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Severus scowled as Potter dropped to one knee before the Order's painstakingly arranged dessert table to propose to Miss Weasley. Apparently no one else found Potter's desperate need to be the centre of attention irritating, judging by the thunderous applause that erupted as the teary-eyed girl flung herself at Potter, eagerly squealing her agreement.
Severus was distracted from the nauseating sight by a voice hissing, “Ronald! What are you doing?”
He turned to see Weasley, gormless as ever, had dropped to one knee before Miss Granger. Completely unperturbed by her obvious displeasure, he smiled sappily up at her and said, “Mione, will you marry—”
“I will not! Get up, you idiot.”
Miss Granger looked around in embarrassment at the half of the room which had noticed their antics. Weasley turned red as well, though for a different reason, a dull anger settling over his features as he rose shakily back to his feet. Most people politely averted their eyes from the couple’s aborted engagement, but Severus didn’t bother.
When she met his eyes, he smirked in amusement at her predicament. Her lips tightened.
She stepped closer to Weasley and whispered something to him.
He said, slightly too loudly, “So that’s it then? You won’t marry me.”
“Could we perhaps have this discussion in private?” she asked haughtily.
Severus felt even more pleased. Attending the Order’s New Year’s party had been worth it for this alone.
He despised Weasley. Since the end of the war the boy had been the loudest voice calling for his head amongst his so called allies. Most of the rest were tolerable, willing to set aside his past mistreatment of them, able to understand the necessity. Weasley, however, was too stupid to comprehend the concept and had consequently become an ongoing irritant.
Severus took no particular issue with Granger. She was far less annoying now than she had been as a student. Yet he could not muster much pity for her. She’d chosen to date the feckless imbecile. And even Severus knew that rejecting a marriage proposal by insulting the proposer was hardly the height of tact. Her condescending attitude now was unlikely to improve matters.
He chuckled quietly to himself as Weasley, predictably, exploded.
“You’re such a bitch, Hermione! Too good for me, aren’t you? Well, forget it. You’re a frigid cow anyways. Like I’d want to marry you? I was just trying to do the right thing, and this is what I get for it?”
Weasley truly had stolen Potter’s thunder. The newly engaged couple stared at the catastrophe that was Weasley’s attempted proposal, along with the rest of the room, those who had politely averted their gazes earlier taking his outburst as permission to return to openly staring.
“Ron!” Molly Weasley scolded immediately. “Don’t speak to Hermione like that.”
The room’s attention settled on the boy with palpable disapproval as Granger fled in tears. Severus, however, thought he noticed a faint glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. It gave him pause. He watched after her for a moment before chuckling softly to himself again.
Granger had deliberately goaded the boy into exploding on her so they would all blame him for botching the proposal and she would not have to endure Molly Weasley’s displeasure over the rejection of one of her perfect brood. Clever girl.
Several hours later Grimmauld Place was packed with people and Severus was having much less fun. The evening had begun with only Order members, but as the night wore on they had opened the house to others, and others had come.
Severus looked around in dismay as he realised they were all coupling off. Everywhere he looked were people flirting, doe-eyed and in various stages of infatuation.
The newly engaged Potter had not let his fiancé out of sight for the past two hours. Longbottom was following Parkinson around like a puppy for some absurd reason, and, even more absurdly, she seemed rather pleased about it. Severus had just narrowly escaped a conversation between Luna Lovegood and Charlie Weasley about the specifics of dragon anatomy for a book she was supposedly researching.
He shuddered at the mere thought.
And it was not only them. Molly and Arthur were swaying along to a gramophone playing Celestina Warbeck’s hideous screeching. Kingsley was engaged in a tedious conversation about Portkey regulations with Percy Weasley, though you would never have guessed it from the looks they were giving each other. Even Minerva had found someone to flirt with in the form of Andromeda Tonks and was currently entertaining the tiny blue-haired form of Edward Tonks with various transfigurations.
And Severus was alone, as always.
He sneered at them all, and at himself most of all, before retreating to the dessert table, his sweet tooth the only part of him he was ever capable of indulging. He eyed the Order’s offerings with interest. They’d had a bake sale earlier to raise funds, and he was pleased to note his passionfruit lemon bars had sold out.
