Page 111 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Just taking down the Collector and his Cauldron. In a ball gown. All while feeling feelings about the Earl of Coventry.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked.

“One of us has to smile.”

He was still frowning. “Not like that.” His hand ghosted along the small of her back. It was warm and reassuring and made everything better.

Botheration. This love business was a nuisance.

She nearly choked.

“Now what?” He patted the middle of her back, rocking her forward, slightly panicked.

No more panicked than she.

Love? No, thank you. Not now. Not with a man who might actually go through with the marriage after all of this was done just because it was the polite thing to do. The honorable thing.

The fact that she would be tempted regardless made her nervous.

“Are you worried about the Collector?” Aidan asked. “Because he won’t touch you. I can promise you that.”

“Not at all. It’s nothing,” she murmured. She could tell he was not pleased by her answer, was not convinced. But what could she say? I wish you would stay. With me.

She could not muddy the waters, not tonight. Not here.

She took a deep breath, welcomed more guests, and had herself well in hand by the time the orchestra started to play. They were tucked into a corner, the music of violins and a pianoforte bouncing off the stone. Footmen circulated with silver platters of tiny breads baked into love knots and stuffed with cheese and herbs. More champagne was poured.

And then Aidan lifted his glass. It was instinct that had the conversations dulling to a murmur, everyone’s attention effortlessly caught by the Scotsman with the gentle smile. The Alpha.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in that deep, serious voice of his. Sorcha wanted to eat it more than she wanted to eat the cake. The circumstances might not be ideal, but that apparently meant nothing to her body. The hot thrill that went up the back of her knees was proof of that. She knew what it was to be hunted by him, to feel his breath on her neck. His teeth on her skin. His mouth.

Honestly, being the Red Cloak was far less complicated than being Sorcha at the moment.

“Thank you for joining us,” Aidan continued. She couldn’t tell if he noticed her reaction, but his eyes flared, just a bit. Just a glint of gold. Could he hear her heartbeat? See the way she was trying not to squirm? “Please raise your glass to my betrothed, Lady Sorcha Beauregard. I am honored to announce that she has consented to be my countess.”

Glasses were raised. Sorcha did not recognize more than half the guests. It wouldn’t have mattered. She couldn’t look away from Aidan.

“I have never known a more caring, more clever, or more beautiful woman in my life.”

She swallowed, trying to appear happy but not on fire with an odd sort of envy for what her life might look like. Standing with Aidan while he singled her out in the crowd. Not just looking at her but seeing her.

“I look forward to many years together.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Sorcha.”

His speech was all part of the plan. Gather the guests, keep them distracted, pretend that the artifacts in the other room were unguarded. Bait the trap. Wait.

And then a woman sighed so enthusiastically that she ruffled the lace trim of her gown’s neckline. “May we see the ring?”

The ring.

Sorcha blinked.

She did not have a ring. She hadn’t thought to take one from Granny’s jewelry box. And witches on Lyonesse did not wear gloves, so she could not even claim she had left it at home because it had not fit over a glove. Could she pretend to have lost it? Would that put a crack in their deception? Betrothal rings were supposed to be a complicated business, an heirloom or else something with a romantic meaning. She flicked a glance at Aidan, worried.

He was not the least bit worried. He was…smug? As if he had been waiting for this?

That didn’t seem likely. Or make any sense.

He strode toward Sorcha, eyes never leaving hers. “I needed to find something as unique as my betrothed.” He pulled a ring from his waistcoat pocket, next to his watch fob. It was simple gold, with a crow holding a moonstone circled with rubies in its beak. His wolf, her crow. The magic of the moon and the Red Cloak. A secret language for them both.