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After quick nods and goodbyes, Bram leads us deeper into the crowd, past more people who gape at me, open-mouthed and unblinking.
“I’m never going to get used to that,” I mutter.
“It won’t last forever. Just ignore it,” Bram says as he guides me toward two men, opposites in every way, who stand in the corner arguing in low tones.
“If this is some sort of outcast outreach program, you can sod off,” grates out a scruffy giant dressed in leather.
“I merely suggested that in these troubled times, perhaps—”
Bram clears his throat. The conversation stops, and the two men turn identical, heavy stares on me.
Isn’t this awkward?
The man on my left is smooth, urbane. Every pore of his unblemished skin and every thread in his clothing shouts money. Old money. A lot of it. He’s incredibly good-looking in the male model sort of way, with his dark hair styled in some carefully artless, £500 haircut that accents his sophisticated charm. Not staring at the man is impossible, and from tabloids, I know immediately who he is. But I’m shocked to find him here. He’s a wizard?
“Your Grace, this is Miss Olivia Gray and Marrok of Cadbury.” Bram’s lips twitch. “Olivia, Marrok, Simon Northam, the Duke of Hurstgrove.”
A real live duke. Holy hell! I hate being so American about these things. What’s the proper greeting?
“How do you do?” He nods at me, shakes Marrok’s hand, then turns to Bram. “Dispense with the formalities. You know I dislike them.”
He sounds even more British than the average Londoner.
“Just call me Duke,” Northam says. “To me, it’s a joke, not a title.”
I don’t get it, but if that’s what he wants… “Nice to meet you, Duke.”
“Amazing.” He stares at me as if I’m a priceless work of art. “A walking, breathing Le Fay. I had no idea—”
“Can everyone tell?”
“Of course.” Duke shoots me a startled stare. “Your magical signature…”
Just like Marrok said.
The leather-clad man rolls his eyes and tries to leave the conversation. Bram grabs his beefy arm. “And this is Shock Denzell.”
He looks like a cross between a biker and a marine, built and big. A black vest strains against mammoth shoulders. His biceps are ringed with various tattoos. His inky-dark hair is mussed and unruly, and he’s in need of a haircut. I have no idea what color his eyes are behind his impenetrable black shades.
“Say hello. You don’t want to be rude to our guests, Shock,” Bram chides.
“Why the hell should I care?”
Bram sighs. “Is ‘polite’ in your vocabulary?”
“No, but ‘fuck yourself’ is.”
When he tries to bolt again, Bram grips him tighter.
I wish he wouldn’t force Shock to stay. The wizard clearly doesn’t want to be here, and it’s embarrassing to have Bram push me on the guy.
“You’re making her uncomfortable, and she thinks you should shove off,” Shock snarls.
Bram raises a golden brow. “How would you know that?”
“Besides the fact she’s no poker player? She’s blaring her thoughts.”
Seriously? I drop my gaze. “I’m sorry.”