He eyed the soufflés, tempted.
They had puffed several inches above the rims of their ramekins and tiny air bubbles were scattered evenly up the sides. The tops were perfectly level, not sunken in the slightest. In short, they appeared flawless.
Sceptically, he took one, along with one of the dessert forks laid out beside them, and sampled a bite. It was like biting into a cloud. The airy texture dissolved in his mouth, leaving the taste of chocolate to swirl delicately around his tongue.
Something tightened sharply around his heart and his eyes widened in alarm.
An Oath.
He vaguely recalled a throwaway comment made to Lucius as a brash youth: that if he ever met a witch capable of making a decent soufflé, he would court her.
He had not meant it. Sophia Yaxley had flirted with him, which she had not meant either. And when she’d become engaged to Cassius Crabbe it had angered him more than he cared to admit. He’d been high enough in the Dark Lord’s ranks then to merit an invitation, and so he’d sneered at her soufflés and declared he would never marry.
Lucius had laughed and teased him out of his poor mood until Severus had sarcastically acknowledged him. And magic, chaotic and unpredictable as it was, had apparently decided that piece of sarcasm was a promise. A promise he would now have to keep if he wished to retain his magic.
He stared down at the ramekin he still held. The sweetness of the chocolate turned bitter on his tongue as he wondered just how badly he was about to humiliate himself.
He had no choice. Magic would force him to make a genuine attempt to court the creator of these confections, regardless of who she was or the circumstances involved. He would not actually have to marry her should she reject him, which she surely would, whoever she was.
His first thought was of Molly. He was just becoming accustomed to not being despised, was he about to ruin it by attempting to steal a happily married witch from her husband? But no, he’d tasted her soufflés before. They were invariably a little sunken. She inevitably grew distracted and impatient during the mixing process and broke the air bubbles.
He sought out Potter. The bake sale had been the boy’s idea after all, surely he could be relied upon for information.
“Potter, who made the soufflés?”
Potter and Miss Weasley both look at him in surprise.
Miss Weasley narrowed her eyes a moment later. “Why do you want to know?”
He gritted his teeth. He wanted to say something dismissive, but he could hardly begin by insulting his intended. “Because they are perfection. I wish to offer my compliments to whoever was responsible.”
He waited, hoping desperately she wasn’t about to say it was me. Merlin help him if he had to try and steal the Chosen One’s newly acquired fiancé.
Potter grinned. “Wow. Hermione will be thrilled. We were joking earlier because she’s been obsessed with getting them just right and we told her even you wouldn’t be able to find anything to criticise. Glad to know we were right.”
“Indeed,” Severus said smoothly.
His heart thudded strangely in his chest. Miss Granger was newly single at least, as of twenty minutes ago. And beautiful. And not a dunderhead.
That small, treacherous lurch of hope was enough to make him realise just how dire the situation was. Rejection was inevitable, he knew that perfectly well. But with anyone else he could at least have fallen back on the knowledge he would not wish to be accepted. When Hermione Granger turned him down, however, there would be no relief in it.
Maintaining a creditable impression of passivity, he asked, “Do you know where Miss Granger is?”
“Library,” they both said in unison.
He smiled reluctantly and made his way upstairs.
He did not find her in the library. Instead, he found her in the hallway, bickering with Ron Weasley.
“—no right,” Weasley was saying. “You turned me down. What do you think you’re playing at now?”
“Ron! Mere hours ago you were professing your love for me and asking me to marry you. I have every right to be furious upon finding you sticking your tongue down another witch’s throat!”
“You didn’t want me. She does. And at least she’s willing to put out.”
There was a sharp crack as Granger’s hand made contact with Weasley’s face. She spun, meeting Severus’ eye for the briefest of moments before she fled yet another room, tears streaming down her face once again, though he was certain they were more genuine this time.
He smirked at Weasley until the boy retreated, then reluctantly followed after the girl. This time she was, in fact, in the library. She looked up as he entered and quickly swiped at her tears.
He paused, suddenly not quite sure what he thought he was doing. He did not go chasing after crying witches to comfort them. Usually, he was the thing they were fleeing from.
Granger, now looking mildly irritated, said, “Can I help you with something, Professor?”
“Yes.”
She raised her eyebrows in question.
