Chapter 140: After Hours

The remainder of the evening unfolded with a surprising gentleness. Once Ilaria returned to the hall at Levan’s side, the tension that had earlier threaded through the gathering gradually loosened. The feast was announced not long after, drawing the nobles from their clusters of conversation toward the long tables prepared beneath the glittering chandeliers.

Lady Stormlow had personally seen to the arrangements, and the pride she took in the evening showed in every detail. And Ilaria found herself drawn once more into the company of the noblewomen who had gathered around her earlier.

The Marchioness spoke animatedly about the winter markets in the lower quarter, the Countess shared a story about her son’s disastrous first hunting trip, and the Duchess, now far more relaxed, teased Ilaria about the enthusiasm she had shown for the honeyed chestnut tarts.

The laughter that followed felt easier than it had before.

At some point the musicians changed their melody to something softer, and the hall warmed with the comfortable hum of conversation. Servants refilled goblets, candles burned lower, and the night outside the tall windows deepened into velvet darkness.

Ilaria discovered that she truly did enjoy herself again. The earlier unease dissolved beneath the warmth of shared stories and the gentle kindness of the women beside her. All the while, Levan observed the entire thing from across the hall with quiet amusement.

Whenever his attention drifted toward the women’s table, he found his wife smiling again, putting his mind at ease. By the time the evening finally began to draw to a close, the palace staff had already begun preparing cloaks and lanterns for departing guests.

Outside the Stormlow estate, the winter air had sharpened into a clear, crystalline cold as carriages lined the courtyard in a slow procession of departing nobles. Snow had not yet fallen heavily, but the scent of frost lingered unmistakably in the air.

Ilaria settled comfortably into their carriage while the final courtesies were exchanged outside.

Through the small window she could see Lord Stormlow standing beside the grand steps, his broad figure unmistakable even in the shifting lantern glow. Lady Stormlow remained at his side, graciously bidding farewell to each departing guest. Levan lingered briefly with them near the carriage.

Ilaria watched as the Lord inclined his head respectfully while speaking with the Crown Prince. Lady Stormlow’s expression softened when Levan gestured toward the carriage, clearly referencing his wife waiting within. Whatever words were exchanged next earned a faint smile from the hostess before she offered her own farewell.

Only then did Levan turn away from the steps and make his way across the courtyard. The carriage door opened, allowing a brief gust of cold night air to slip inside before he stepped in after it. He settled into the seat opposite her with the ease of someone accustomed to long journeys, brushing a trace of frost from his gloves before the door closed again.

The carriage lurched forward with a gentle roll of wheels against stone, the Stormlow estate slowly disappearing behind them. Finally… Ilaria leaned back against the velvet cushion, allowing the warmth to return to her fingers after the brief walk across the courtyard.

Her thoughts drifted easily through the memories of the evening. About Lady Stormlow’s gracious hospitality. The lively chatter of the noblewomen. And the delightful balance of sweetness and salt in those ridiculous chestnut tarts she had nearly devoured without dignity.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Too bad she did not quite make the time. She would have to remember to ask the Stormlow kitchens about the recipe if the opportunity ever presented itself again.

The carriage lantern swayed softly overhead, casting shifting patterns of gold across the interior. Gradually, her gaze lowered to her wrist that rested loosely in her lap, causing the memory of the terrace returned without invitation.

And just like that… her smile faded.

Carefully, she reached for the edge of her glove and slid it from her hand. The silk slipped free with a quiet rustle.

Opposite her, Levan had been watching. His attention had never strayed far from her since they entered the carriage, and the small motion did not escape him.

“What troubles you?” he inquired quietly. His voice carried no sharpness, only a low, patient curiosity.

Ilaria glanced up, momentarily caught beneath the weight of his gaze. Then she offered a small, apologetic smile and flexed her bare fingers slightly.

“Nothing serious,” she replied, her tone light though a hint of fatigue coloured it. “My hands are terribly warm after the banquet. I think the gloves were beginning to make them sweat.”

