how to sit.
Tonight, Bryony Braithwait had poured herself into a gown that was now doing the gods’ own work to contain her magnificent femininity.
The color of the gown Nigel couldn’t say if pressed—gold, perhaps?
It didn’t matter. Nor did the cut, the styling, or the adorning jewels.
All these served but one purpose, which was to serve up the body thus clad.
“Clad” being a very loose definition of the word.
It had been something of a shock when Nigel had helped her out of her fur wrap in the hotel foyer.
It continued to be something of a shock now, as she leaned her elbows on the table, plumping up everything to an exaggerated degree as she addressed the waiter.
This poor man, bless his heart, strove valiantly to keep his eyeline at a respectful level, but Nigel could swear he saw beads of sweat forming along his upper lip.
“I’ll have the lobster,” Bryony said, then bit prettily at a red nail as she flicked a glance Nigel’s way and caught him looking. She grinned then returned her gaze to the waiter and purred. “And send dessert first, why don’t you? I’ve got me a real sweet tooth tonight.”
“Very good, miss,” the waiter said then, with no little degree of relief, turned to address himself to Nigel. “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the salad,” Nigel answered a bit abruptly.
“House dressing or vinaigrette?”
Why did they have to ask so many complicated questions in a place like this?
It was easier to simply receive Mrs. Goddard’s meals every evening.
Chicken Special or Mystery Meat Stew, all served up with a distinct lack of choice which Nigel had come to appreciate.
“Surprise me,” he said. “And, when you get the chance, your tea selection.”
The waiter tipped an eyebrow at this but noted it down before scurrying away. If a man of such dignity could be said to scurry.
“Tea, Mr. Grimm?” Bryony toyed with her own footed glass of something sparkling and pink.
She laughed, tossing her magenta curls back from a plump shoulder, whereupon a thin strap did what it could against tremendous odds.
“Has our favorite tea witch had such an influence on you as all that?” She leaned on the table again, and Nigel could swear he heard the creak of corset boning.
“Don’t you think tonight might be a night for something a bit stronger? ” And she bit her lip.
Nigel took a large gulp of water from his glass.
It went down wrong, and he twisted away, coughing into his napkin.
When he turned back to the table at last, Bryony had sat back in her seat once more and was studying him narrowly.
She was quite perfectly got-up, as they say, with her hair coiffed in voluminous rolls and her makeup painted on with expert intricacy.
It all seemed like a bit of wasted effort, considering none of it mattered while she wore a dress like that.
“I’ve been looking forward to tonight,” she said in a low voice, which blended naturally with the strains of sultry music wafting across the dance floor.
“Have you?” Nigel managed.
“Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Saint Jollify.”
Nigel blinked. “That long?”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Grimm.” Bryony laughed and played suggestively with her straw, her red nails glinting in the chandelier light. “You and I both know this little rendezvous has been a long time coming.”
Nigel took another gulp of water. Thankfully, by the time he’d half-drained his glass, the waiter returned with the box of teas.
Nigel thanked the man and busied himself looking through them, studying each and every bag by turn, reading the labels, painfully conscious all the while of the way Bryony sipped her drink, using her tongue to move the straw around in the ice. Nigel wiped a hand down his face.
Then he came upon it—vanilla llarmi. He paused, drawing the teabag out of the box to reveal the Twiglings brand label.
But there was no honeysuckle. A missed opportunity, that.
Twiglings would be better off if they hired a proper tea witch to consult on such matters.
Nigel smiled a little, toying with the bag.
For just a moment, all the assaulting aromas of the restaurant faded away, and his nostrils seemed to be filled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and vanilla, and—
“Have you made your choice?” Bryony asked a little shortly.
“Oh, erm.” Nigel shoved the vanilla llarmi back into the box and plucked out a chamomile-lavender instead. “This one,” he told the waiter.
“Very good, sir.” The waiter took both box and selection and slipped away, presumably to prepare a pot.
Which left Nigel with no option but to face Bryony again.
