She balled her hands in the fabric of his shirt and made a wordless noise of frustration. “Stop being an idiot.”
“I fear it may be an integral part of my character.”
“I love you, but sometimes I just want to shake the martyr out of you!”
He froze. It was like stumbling into an unexpected thermal, warm air buoying him upwards to dizzying heights. He shouldn’t let himself be distracted by sentiment, not with fear for Stariel and Hetta thrumming through him, but he wanted to kiss her all over again. At the same time, it terrified him. Don’t love me, he wanted to say. They will use it against you if you love me. Don’t let me make you weak.
Hetta sighed and shook his shirt for emphasis. “Yes, I do love you, you foolish and entirely idiotic man. Don’t pretend you’re surprised.”
“You’ve never said it before,” he pointed out. “I wasn’t…sure.”
“Well, I was trying very hard not to love you because you kept threatening to leave! And you still are! And I’ve been putting all my wants and hopes on hold so as not to frighten you off, so as not to force you into anything!” She gave an angry laugh. “As if anyone has ever managed to make you do anything you don’t want to do! But I don’t want to pretend anymore, Wyn.” The anger in her faded, quick to burn out as always, leaving something cold and sad in its wake.
“What do you want, love?” he murmured, and it was such a relief to finally be able to say it properly, without needing the excuse of pain or magic.
She released her death-grip on his shirt and smoothed it down. “I want us to not be a secret from my family anymore. I want them to know who—and what—you really are. I want you to stand beside me as an equal. And I want everyone to appreciate you properly.”
“It may be difficult to simultaneously fulfil—” But she put a finger to his lips.
“I haven’t finished yet. I want you freed from your old oaths. I want to know no one is going to try to kill you. I want to not have to worry about the fae attacking my people.” A wry note flickered in her expression, and the hand that had been smoothing at his shirt grew somewhat more possessive. “I want to take you to bed. And for the bank to give us a loan.”
“Are these items ordered in terms of priority, may I inquire?” he asked huskily.
“Shush. They are in the order they are occurring to me. I want you to stop trying to put everyone else first or wallowing in self-pity about what you should want or do, and instead admit what you actually want. And I want you to fight for that.”
“I’m beginning to wonder why you love me,” Wyn said, still enjoying the shape of the words. “I sound frightfully wishy-washy in this description.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Yes.” He paused. “I don’t like the idea of dragging your name through the mud if I’m not in a position to make the promises I should to you.”
Her eyes widened at the oblique reference. “Wyn, I really don’t care one whit for my good name or otherwise.”
“I do,” he said. “I care that the bank won’t lend you funds if they think someone untrustworthy is at the reins. I care if people think you’re not a good lord. I care if people think I’ve taken advantage of you, or if they think you’ve taken advantage of me.”
“Do they think I’ve taken advantage of you?” Hetta asked, diverted.
“Caroline said something a few days ago that made me think—but we are getting off track again,” he said sternly. “The point is that if word of us gets out, you will be the one judged most harshly for it, not me, and I cannot help caring about that. Mortal culture here is…unfair to women.”
He shook his head before she could try to talk him out of it. “I want to talk to my brother again, see if I can prise his ulterior motives out. Sunnika may not know what she wants, but I’m convinced Rake knows exactly what he’s here for.” He tightened his arms around her, heart racing. “But first, I want to tell everyone what I am.”
28
Secrets
Hetta had never seen Wyn wound quite so tightly as they walked down the hallway from the map room. She took his hand. He squeezed it briefly without looking at her but didn’t keep it.
“I’m not going to make you tell people,” she said. “You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want.” Why was she trying to talk him out of this? She wanted him to do this! This love business was…a kind of madness.
He gave a huff of amusement, his russet eyes fond.
“Didn’t you recently claim that you couldn’t make me do anything? This is my own choice. Besides, the ball is in motion. The details of my past have spread too far now to take back. And—” His expression hardened. “I will not give either Rakken or Sunnika further ammunition to use against me here. They will only exploit any secrets I leave unrevealed.”
They made a detour first so Wyn could change shirts. “Let’s not outrage your family’s sense of modesty alongside everything else,” he said wryly as he slipped quickly into the specially cut shirt Hetta had given him, revealing only the briefest glimpse of coffee-coloured skin in the process.
She liked the intimacy of watching him dress. It woke a yearning in her that had nothing to do with lust. Or, well, not everything to do with lust. Their eyes met just as he fastened the top button, and she saw that same yearning reflected there. For a moment, he wasn’t a fae prince masquerading as a servant and she wasn’t the Lord of Stariel. She was sixteen, and he was her dearest friend in the world, vexing and amusing by turns. She’d never looked at him in a romantic light as a teenager, which seemed slightly incredible now. Why on earth had she wasted so much time nursing a girlhood crush on Angus Penharrow, the neighbouring lord’s son?
Hetta had never before had the desire to help a man with his tie, and Wyn certainly didn’t need such help, but she found herself moving to do it anyway. It amused him, but he didn’t try to stop her.
“To battle then,” he said when his clothing was in place.
On the two occasions Hetta had needed to make a dramatic announcement to all and sundry, she’d called everyone together and gotten it over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. It shouldn’t have surprised her that Wyn’s approach was entirely different.