“I simply wanted to pass on my compliments for the soufflés. They were exceptionally well made.”
She blinked, looking pleasantly surprised. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Are you alright?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Fine, thank you.”
He snorted. “You obviously aren’t fine. I overheard you arguing with Weasley.”
“Yes, well…” She winced and offered a small shrug. “He has been rather trying tonight.”
Severus stepped forward and settled himself into an armchair across from her. “You seemed rather pleased to be rid of him earlier.”
She turned her head sharply towards him. A moment later she was on her feet with her wand pointed directly at his face.
Severus blinked at her.
“What did you say to me when you cast the counter-curse on my wound after the Department of Mysteries?” she demanded.
He raised an eyebrow. “You believe I’m a Polyjuiced impostor?”
“You are not exactly acting like the friendly professor we all know and love,” she said with fierce sarcasm.
He frowned slightly. The realisation that merely enquiring into a person’s wellbeing was so out of character for him that she jumped to Polyjuice was faintly troubling. He had been attempting to be more approachable since the end of the war. Apparently, he was still failing.
“I expressed my wish that you would be expelled,” he admitted.
“No, after that,” she pressed.
He felt his spine stiffen slightly. “Is this truly necessary?”
She didn’t waver.
“I informed you that your O.W.L. scores would be of little comfort if your inflated sense of self-worth killed you before you could even receive them.”
She slid her wand away and retook her seat. “You had nothing but insults for me as a frightened and injured sixteen-year-old, yet now expect me to believe you are concerned about my relationship drama?”
Severus looked down at the fraying carpet for a moment, before answering, “I have been attempting to be less… abrasive.”
When he looked up again the girl was studying him.
She quirked a small smile. “I wasn’t pleased to be rid of him. Not exactly. I was embarrassed, and the moment he dropped to one knee I knew they’d all hate me for turning him down. So when he lost control, I was relieved since it meant they wouldn’t all blame me.”
“You weren’t expecting the proposal?”
“Gods, no,” she said vehemently. “Our relationship has been a disaster. He’s my best friend and I love him, but we kind of fell into things at the end of the war and it just wasn’t working. He was mourning Fred and spending a lot of time with his family, and then I went to Australia to recover my parents, so we barely saw each other. When I came back I went to Hogwarts to help with the rebuilding and to study for my N.E.W.T.s. Whenever we did manage to see each other, we bickered constantly.”
She huffed softly. “We even had a huge argument earlier today, mere hours before he decided to publicly propose to me. He hadn’t even bothered to apologise yet.”
“What did you argue about?”
“The soufflés, actually,” she admitted with a small smile. “He complained that I didn’t immediately drop what I was doing to help him transfigure his robes for the party, because I was busy, and then got mad at me for caring more about my stupid cakes than about him.”
“It sounds to me like he cared more about his stupid robes than about your perfect soufflés.”
Her smile widened. “That’s what I said! In any case, I knew the breakup was coming, but it still hurts. And it’s worse knowing he could move on so quickly.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“I just walked in on him with a hand down Lavender’s top.”
He grimaced. “Miss Brown always did possess atrocious taste.”
“She did always like Ron,” she said conspiratorially.
“Precisely.”
“So why are you interested in all of this?”
“It behoves a man to show interest in his allies affairs, does it not?”
Granger crossed her arms. “It behoves a man?” she repeated mockingly. “Seriously, sir, what are you doing?”
He lowered his head automatically then felt a flicker of irritation as he realised his hair was tied back and he could not retreat behind it. He was not smooth about such things, but the idea of explaining the situation… he could only imagine it would sound completely absurd.
But perhaps that would be for the best. Granger would reject him, though she’d no doubt be kind about it, and then the entire ordeal could finally be over with. The magic would not permit him to deliberately sabotage himself, but it might be for the best.
Granger was a Gryffindor. If he had any chance with her it would be through honesty.
He looked up and said firmly, “Would you permit me to court you?”
“WHAT!?” He flinched at her shriek and she winced. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?”
He glared at her.
She huffed. “I can’t possibly have heard you correctly, because it almost sounded like you were implying you wanted to court me.”
“That is what I said,” he responded stiffly.
“Is this some sort of prank?”
