Page 22 of The Villainess Chose Naps Over Death Flags

They finished dessert in a comfortable silence that felt miraculous compared to the tense beginning of the meal.

When the plates were cleared, Caspian stood. Carol quickly rose as well.

"Thank you for dinner," she said. "I... enjoyed this."

He studied her one more time, those green eyes unreadable.

"We'll dine together again tomorrow night," he said. It wasn't a question.

Carol felt her heart skip. "I'd like that."

He nodded once, then turned to leave. Paused at the door.

"Lady Caroline."

It was the first time he'd said her name. Carol's breath caught.

"Yes?"

"If you're going to watch my training again," he said, not turning around, "you don't have to hide behind the hedge. The eastern viewing terrace has a better vantage point."

And then he was gone, leaving Carol standing in the dining room with her mouth hanging open.

"Did he just—" she started.

"HE MADE A JOKE!" Lumi squealed. "He actually made a joke! Do you know what this means?!"

"It means he's definitely watching you back," Missy said, sounding impressed despite herself. "Nicely done, Bestie."

Carol pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

She'd done it. She'd survived dinner with The Butcher of the North. They'd had an actual conversation. He'd almost smiled. Multiple times.

And unless she was completely misreading things, he was maybe, possibly, potentially willing to give her a chance.

It wasn't friendship yet. It wasn't even close to trust.

But it was a start.

Chapter 6

Strategic Assessment of a Suspicious Wife

Caspian stared at the reports on his desk without actually seeing them.

His study was his sanctuary—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk that had belonged to three generations of Vanthorn dukes before him. Maps of the northern territories covered one wall. Weapon displays lined another. Everything was organized, controlled, predictable.

Unlike his wife.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," Caspian said, already knowing who it would be.

Edwin Hawkridge strode in first, his captain's uniform slightly disheveled from evening training drills. He was built like an ox, with dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a scar across his left eyebrow from a sparring accident when they were twelve. Edwin had been Caspian's best friend since childhood, one of the few people who'd never feared him, and the only person permitted to offer blunt criticism without fear of reprisal.

"So," Edwin said, dropping into the chair across from Caspian's desk without waiting for permission. "I heard your wife joined you for dinner."

Sterling Whitmore followed at a more dignified pace. He was older—in his early fifties—with silver-streaked hair, sharp grey eyes, and the bearing of a man who'd been managing ducal affairs for three decades. He'd served Caspian's father before him and had become something between an advisor, a steward, and an occasionally exasperated parental figure.