Arven had never been suited to conventional courting scenarios, where timid girls glance nervously at their fussy chaperones, formal names are uttered as if meeting for the first time, and barely a handshake is permitted by Queen and Country. His tearoom was the forest, her chaperones were sundry wildlife, and her parasol? Her parasol was a sword.

And so Arven had no hesitation with his improper behaviour, and it was received with those ocean eyes full of interest and invitation. "Hm, that depends", he murmured, tracing her smooth jawline, closer than ever, "on how easy you think I am to tame."