He tensed slightly, the magic pulling at him. He would have to explain further. “I have triggered an accidental oath that I made some time ago. You are aware, of course, that magic can occasionally decide that a statement constitutes a binding promise, even if it was not intended as such. It’s a rare phenomenon, but sarcasm is known to trigger such things, much to my apparent detriment.”
“You sarcastically said you wanted to marry me?”
“No. A long time ago I informed Lucius that should I ever meet a witch capable of baking a perfect soufflé then I would marry her. I meant it sarcastically, of course. Unfortunately, my magic seems to have disagreed.”
Granger covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide with horror. “Oh God. And now you have to marry me?”
“We do not have to marry. Magic is not quite so cruel. I merely must… attempt to persuade you. Once you reject me, my oath should be satisfied.”
“But if I agreed, you would have to go along with it? Even though you don’t want to marry me at all you have to try to, just because you liked my soufflé?” She looked appalled. “That’s horrifying! I reject you then.”
He felt his magic tighten, squeezing painfully around his chest. He wanted to agree, to accept the rejection based on her assumption it was something he didn’t want. But magic would not allow her to believe he had no interest in her. He felt his expression tighten involuntarily.
“Are you alright? Did it work?”
“I am afraid you are labouring under a misapprehension… it would be incorrect to assume I have no wish to marry you.”
“What?” she asked weakly, looking utterly unconvinced.
“Miss Granger, you are a beautiful, brilliant, highly capable witch. You are one of the few people I know who might be able to keep pace with me intellectually. As though that weren’t enough, you combine all of that with boundless compassion and kindness.”
She gaped at him, and her cheeks flushed a rather becoming pink.
He continued, “I know I have disparaged you, and I won’t apologise for it. I was a spy and as such I was forced to play my role accordingly. Furthermore, as a student, you genuinely were rather irritating. You have more than proved yourself since then.”
“You… what?”
“You say that rather frequently,” he noted.
She shook her head. “You must be Polyjuiced. Severus Snape would never, ever, say that to me.”
He snorted.
“So you truly made an oath about soufflés?”
“I truly did. It seems rather stupid in retrospect, but I certainly never expected my magic to hold me accountable to it.”
“I can imagine. How did it happen?”
“I suppose you’d have no way of knowing this, but pureblood witches often display their talents for each other by crafting difficult and elaborate desserts. Are you aware that house elves cannot make them?”
“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t they be able to?” She looked mildly offended on behalf of all house elves everywhere.
He smirked. “Magic interferes with the air bubbles in baking. Did you never notice that all of the desserts at Hogwarts are things that don’t rely on whipped egg whites? Tarts and puddings and custards, but nary a sponge cake in sight.”
She pondered that. “They do make that horribly dense mud cake.”
“Exactly. They fare slightly better whisking by hand than with magic, though not by much. And I am certain you would object to forcing them into additional labour.”
She gave him a flat look.
“So all the little pureblood ladies baked their own desserts to show off their refinement. Soufflés happened to be particularly fashionable in my youth. And I delighted in being critical.”
“Naturally,” she said with a small smile.
He ignored her attempt to imitate him beyond a slight quirking of his lips. “There was a witch who I believed had been flirting with me until she announced her engagement to another man, and Lucius told me it was my own fault for failing to pursue her. I disagreed, but her baking was atrocious and, after I said so, Lucius informed me that if I ever met a woman who was more talented in the kitchen, I would be obligated to court her. And I, essentially, agreed.”
“What did you say, specifically?”
“I said, ‘As you say, Lucius, if I ever meet a witch capable of baking a perfect soufflé, I shall certainly marry her.’ But I can assure you I will not drop dead when you reject me. Magic will have considered his words as well, as it was an agreement between us, and the intent will only require an earnest attempt at courtship.”
“Why do you assume I will reject you?”
“Aside from the glaringly obvious reasons?” he shot back.
“I’d like to hear your so called ‘glaringly obvious reasons.’”
He snapped reflexively, “You cannot possibly mean to pursue this. As such, I would prefer you put me out of my misery.”
Her chin rose up defiantly. “I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps I might.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. He didn’t believe she was the type to string him along, but... she had just broken up with Weasley. Perhaps she was only considering him as some bizarre reaction to that situation.