He began with Aunt Sybil, Aunt Maude, and Lady Phoebe. They’d clearly been discussing him, because the conversation died the instant he crossed the threshold of the sitting room. Her aunts brightened, and Lady Phoebe looked anxious. She hated confrontations.
Wyn bowed his head. “Ladies. Forgive me for interrupting, but I’m afraid I owe you something of an explanation after my brother’s arrival this morning.”
An anticipatory ripple passed through the assembled women at the promise of interesting gossip to come.
“May I sit?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Lady Phoebe said. “How is your leg?”
But the conversation wasn’t to be so easily derailed. Aunt Sybil said bluntly, “You’re the son of old Lord Featherstone?”
Wyn hesitated, and Hetta could practically see the thoughts cross his mind in rapid succession, the temptation to spin truth in a wholly false direction. With a sigh, he seemed to master the urge. “My brother has misled you. Neither of us has any connection to Featherstone. He adopted the persona of Lord Featherstone in order to gain entry to this house.”
This was interesting gossip indeed. The aunts leaned forward.
“He is your brother though?” Aunt Sybil pressed.
“Yes. But more importantly, he is not human. And neither am I. We are both fae.” A beat of silence followed, and then Lady Phoebe tittered. Wyn folded his hands together and smiled. “I am not joking, though I understand your surprise.”
“You can’t be a fairy,” Aunt Maude said authoritatively, as if this would make it so. Aunt Maude considered herself something of an expert on folklore.
“Nonetheless, I am.” He was so calm, and so mild, that even Hetta was almost fooled. “Will you take my word for it, or would you like me to prove it?”
<
br /> “Lord Featherstone is a fairy?” Lady Phoebe asked.
Wyn smiled. “Well, my brother is. I make no claims one way or the other for the real Lord Featherstone; I do not know him.”
“I always thought you had good sense, Mr Tempest,” Aunt Sybil said. “But I don’t know what’s got into your head now. Lord Featherstone a fairy!” She made a sound of disgust. “That is ridiculous.” Her gaze went to Hetta, and she nearly groaned aloud; of course Aunt Sybil would target her if possible. She’d always distantly approved of Wyn, but the same didn’t apply to Hetta, who she thought far too headstrong and improper. “Is this your idea of a joke, Henrietta?”
“I do not joke, Lady Langley-Valstar,” Wyn answered in her stead. He stood. “Thank you for taking this so calmly.” He smiled again, and even Aunt Sybil softened a fraction in the face of it. Wyn had a singularly charming smile when he wanted to. “Thank you for your support. But I must be getting back to my duties now.”
Hetta had to hurry to exit with him.
“What was that?” she said when they were out of earshot. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to make such an announcement so casually, thank everyone for their acceptance of it, and leave. On the other hand, it never would’ve worked if she’d tried it; she lacked Wyn’s aura of persuasive self-assurance, as if there were simply no other way for the world to be.
“A defusing tactic,” he said. “They’ll all mull over that and approach me one-on-one later. Crowds are always more volatile and harder to handle than individuals.”
That made sense, Hetta supposed, though she doubted she’d have the patience for it as a general approach. But this wasn’t about her. “What now?”
“The older cousins, I think.”
“Not Uncle Percival?”
“No. He comes later. With, preferably, at least some of Aunt Maude’s youngest children present.”
“Obviously,” she said, though this order of events wasn’t obvious to her at all.
“He will moderate his own reaction according to his audience,” Wyn explained.
“You are the single most manipulative person I’ve ever met.”
He flashed her a quick grin.
The older cousins were a different kettle of fish. They were Hetta’s age peers, and they saw Wyn as somewhere between friend and social inferior. Most of them would’ve said they didn’t care at all about social class, but the truth was that they did, unconsciously, and they were rattled by the thought that they’d treated Wyn as a servant when he might’ve come from similar privilege to them. The fae business they were inclined to treat as a rather poor joke, which Wyn dealt with by removing his coat, handing it to Hetta, and changing.
Hetta’s cousins went improbably silent. The previously spacious billiard room was suddenly crowded as Wyn stretched his wings to their fullest and everyone got out of the way. The movement was mesmerising in its slow grace. He held the position briefly, a pendulum at the top of its arc, and then feather and bone shifted and compressed until he was only himself again. Or, Hetta thought with a frown, still himself, but the less feathery version of it.
“I hope you are now convinced of my truthfulness,” he said dryly. “Or would you like me to do it again?”
It was fascinating to watch how Wyn took control of people’s reactions. With the aunts he’d framed the situation as imparting a slightly embarrassing but not terribly important fact; with her older cousins, as a revelation that they could assure themselves they’d all secretly suspected anyway.
Hetta would’ve found it exhausting to approach all her relatives in small groups and one-on-one, to tell the same story over and over, to respond to the same outbursts with patient tact. Moreover, she couldn’t have stood the scrutiny the way Wyn did, as if it didn’t bother him in the least. It made her want to shout that he wasn’t a carnival attraction but a living, breathing person. But though she accompanied him in silent endorsement, she let him manage the show. She could give him back this bit of control.
