Page 19 of A Vicious Love

“Perfect,” I whispered.

I walked along the terrace until I found a little covered section near a stone balustrade, away from the doors. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped steadily from the ivy above. I stood beneath the cover, rubbing one arm with the opposite hand, trying to get enough signal to exist outside this place.

The door opened behind me.

I straightened immediately and pasted on my smile before turning.

A man stepped onto the terrace with two cups in his hands.

He was tall, but not Crow-tall. His face was handsome in an easy way, with kind eyes and a mouth that looked much more familiar with smiling than cruelty.

I recognized him after a second.

Alistair Ashbourne.

From a dynasty of polished heirs whose family owned rail corridors and half the medical shipping routes between Harlan and St. Cross. I had seen him at events. He was usually surrounded by cousins and older women trying to introduce him to daughters with good bloodlines.

Tonight, he was alone.

“Sorry,” he said, stopping a polite distance away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” My smile brightened automatically. “I’m just trying to find signal.”

“Ah.” He looked around the rain-damp terrace. “Bellweather’s greatest tradition. Losing guests to the gardens while they try to send one text.”

I laughed.

It surprised me.

So did he, apparently, because his smile warmed.

“I brought coffee,” he lifted the cups slightly. “One of them was for my cousin, but he decided to start an argument about land trusts with a ninety-year-old duke, so now I have a spare. Would you like it?”

My instinct was to say no.

Because accepting things from people created little obligations, and I was already so tired from managing everyone else’s moods.

Then another cold drip from the ivy landed on my bare shoulder, and I shivered.

“It has sugar,” he added. “A criminal amount, according to my aunt.”

“I like sugar.”

“Excellent. Then I accidentally became useful.”

He held it out.

I took it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you stranded or hiding?” he asked.

The question was so direct that my practiced answer almost tripped.

“Oh. Neither.”

His brows lifted.