“Don’t look at me that way. I hate when you look at me like that.”
“Stop threatening me and my family.” She balled her fists at her side, her heart thumping against her ribcage, feeling as if it would burst. How she hated this man. Just as much as she hated the man who left her with child when she was only a child herself.
Matilda Brennan was talented, she knew that, and so did the stage managers who tried to leverage her success to fill their pockets. Once she was pregnant with Ethan, she had left Dublin and the stage. She waited a year after his birth to return to the theater and started in smaller provincial circuits in England. She dropped her stage name, went by her family name, and had finally signed for her first of several performances at Drury Lane.
Roger had discovered her at a smaller production and offered her a role last year. That began a frenzy of other theaters fighting to gain her as an actress in their production as well.
And now he wished to take it all away because she didn’t want him.
“You don’t own me, Roger,” she spat out.
He reached out and squeezed her cheeks in his hand, gripping until tears sprang to her eyes, and she dragged in a breath. He hauled her close, pulling so tightly she thought her jaw might break from the force.
“You signed a contract with my theater, Matilda. You are mine. And I will have you or you will kiss everything I have given you goodbye. You’ll be another miserable, hungry mother with ten brats to feed in Ireland and no coin to do it.”
She met him in the eye the entire time, even as she wished to curl up and cry. This was nothing. She had a bruise on her arm from last week. He was always careful not to bruise her face. But today, that careful consideration seemed close to slipping.
“You’re pathetic. You’d be nothing in this Town without me. Remember that, dove. Nothing. And when London discovers the truth about Ethan, they’ll turn their backs on you, too. No one can afford to befriend a scandal. And that’s all you are. You’re a lying adventuress with a bastard child. London will find out.”
“Keep his name out of your mouth.”
Roger narrowed his eyes, grabbed her dress by the bodice, ripped off the green rhinestone brooch pinned at the top, then pushed his mouth against hers in what was supposed to be a kiss. For him.
For Tilly, it was torture. She stood there, frozen as his mouth moved over hers in greedy possession.
“Mine,” he said, stepping away and stuffing the brooch into her pocket before stalking down the hall. “Pack your things. A carriage will be here in the morning,” he shouted.
The door slammed, and Tilly startled, slowly remembering where she was.
Alone, in her home, with her siblings and son.
Roger was right. And without London, she would have nothing even if that meant leaving everyone behind for Christmas.
She would see them safe and untouched. Tilly would go to Haddington Court and spend Christmas away from those she loved because if she didn’t, she feared Roger might finally reveal her secret.
Henry sipped his tea, thinking of one thing or another before tripping on a stack of books in his apartment. The china cup flew from his hand and shattered onto the rug. The small fragments scattered everywhere, and the tea splattered and stained his new shirt. He would need to dress once more.
He was already running late.
Perfect.
All he had wanted in the world was a cup of tea. Packing up his apartment to make the move to Cliffstone Manor wouldn’t have been half as arduous if he didn’t possess—at his best guess—five thousand books. Whether true or not, it felt that way anyhow.
He grumbled to himself, shuffling back through the crowded floors to fetch a broom to sweep the mess up. Did he even own a broom? His housekeeper came once a week to assist with tidying the place, so he surely had a broom. When he opened the small closet, more books tumbled out, falling at his feet, begging to be packed.
Henry didn’t wish to leave London but matters needed to be sorted.
Duty. He loathed that word.
Never in his thirty-one years did he wish to be an earl. He had worked exceedingly hard to be the best barrister he could become. And now he would step away to balance ledgers, attend balls and the opera, and take his seat in the House of Lords. Being Lord Devlin sounded as if he would be expected to know everything and do everything perfectly while being surrounded by the peerage, who had been doing the same for centuries.
Sleet pelted against the window. December had London firmly in her grasp, and it was dark and cold, and the days far too short.
Christmas was only a week away.
And he would likely be spending it here, alone, by the fire with a glass of brandy. He’d be loath to admit as much, but he did miss his family around the holidays. The Welsh seaside cottage where he had grown up possessed a sort of magic he hadn’t encountered since.
No, magic wasn’t the right word. That was much too muddy of a term, and he preferred black and white, right and wrong, true or false.
Magic didn’t exist within those parameters.
Just as he knew that beautiful stranger who he had met months earlier had vanished well and good, and he would likely never find her again. He blamed his heart for getting ahead of his brain. As if she would meet him in that spot when the gardens opened next spring after one kiss?
A knock rapped at the door.
He glanced up from sweeping the remains of his teacup and growled. Actually growled because if one more thing went wrong, he wasn’t sure what he would do, but it would likely involve a long holiday in Bath.
“Who is it?” Henry demanded.
“Is that how your mother taught you to answer the door?” A familiar voice asked from the other side.
“I don’t have time to see you, Stephen,” Henry called out. He virtuously swept up the remaining pieces and then scanned the carpet, discovering one last remaining shard of china.
It was better to find it now than later and stick himself like a pig.
“Let me in,” Stephen said, playfully banging around on the door. “I promise to keep it brief.”