With her younger relatives, he let the revelation become something wondrous and didn’t rebuke little Laurel when she reached out to touch his feathers.
“Can you fly?” Laurel asked, eyes wide.
“Of course he can fly,” Willow said scornfully. “Why else would he have wings?”
“Chickens have wings,” Laurel pointed out. “And they can’t fly.”
“That’s because their wings are clipped, silly. Everyone knows that. If they weren’t clipped, they could fly.”
Wyn met Hetta’s eyes with a firm message: do not ever compare me to a chicken, and she had to press her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.
All in all, it went far better than Hetta had hoped. Oh, she knew as well as Wyn that this was the calm before the storm. Already some of her relatives looked at Wyn differently, and not in a good way. As if he were…not just inhuman but subhuman. But it was such a relief to have things out in the open at last. Surely from here things could only get better? Well…some things out in the open. He’d not even hinted to her family that there was anything between him and Hetta.
He showed his first and only sign of fatigue when they were alone once again, rubbing briefly at his temples, after having extracted himself from her youngest relatives’ hands.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
He shook his head and grimaced. “I need to talk to the staff. This will go better without you there. They’re too intimidated by you.”
Hetta hadn’t realised she intimidated anyone at all, least of all locals that she’d known for most of her life.
“Oh,” was all she could think to say.
He glanced quickly up and down the hallway and then pressed the merest flicker of a kiss to her forehead. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just…there is a divide between staff and family. The staff consider me theirs, but this story they’ve heard about Lord Featherstone will have shaken that, and you appearing at my shoulder will only shake it further.”
“You’re not theirs,” Hetta said. “You’re mine.”
Wyn’s eyes danced, but he managed to check his laugh, just. He nodded instead. “My Star.”
29
An Entirely Awful Plan
Hetta went to poke at Prince Rakken while Wyn was speaking to the staff. To her relief, Marius looked bemused rather than stressed when she reached her study. Prince Rakken remained languorous as a jungle cat, once again stretched out on the settee beneath the window.
“Lord Valstar,” he said, getting up. Apparently some manners were universal. “Your brother has been”—he paused, and amusement glimmered in his green eyes—“enlightening.”
Marius, to Hetta’s astonishment, didn’t seem at all fazed by Prince Rakken’s barb. “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I enlightened him as to the key characteristics of snapdragon varietals. I figured that was a safe topic of conversation.”
Hetta let out a peal of laughter. She’d thought the day had reached its utter limit of absurdity, but she really ought to stop making such predictions.
“I am, indeed, now most enlightened on this subject,” Prince Rakken said dryly.
“Well, you did say you wanted to learn more about the mortal world,” Marius pointed out. “Snapdragons are mortal. Or do you have them in Faerie too?”
Prince Rakken ignored him. “Lord Valstar, I would like to speak to you alone.”
Marius glared. “Are you planning on trying anything nefarious?”
Prince Rakken didn’t seem to know what to make of Marius’s directness. He canted his head at her brother. “Do you truly expect I would tell you if I was?”
“It’s all right, Marius. I’ll let Stariel eat him if he tries anything.” The land had been quivering protectively since Prince Rakken’s arrival; it wouldn’t take much to unleash it. But he had sworn guestright. Marius gave a narrow-eyed nod and left them.
“Sit,” she said to Prince Rakken. Was she supposed to offer him refreshments? As if the thought had been a summons, a k
nock sounded at the door and the housemaid Lottie appeared carrying a tea tray. Her eyes sparkled as she took in Prince Rakken, and Hetta knew that Wyn had already told at least some of the staff what was going on. It was typical of him to organise refreshments even while under stress.
Prince Rakken seemed faintly amused when Hetta offered him tea after Lottie had left, but he took a teacup without comment and settled back. He was so…metaphorically glittery that he made everything around him seem shabbier in comparison. Was this what Wyn had meant by fae allure?
“You said you wanted Wyn free of his oath,” Hetta said.
“So I did,” he agreed easily.
“Was that just so I wouldn’t toss you out straightaway or did you actually mean that? Because if you’re sticking with your completely outrageous request from before, you can leave as soon as you’ve finished your tea.”
This seemed to amuse him further. He tilted his head, the gesture eerily similar to Wyn’s. “I see now that my dramatic entrance into this house has not endeared me to you, and I apologise. I was testing your mettle, I will freely admit, but I’m not always so antagonistic. Ask my brother.”
“Don’t you dare try to make Wyn feel some kind of familial obligation to defend you!” Hetta flared up.
“Very well: I retract the suggestion. Do not ask Hallowyn. Tell me instead what words I may say that will reassure you of my good faith.”
“The words: ‘we will release Wyn from his debt, go away, and promise not to attack anybody here ever again’ would be an excellent start.”
He threw back his head and laughed, that chocolate-rich sound that she couldn’t help finding attractive even as it irritated her.
“These are times of change,” he told her, sobering. “The High King has lifted the Iron Law. What will come of that, I do not yet know. But you can be certain of one thing—my people are not going to simply go away, not now that we have remembered how interesting the Mortal Realm can be.”
The Prince of Secrets Page 27
