Page 21 of The Villainess Chose Naps Over Death Flags

Was that almost a smile?

It was gone so quickly Carol couldn't be sure, but for just a second, she thought she saw actual amusement in those green eyes.

"Inconvenient," he repeated, his tone dry. "Yes. I imagine it would be. Theoretically."

Carol felt her own lips quirking up despite her nervousness. "The wine did taste odd that night, didn't it?"

"Distinctly odd," Caspian agreed. "Though I've had worse."

There was a beat of silence.

And then—miracle of miracles—Caspian almost smiled. It was barely there, just the slightest softening of his expression, but it was real.

Carol felt something warm bloom in her chest.

The second course arrived, and the conversation shifted to safer topics. Carol asked about the northern border defenses. Caspian, after a moment's hesitation, actually answered with more than one-word responses. She asked about the estate, the staff, the logistics of managing a duchy.

He was still wary. Still watching her carefully for any sign of deception. But he was talking.

And when she accidentally made another joke about the weather being "less frozen than she'd expected from a place called the Frostmarch," he almost smiled again.

Progress.

Small, tiny, barely-there progress, but progress nonetheless.

◆◆◆

By the time dessert arrived—a beautifully presented berry tart—Carol's nervousness had transformed into something else. She was still acutely aware of how attractive her husband was, especially when the candlelight caught his silver hair and those devastating green eyes. But she was also discovering that underneath the cold exterior and terrifying reputation was someone interesting.

He was incredibly intelligent, with a tactical mind that could analyze complex military situations in seconds. He cared about his people and his duty deeply, even if he struggled to express it. And he had a dry, subtle sense of humor that caught her off guard.

"I heard you apologized to half the household staff today," Caspian said, cutting into his tart.

Word traveled fast. "Not half. Maybe a quarter."

"The kitchen is convinced you've been possessed by a benevolent spirit."

Carol laughed—actually laughed. "Is that the running theory?"

"That or you've been replaced by a changeling." His eyes flicked to hers. "The staff is taking bets."

"What's your theory?" Carol asked, genuinely curious.

Caspian was quiet for a moment, studying her again with that intense gaze that made her pulse quicken.

"I don't have one yet," he said finally. "But I'm watching."

"That's fair," Carol said. She met his eyes despite the blush she could feel creeping up her neck. "I'd be suspicious too."

"You're very different from how you were yesterday."

"Yesterday I was miserable. Today I'm trying not to be." Carol took a bite of her tart—it was delicious. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"You tried to poison me three weeks ago."

"And you just kept drinking," Carol pointed out. "Which is arguably more concerning. Who does that?"

"Someone who's immune to poison," Caspian said, but there was definitely amusement in his tone now.