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“I mean the wormwood that you ingested today. You stink of it.”
They twirled, the motion breaking their conversation.
“I haven’t taken anything,” she said when they came back together.
Draven stared at her like he could sense her heart pounding in her chest. “Your heart is racing.”
Perhaps he could.
“From the dancing,” she said quickly. Suspiciously quickly. She amended her statement with, “I’m not used to the exertion. It’s been more than a year since I’ve danced. Society frowns upon widows who dance after their husband’s death.”
He nodded. “I would not blame you for dancing on his grave.”
“Oh, Lionel doesn’t have a grave. He was dismembered and burned to ash.” Perhaps she sounded bitter, but she did not care. If Lionel had a grave, she’d do far worse than dance on it.
“Now I know you are flirting with me,” he said.
His response caught her off guard. She had to laugh at the absurdity of it. “Is that your idea of flirting? Are you a cat bringing little love tokens of mice and dead birds?”
“Should I bring you the hand that poisoned you with wormwood? Your modern rules of courtship are so much more formal than in my day, but I’m willing to learn if it would please my vicious bride.”
They clasped hands above their heads and rotated slowly, able to only look at each other.
He stared at her with such cold intensity that she shivered. Not from fear. No, rather something far more surprising. Desire. She should have been appalled at her body’s reaction to this man. He was a bloodthirsty monster threatening to sever limbs for her. Rather than be horrified, Charlotte found his offer endearing—sweet in an appalling way.
Enticing.
Perhaps she was flirting. Draven was beautiful. There was no way to avoid it. Tall and elegant, he moved beyond classically attractive into the unreal. His appearance had a preternatural edge, sharp and unforgiving. To behold him was to witness an unappeasable force of nature. To be this close to him, in his arms, pinned under his gaze, was to be caught in the same blizzard, and she rather enjoyed it.
And he looked at her like she was the beautiful one. It was enough to make one feel flustered and—for lack of a better word to describe the fizzy, animated feeling in her stomach—peculiar. She hadn’t felt that way in more than a year.
Or possibly that was nothing more than the wormwood.
“Have I really been dosed with wormwood? What are the effects?” she asked.
“Wormwood oil can cause seizures, but it is far easier to slip the herbal form into wine or food. That has no effect on humans.”
The maneuver ended and Draven’s arm settled on her waist once more. They moved together, matching step for step until the music faded.
“You’re warm,” he said. “Let’s get you a cold drink.”
Charlotte spied the punch table at the far end of the great hall. Rather than move through the crowd, Draven gestured, and a server appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
“Thank you,” she said, sipping the cold beverage. “You know, I didn’t dose myself.”
“I believe you, but someone did.”
“Why?” she asked, and immediately had the answer. “Oh. To poison you.”
“Or sow distrust between us. Pick your poison, if you will.” He raised a brow, waiting for her response.
“Did you make a joke, Lord Draven?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Once a century, give or take?”
“Oh no. I’m far more amusing than that,” he said in a dry tone. “Once every twenty-five years.”