Granger grew irritated with his lack of response and said tartly, “Why don’t I begin with what I believe might concern you and you can let me know if I’ve missed anything. I expect that our age difference and the fact you were my professor is more likely to bother you than me. Others would judge you for it, and would probably make unsavoury accusations, but frankly I wouldn’t care. Our personal history is a little more troubling, but I’m sure I could move past it, with time—”
“You could simply forget all of the awful things I’ve said to you?”
She eyed him speculatively for a moment. “Why not? Tell me I’m beautiful a couple more times, in that voice, and it’ll drive ‘I see no difference’ right out of my brain.”
He stared at her, shocked, and then said, hesitantly, “You are beautiful.”
She smiled, and it made him feel uncomfortable.
“I was a Death Eater,” he reminded her.
She waved a hand dismissively. “Was. Now you’re just a reformed bad boy, that has its own appeal.”
“Ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Think of what your friends would say, of public perception. I am not a pleasant man, nor am I remotely attractive. Perhaps you might find me tolerable as a mentor, or even a friend, but as a romantic companion? I am obviously entirely unsuitable.”
Her lips twitched and her smile widened.
“What are you smiling about?” he demanded, suddenly embarrassed.
“You. You’re adorable.”
“I’m a murderer,” he shot back.
Her smile softened. “You’re a hero.”
He looked away from her to glare at the carpet. He wanted to snarl at her, to force her to see him as he really was rather than whatever absurdly romanticised version of him she must have constructed in her head to even entertain the possibility of allowing him to court her. But he could not.
The magic of his oath tightened around his throat, choking him. It would allow him to be truthful with her, to point out his less appealing traits, even when it would be more beneficial to him to say nothing. But it would not allow him to deliberately drive her away with falsities.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“With regard to what?”
“You courting me.”
“I am uncertain,” he admitted. “I had not expected to progress this far.”
“You really just came up here planning to be rejected, didn’t you?”
He pressed his lips together.
“Shall I determine how you will court me then?” she asked archly. When he didn’t respond she said, “We should probably return to the festivities soon. We can’t hide in the library all night. Perhaps you should escort me, and then we can be one another’s midnight kiss.”
“You want me to kiss you?” he asked incredulously.
“Only if you’d like to.”
“In front of everyone?”
She shrugged. “I’m not one to keep secrets. You don’t get to ask to court me and expect me not to tell my friends.”
“But surely you wouldn’t want to tell them,” he said, dismayed.
“Of course I do. I’m very surprised, but not displeased by this turn of events. I’m admittedly a little young to get married, but it sounds like we don’t have to until I’m ready, so long as you attempt to court me. So we can date, take things slow. If you wish to be free of me at any point I will of course release you, but I’m not inclined to reject you.”
He sat there, her words ringing in his ears, disbelieving. She was not inclined to reject him. Ridiculous girl.
“Let’s go back downstairs,” she said with a grin. “I want to see if any of my soufflés are left, the fact you want to marry me over them makes me want to eat one myself.”
None were, but she selected a piece of brownie and led him toward a quiet corner. He followed her, trying not to recall the sappy expression on Longbottom’s face as he trailed after Parkinson earlier in the evening. He scowled violently at anyone who looked at him, just in case they decided he was equally as pathetic.
Granger talked. Incessantly. He tried to pay attention, and the conversation was admittedly interesting. She began by recapping a book she’d read recently on transitive properties in transfiguration before launching into her own opinions on the subject. He tried to pay attention, but found himself staring at her lips as she spoke.
He was going to kiss those lips.
She wanted him to. She had said so, had she not? A kiss at midnight. In front of everyone. His palms began to sweat. It had been a long time since he’d kissed anyone, and he hadn’t ever had much experience with such things. He was sure to disappoint her.
The thought of admitting such a thing aloud was horrifying. Yet the longer he considered it, the more convinced he became he would have to. She would expect him to know what he was doing, to be experienced. So if he did something wrong, she would simply assume he was a poor kisser.
Whereas if he informed her of his inexperience in advance she would be far more forgiving of any mistakes. She’d probably write him an essay on proper kissing techniques and permit him to try again.
Unfortunately, his conclusion did not make it any easier to actually say anything.
Not until she looked at him with concern and asked, “Are you alright?”
