Maris laughed. The sound grated. “As you know, though we are well established in Elvado, the Garrick estate still flourishes in the verdant beauty of Dorana’s Fifth district. My parents look to host a house party there next week, and would be honoured to receive you as a guest.”

A house party? And what was this, a ploy to secure his interest? A way for Lord Parnel Garrick to insinuate himself into a prospective goodson’s good graces? A Councillor’s good graces?

They are not subtle, these Garricks. Their idea of stealth is to gaily blow trumpets as they blunder through the woods in search of their fox.

But he was no man’s fox. Though he might play at being the quarry, he was the true hunter here. He would catch Maris Garrick in his own time, and keep her on his own terms.

Provided I want her. And that is yet to be settled.

“A house party sounds delightful,” he said, being sure to sound sincere. “Alas, I am reluctant to travel so far from home. Lord Danfey, you understand. His health continues precarious.”

“Oh,” Maris said, all sweet concern and, heedless of her watching companion, reached across the table to press fingers to his arm. Her wrist was laden with a gold and ruby bracelet. A vulgar, boastful thing. Luzena would never have worn it. “Oh, of course. You worry for him. No wonder your palate is jaded.”

Reminded, he looked at his burdened plate. If he did not eat all but a mouthful of his rabbit, word would go back to the kitchen and dismay would ensue. Furthermore, it would be noted by The Opal’s other diners. He was known here, his every smile and swallow and sigh avidly noted. If his demeanour so much as hinted at dissatisfaction, gossiping tongues would wag until they fell out entirely.

“Did you hear? Councillor Danfey was indifferent toward his dinner at The Opal. I wonder if there is some magery trouble in the place?”

And that would hardly be fair to Harlim Seffley, The Opal’s proprietor and senior mage. Harlim’s establishment wasn’t to blame for Councillor Danfey’s distracted thoughts.

Lifting his knife and fork, Morgan shook his head. “Jaded? Not at all, Maris. I am merely distracted.”

She pouted. “By me a little, I hope, as well as your mysterious Council business!”

No mention of his father. But then, Greve Danfey was nothing more than an obstacle, was he?

“Of course,” he replied, forcing another smile. “My dear, you must not entertain any doubt on it, or fear that kind of distraction could be considered unpleasant.”