Her painted lids were halfway lowered, her eyes glinting behind a thicket of mascara.
She pursed her lips, tilted her head a little to one side, and Nigel couldn’t help the impression that she was a warrior planning her next line of attack.
He felt the inexplicable urge to shield himself.
“Tell me, Mr. Grimm,” she said, shifting in her seat so that the light caught in her hair just so, “how do you like it?”
Nigel’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
Her teeth flashed in a grin, delighted by his sudden terror. “Your tea,” she said and laughed a little too loudly for that setting. “Why, what did you think I meant?”
“I . . . hardly know. Erm.”
“Do you like it cold? Hot? Or positively scalding.”
Nigel pulled at his collar. “I, erm, like it hot, I suppose.”
“I suspected as much.” She leaned again, so expertly, one had to wonder if she took classes, studied under some world-renowned master of the Ancient Art of the Lean.
Or did it all just come naturally to her?
“I often find it’s best to start out warm and build up heat by degrees.
Wouldn’t want to burn your poor tongue on the first taste, now would we? ”
Her tongue flicked out over her red lipstick, and Nigel wondered if there was any chance in a million years that he would survive this night without positively incinerating. Whether from the fiery inferno of lust or embarrassment, it hardly mattered which. It was all just heat at this point.
“Erm,” he managed. Gods, didn’t he used to possess some degree of social skill? Surely Jastira had taught him something in the way of banter, right? Though, truth be told, when he and Jastira started out, they hadn’t bothered with a great deal of talk.
Somehow, he didn’t think Bryony cared to chat with him all that much either.
The waiter arrived and set a pot of tea and a cup down in front of him.
Grateful for the distraction, Nigel poured, then lifted the cup from its saucer and inhaled the lavender-chamomile vapors.
He closed his eyes and was immediately transported back to that stormy day all those months ago, when this scent first hit his awareness so profoundly.
It was almost a shame that Luna had switched her Auspicious Tea on her birthday, leaving behind this delightful perfume .
. . though the vanilla-honeysuckle was certainly a lovely replacement.
And there was just that ineffable scent of her that went beyond any other influence.
A scent which coiled through his senses and filled him up with—
“Would you two like to be alone?” Bryony’s voice intercepted dryly.
Nigel looked up through the steam. “Erm. I’m sorry, Miss Braithwait, what was that?”
“You and your tea. You seemed to be having some sort of moment together.” Bryony shifted in her chair, and while she still contrived to make it sexy, it was the first move she’d made all night that didn’t seem calculated to be so. “Makes a girl a bit jealous, actually.”
“I, erm.” Nigel looked down at his tea then away again quickly.
His gaze shot across to Bryony’s fine self, then bounced to the next table over, before finally coming to rest with great determination on her cocktail glass.
“Forgive me, Miss Braithwait. It was a long day. At the shop, I mean. I fear I’m a bit distracted this evening. ”
“A bit?” She lifted her glass to her lips, drawing his eyes that same direction. “Do tell, Mr. Grimm. Thrill me with stories of your flower-selling exploits.”
Nigel winced. It wasn’t as though he could describe the close brush with death both he and Luna had survived. Nor would it be appropriate to mention how he’d spent such a large portion of his day with her roommate. While said roommate was wearing nothing more than her underwear.
“We, erm, had a special. On carnations.”
“I can hardly contain myself.” Bryony sighed, looked around, caught a waiter’s eye, and held up her empty glass, signaling her need.
Then she looked at Nigel again, stirring ice with the straw in a manner that was distinctly un-sensual.
Just noisy. Finally, inclining her head and lowering her voice she said, “Do you want to get out of here?”
Gods, yes, Nigel thought.
Then: Wait, no. Does she mean what I think she means?
“Erm.” He cleared his throat and forced himself not to pull at his tie, though it felt awfully constricting just now. “We’ve not yet eaten, Miss Braithwait.”
“Meh.” She shrugged.
“Your lobster?”