“Have you made quite the stir?” my tutor asked dryly. “Quite,” I replied in kind. “Indubitably,” Piers added, with such smugness that I turned a speculative stare upon him. He met my eyes with innocuous curiosity. “What is it?” “You.” “What of me?” “You did all that a’purpose,” I accused, but kept my voice down lest it carry to the others upon the terrace. Ashmore’s breath huffed. “Took you long enough to realize.” “Now, wait—” “No,” I cut in, hands going to my corseted waist. I thrust my chin out. “You’re planning. ’Tis written all over your face. What are you—” When it hit me, it did so with the force of a cosh. Without thinking of how uncouth the gesture was, I allowed my hand to flatten over my face. “You rotter,” I hissed. “You manipulative bastard.”