Levan regarded her for a moment longer, his eyes steady. Then he leaned forward slightly and extended a hand across the narrow space between them. “Here.”

It was neither a command nor a question but simply a quiet invitation. So Ilaria placed her hand in his without hesitation.

His fingers closed around hers with familiar care, turning her palm upward so the lantern light brushed gently across her skin. His thumb pressed lightly along the base of her fingers, slow and deliberate, kneading away the lingering tension she had not realized she carried.

“Still warm,” he observed softly, his thumb circling the center of her palm.

Ilaria relaxed almost immediately beneath the touch, the steady pressure easing the stiffness from her fingers.

Levan’s voice came again, calmer now. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” she answered, her smile returning with surprising ease. “Lady Stormlow’s friends were delightful. The Marchioness Elowyn told a story about her son trying to hunt pheasants with a falcon that apparently hated him.”

Levan’s mouth twitched faintly. “That sounds like a very honest falcon.”

Ilaria laughed softly. “And the Duchess insisted I try another pastry after the feast,” she continued, her eyes brightening slightly as she spoke. “I think she was determined to prove Stormlow kitchens are superior to the capital.”

“And?” Levan asked the question with mild curiosity, though the quiet amusement in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.

“They might be,” Ilaria admitted. “The honeyed chestnut tarts were excellent, but there was another one with sugared almonds that nearly convinced me to abandon all dignity.”

Levan shook his head slightly, though the faint smile remained. “I suspected food would win the evening eventually.”

“You say that as if it’s unreasonable,” she protested gently.

He pressed his thumb along the side of her hand again, easing the last stiffness from her fingers. “I say that because I watched you evaluate an entire banquet like a royal inspector.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “You were the one watching me instead of speaking with your commander.”

“I am capable of doing both,” he replied dryly.

The carriage rolled through a quieter stretch of road, the distant sounds of the city softening as the night deepened around them.

Ilaria tilted her head slightly. “Why wasn’t there dancing tonight?”

Levan glanced up from her hand, mildly surprised by the question. “Because Stormlow was hosting a military banquet,” he explained. “Most of the guests tonight were officers or provincial lords. These gatherings tend to revolve around food, wine, and arguments about border patrols.”

“That sounds terribly dull.”

“To you, perhaps.”

“It does seem strange,” she mused. “The music was lovely.”

Levan studied her face for a moment, then a glimmer of mischief appeared in his expression. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Were you hoping to dance?”

Ilaria hesitated. She unconsciously hunched her shoulders as a shy warmth crept into her expression, biting her lower lip.

“Well…” She looked down briefly at their joined hands before lifting her gaze again. “I wanted to dance with you.”

The confession came quietly, almost bashful, though the expression on her face carried no embarrassment at all, only a soft, hopeful sincerity.

Levan stilled for the briefest moment, her hand still resting in his. Then he laughed softly, his head dipped to the side before he could help himself. And that, perhaps, was the most beautiful thing Ilaria has witnessed tonight.

“Is that so?” His thumb resumed its slow motion along her palm, though now the gesture felt less like comfort and more like something teasingly thoughtful.

“You realize,” he drawled, “that if I begin dancing at a military banquet, the Stormlows will assume I have abandoned all sense of command.”

Ilaria’s smile widened, her eyes shining with mirth. “I think Lord Stormlow would survive the scandal.”

Levan considered that for a moment. “Perhaps,” he conceded.

The carriage lantern swayed again, casting a brief shimmer of light across the interior as the horses turned onto a wider street.

He lifted her hand slightly, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a gesture so casual it almost seemed unconscious.

“Next time,” he murmured.

Ilaria blinked. “Next time?”

“If you still wish to dance,” he clarified.

Her smile softened into something bright and unmistakably pleased. “I will.”

Levan leaned back into his seat then, still holding her hand between both of his as the carriage carried them quietly through the sleeping city.

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