Page 17 of My Fae Lady

Eight

Giselle

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I paused in front of the dark, six-panel door. On the other side, Lord Sylvan ought to be waiting for me in the parlor. Another day, another lesson. And no doubt scores of complaints.

The novelty of teaching an Unseelie to behave like a gentleman had amused me at first. His responses had been so absurd a few times I’d have sworn on the Seelie Scales themselves that he was trying to make me laugh rather than stating his actual opinions.

I was finding it harder and harder to argue away his complaints, however. His objections made sense. They reminded me of my childhood, when I had avoided my mother’s attempts to turn me into a proper lady as often as possible. It didn’t matter that I could sympathize. I had learned as a girl and applied those lessons for centuries. He could manage for a few weeks.

Summoning every ounce of the poise my mother had instilled in me, I lifted my chin and entered the parlor. House had set everything up to my exact specifications, its responsiveness the best part of having Lord Sylvan in my home.

That and having an ancient fae willing to answer my questions without condescension or annoyance. My constant queries were the one thing he didn’t complain about.

Directly in front of me, a low table set with a tea service waited. Two cushioned chairs faced the short ends of the table. A sofa upholstered in rich aubergine ran the length of the long side. I almost missed my fiancé, he had sunk so deeply into the chair on my left. I made my way up to the table and took in his posture. During every lesson, it seemed I had to remind him to sit tall. This time, it wasn’t just a slouch but a full-bodied pout.

“While it is proper for a gentleman to sit in a chair rather than claim a spot on a sofa and possibly end up next to an unmarried lady, you are meant to perch on the edge of the seat with your spine straight. Moreover, you must always stand when a lady enters the room and wait to reclaim your seat until after she has taken hers.”

The brown in his forest-hued eyes expanded as he glared at me. “Is it not also proper to arrive at the stated hour and not keep your guests waiting for sustenance?”

I laughed at the incongruous naivety. We would leave for Isthmuston the next day to procure a proper wardrobe and convince my father’s friend to support the marriage; I could afford to teach Sylvan this lesson today. “Of course not. In fact, arriving at the stated hour is considered unsophisticated. If a dinner party is scheduled for six, do not expect to be at the table until at least seven. Now, let’s try this again.”

“Try what? We haven’t done anything!”

“Exactly. I’m going to enter the room again, and you are going to rise and greet me.”

For a sliver of a second, I thought Sylvan would argue, but he had learned over the past week not to push the bargain too far. He grumbled under his breath but didn’t truly protest as I exited the room.

I waited a handful of heartbeats in the hall, then entered once more.

The Unseelie lumbered to his feet with no grace whatsoever.

I shook my head. “Try again, Lord Sylvan. Can you rise without looking like a bear drunk on mead?”

The look he leveled at me was akin to a cougar identifying its next target. I wasn’t worried, though. The hunting cat in my parlor might have claws, but he couldn’t use them on me.

Sylvan plopped back in his chair, and I held up a hand. “Wait. You won’t be able to rise smoothly until you sit properly. Remember: edge of the chair, spine straight.”

“Why does the rest of the chair exist if I’m not supposed to use it?”

“To give an inviting sense of comfort. You simply aren’t supposed to indulge in the invitation.” I moved to the chair’s side. “Farther forward.”

“Must every lesson be so painfully slow?” He said the word “slow” with a jarringly flat vowel. We’d have to work on that, too.

“Our pace is determined by your mastery. If you want tea anytime soon, then I suggest you sit properly. Shoulders back.”

Sylvan stiffened; he looked supremely uncomfortable. I walked around the chair, checking him from every angle. Perfect. Now he just had to hold the pose long enough to make it second nature.

“While you maintain that position, I want you to repeat after me: The snow in Drow is blacker than a crow.”

He twisted around to gape at me. “You want me to say what?”

“Face forward, shoulders back, and repeat the sentence.”

“I’m not repeating nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense.”