Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
I’ve approached the door when my mother stops me. While my primary mission is redemption, Luxury’s emotional well-being comes in as a close second. I speak first, my tone cold. “Mary, I must see about my fiancée.”
I glare into her tear-stained eyes, waiting for the usual fainting spell, but Mother nods. “Victor, son, I understand. Go to her. I cannot express . . . I would never have—”
“Finish your groveling, bird.” Sarah slips past the two of us. “I’ve a word of consolation for our Luxury.”
Since Luxury doesn’t have a mother figure, I nod, comforted that my grandmother will go to her.
Cleaving my bottom lip through my teeth, I await my mother’s excuse.
Mary sucks in a shaky inhale, then cries, “I never protected you!”
Her words floor me. All six fucking feet. I settle myself on the paisley settee near the door. All this time, the Queen had more of an empathetic bone in her body than my own mum. Although, tonight, Grandmummy was colder than ice in December.
I clear my throat and glance at my mother. “No, you did not.”
“You safeguarded your brother and me when your father forgot himself on a few occasions, although he was never prone to physically abusing me.”
“No. Just me.”
“His first son.” A contemplative hand strokes her hair. “Silas was . . . different while I was pregnant with you. He wanted a girl.”
My brow flicks. “I was born the wrong sex, really? Did the arsehole forget that his mother was the reigning monarch and that abhorring his first child, who was also his son, was a trifling pastime?”
“Oh, Vicky, I’m not making excuses for him or myself. I’ve no idea what I’m attempting to infer. I swear that if you forgive me, and L—”
“Luxury forgives you,” I grit out. “She just said so.”
“Oh . . . I thought . . .”
I snicker. “That my fiancé was spouting off meaningless platitudes? She is not you.”
The princess settles at my side with a sigh. “I deserve that. Well, if given a chance, I will offer your fiancée the same affections that my mum, Sarah, has.”
“I must go, Mother.” I’m not particularly interested in bridging the abyss between us at the moment.
I stalk out of the dining room and down the vast Somerhaven corridors. At the door to the bedroom I’ll share with Luxury tonight, her soft laughter peals through the air.
“Momma said it was in the struggle that a butterfly gains her wings.”
Thoughtful, Grandmother Sarah inhales. “Lovely. I must tell my knitting mates to stitch us a few sweaters.”
“Hmmm, knitting? Sarah, aren’t you a bit young for that pastime. A young eighty-two—”
“You are mistaken, sweetheart. I’m a young twenty-eight.” Sarah pats Luxury’s shoulder.
I stand at the door, quietly laughing at Grandmother’s deception. Her and that bloke, Burt, who I cannot harm.
This is bloody different.
New, even.
I’ve never laughed so soon after claiming a life. I eavesdrop a few seconds more, deciding Grandmother Sarah was precisely what my woman needed. But what of the one last issue we have, I ask myself.
That issue being my very own father, Silas Tudor.
I never expected the wanka to present himself this evening for dinner or send well wishes to Sarah, for that matter. Against Luxury’s orders, I find myself making long strides in pursuit of him in the North Wing.
I am listening to her orders.
Lips set in a line, I quietly argue, “Luxury’s commands should’ve only involved Madeline or anyone included in the cunt’s schemes. Not my father.”
I stop for a second, realizing that I’m quarreling with myself like I had when married. Most men in the House of Tudor loathed individuality when their women were involved. I sort of appreciated the disagreements; great sex followed shortly thereafter. Until I stopped listening.
But this isn’t that.
This moment will not go down in history as the first time I disregarded my fiancée’s requests. It’s fine. As long as my father doesn’t die.
Energized by that very caveat, I stalk through the hallways. A curse punctuates each commanding step. “Where. The. Bloody. Fuck. Is my father!”
The night staff scamper to me from all directions. Some hold dust thingamabobs while others rub their exhausted sockets.
“Where. Is. He?” I order, grabbing the collar of one particularly daft chap whose yawning in my face. The bloke chokes on his rancid breath.
“Most likely in his cigar room,” he stutters.
Without another word, I’ve unhanded him and stalked off. Not four minutes later, I am standing at the oak doors, which will lead me into the cigar room. I grip both handles and stalk inside, which smells of mild, smoky tobacco and leather. The glow from the various chandeliers adds a soft light to the room. Gripping a whiskey snifter in one hand and a cigar tucked beneath his index digit, Silas nods his head to me. “I expected you sooner.”
“Did you?” Sarcasm reeks in my tone as I amble to the fireplace and grab the whiskey from the mantle. I pour myself a drink.