“May I speak with you privately for a moment?”
He knew he sounded stiff and awkward, but was helpless to do otherwise.
She nodded and led him into the pantry. She closed the door behind her and he relaxed slightly in the darkness. A thin crack beneath the door provided just enough illumination to see by, but the comparative darkness and quiet made him feel safer than the bright lights and noise of the party. He cast a Muffliato for good measure.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come.
She blinked at him, frowning slightly. “If you don’t want to court me anymore that’s alright. You can just say so. I know I was talking your ear off out there.”
“That’s not it at all,” he said immediately, uncomfortable that she was mistaking his awkwardness as a rejection. He forged on, “You implied earlier that you would like me to kiss you at midnight. Is that correct?”
“Only if you want to,” she said firmly. “But yes.”
He swallowed. “I fear that I ought to inform you I possess very little experience with such things.”
“With kissing?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“You imagined otherwise?”
“I did,” she said, without hesitation.
“You imagined incorrectly,” he informed her. His voice was soft though. He realised he felt flattered by her surprise.
She cocked her head slightly. “And you’re… nervous. About kissing me.”
“I am not nervous. I simply thought it prudent to disabuse you of any notions that I—” he faltered, suddenly unsure what to say. Eventually he continued, “I did not want you to judge me a poor kisser, when I am simply inexperienced.”
“You’re rather adorable,” she said, smiling at him.
He glowered at her, to absolutely no effect.
She only smiled wider. “Do you think you’d feel less nervous if we practiced?”
“Practiced how?” he asked suspiciously.
“We could kiss now. A trial run in preparation for later.” She added cheekily, “Don’t worry, it won’t count towards your final grade.”
He scowled reflexively at her teasing.
She stepped a little closer. “Well, would you like to?”
He managed to nod. He looked at her properly then. She was beautiful, even in the dimly lit pantry, surrounded by root vegetables. Her eyes glimmered up at him, her expression soft.
He tried to visualise the mechanics of kissing her. One step closer to reach her. Then he would lower his head and place his lips against hers.
He was less certain what to do with his hands. Should he wrap his arms around her? He worried that might make her feel trapped. Perhaps one hand on her cheek? He was fairly certain he had seen others do that. But he wasn’t sure if that was supposed to happen before the kiss or after.
While he was still strategizing his approach and calculating angles she stepped into him and pressed her lips against his.
Soft.
Warm.
Sublime.
She smelled of chocolate and cinnamon, warm and lovely.
Her lips moved gently against his, brushing over his mouth before lightly catching his lower lip between her teeth.
She drew back slightly and looked up at him. “I’m not grading but if I were that would be Poor, simply for lack of participation.”
“Oh,” he said stupidly. He supposed that, on reflection, she had been kissing him for quite some time as he stood frozen like a statue.
“Would you like to try again?” she asked.
He nodded at once.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled slightly until he bent his head. Soft lips pressed against his and he moved in response, cautiously attempting to replicate her movements. Encouraged, she pressed closer against him.
Her lips parted and her tongue brushed his lower lip. A moment later he shifted his mouth lower to do the same to her, only to jerk back in surprise when his tongue encountered hers.
She blinked at him. “Alright?”
In response he kissed her again. She made a contented little humming noise against his lips. He was prepared for their tongues to meet this time and didn’t startle when she licked her way into his mouth. Instead, he let out a humiliating little moan at the sensation of her stroking his tongue.
She tugged him closer, and heat rushed into his cheeks as her stomach pressed against his erection, knowing she could feel it. She didn’t shy away though. She buried one hand in his hair, holding him in place as she plundered his mouth, as her other hand traced its way slowly down his back.
She pulled back with a smile. “There, how was that? Nothing to be nervous about now.”
When his brain resumed functioning, he said dryly, “Nothing but the fact you expect me to kiss you in front of a roomful of Order members who are likely to hex me for attempting to take advantage of you.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
He scoffed. “I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
“Only that you will eventually come to your senses and reject me.”
“I think you should be far more concerned about the alternative. I’m afraid you may be permanently stuck with a bossy harridan for a wife, and all because you ate a soufflé.”
He quirked a smile. “It was exceptionally delicious. A soufflé worth marrying for.”