Page 112 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

The ring was unexpected. She supposed it was simply logical. Betrothals required rings and new dresses and cake. And he was the sort to be prepared for all eventualities. He slipped it over her finger. They may as well have been entirely alone. She could barely hear the applause over her pulse in her ears, could barely see the candles around them, the silk and gold, only the gold of his gaze.

Why did it all have to be so perfect?

Perfect and devastating.

Perfectly devastating.

Because she wished so fiercely for it to be true. Now that the realization had glimmered to life, it was impossible to ignore. Like a rose thorn.

That he might want to keep her.

A ridiculous notion for the Earl of Coventry and the museum curator. Less ridiculous for the wolf.

But she knew by now that Aidan did not listen to his wolf easily, and certainly did not give it free rein.

And besides, she was the Red Cloak. And when she wasn’t, she was a bread-selling spinster who roamed the moors and talked to pigeons.

She stifled a groan. She was allowing herself to be distracted, which was inexcusable. She lifted her own flute of champagne with a smile. She drank, and he watched her mouth, and she drank again just to see the gold burn in his eyes.

And then she turned and smiled and accepted numerous felicitations.

Until the sparrow sang a song only she could hear.