Page 11 of Spar of Hearts

“I may not be able to see your brows, but your lovely eyes appear deep in thought.” A husky voice and popping knuckles filled her ear as a man with a silver dragon mask sidled up beside her. “Perhaps a dance would bring a light to them?” He held a hand out to her.

Anya’s eyes widened and roamed the man’s features. He was dressed in a white shirt turned blue by the lights, with billowing sleeves. It was generously unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, giving way to bristles of hair and toned pectorals. His short hair took on a dark brown sheen in the light. It was simply brushed and moved freely with him, not stiffly coiffed as most nobles preferred. This was a common man with uncommonly handsome features.

She set down her glass. “Perhaps it would,” she answered, accepting his hand. The warmth of his touch made her pulse race as he led her into the throes of the dance. He pressed one hand to the small of her back, then grasped the other together with hers. The moment their fingers entwined, the song shifted from a folkish dance to a delicate waltz.

He beckoned her closer with gentle pressure on her back, keeping her in time with the steps and in tune with his movements. Her eyes wandered to his hands, large and scarred from what appeared to be years of strenuous work. Despite this, he danced like a man of high class.

“You have lovely claws,” he whispered as he spun her close, then loosed her into a bounding step that forced her gaze from his hands.

Anya blushed and closed her mouth, appalled to find it slightly agape. “I didn’t mean to stare,” she murmured.

She didn’t want him staring at her own hands, or her claws either—dark, dull and cut to the quick—though they were still much longer than a human or Elvani’s nails.

“Don’t fret. I am proud of every cut and scrape. What is a man without his work, after all?” A melancholy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“I think there is much more to a man than the deeds he does.”

“Such as?” the man said with an invitingly sultry voice. He swung her out, giving her a moment to think as the music swelled.

Anya pursed her lips as he pulled her close, the fabric of his shirt swishing against her gown as she answered. “Such as the little things he notices, how he takes his tea; the kind of sweet he favors—the words of affection he lavishes on his lover.”

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “You tap your claws when you’re nervous. Herbal with lemon, pear custard. And”—he pulled her out of the dance and into the shadow of a glowing blue pillar, bracketing her under his arms—“You have a spirit bursting with wanderlust. It’s in your eyes. And your lack of shoes.”

Anya stared down at her feet and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, wiggling her toes against the marble floor. They were already gray from dirt and dust.

“I despise them. They’re the cages of fashion.”

The man chuckled. “How could I disagree with words from such beautiful lips?” He kicked off his black boots, leaving only dark socks.

“You’ll never understand with your socks still on!” She laughed. “And I fear you’ll slip all the way to the foyer on this floor!”

“Nonsense.” He took a showy sidestep. “I’m actually quite light on my fe—” His voice jerked up as he slipped and fell into her. She gasped as she caught him under the arms, keeping him upright. Their masks tapped together as they laughed face to face. His breath held a delicious hint of peppermint and wine.

“Care to repeat that sentence?” Anya’s laugh took on a howl. She covered her mouth to muffle it but couldn’t stop the joy pulling at her cheeks.

“Maybe this is what I wanted!” The man laughed with equal exuberance, his firm chest heaving against hers. “And please don’t stifle your laugh. It’s simply wonderful. I should like to hear what it sounds like under the moon, unencumbered by these stone walls.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Howling certainly fit her parents’ definition of behavior unbecoming of a princess. But there were no royal eyes here. And if there were, she was just as hidden from them as they were from her. She slipped her fingers under her mask to push her spectacles up.

I’m ready to lose myself.

Anya skimmed a hand down the man’s arm, relishing the bristles of hair. He seemed to ooze masculinity. It tickled a most feminine, wolfish instinct within her. She wanted to get closer to him, and farther away from the crowd.

“There’s a lovely garden in the back. I’m sure the Marchioness has it beautifully tended,” she mentioned casually.

“Ah, then shall we?” The man hooked an arm with hers and led her to the gilded double doors in the back of the hall. “I’m dying to hear you howl.”

“Only if you give me something to howl about.” Anya scratched a playful claw on his chest. He gasped with an air of pleasured surprise. She noticed a thin red scar on his chest but paid it no mind. Given all the cuts on his hands, it was a miracle there weren’t more on the rest of his body.

And if there were, she hoped to tally every single one before the night was over.

Chapter 6

Roderick Bryson

The garden of Melusine Manor was just as lavish as the main hall. It was like emerging from a deep lagoon into one of the forest glens he hunted in back home. The mage lights out here were strung high above their heads, lightly wrapped in sheer green cloth, imbuing the air with a verdant glow. His masked companion admired the flora as they walked.

Dear Divine, what a woman. This was what he needed. A night where he could prove to himself he was capable of being a decent man. A night without the eyes of his subordinates, the pressures of his title or the laurels of his name.