She made a noise, frustration and disgust colliding in her throat. She flung the papers off her lap and let them flutter, with a total lack of satisfying weight, back to the carpet.
Damn him. Damn him!
This was impossible.
He wasn’t going to leave after the wedding, was he? He wasn’t going to just piss off back to London and allow her to return to her normal, peaceful, carefully controlled life.
She hadn’t spoken to the ass in five blasted years, but she knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t going to just go away. Even if he physically left, he would never begoneagain. And she doubted he was planning to physically leave either.
She wouldn’t, if she were him.
If Claire had been the one in exile, if Claire had missed all of Oliver’s little life up until now, nothing short of death or dismemberment would ever remove her from these walls after reclaiming him.
She had thought with a fragile sort of hope that Freddy would be indifferent to their son. That he wouldn’t even want an introduction. She had told herself that it would be easy for himto go on as he had been, living his own life on his own side of Britain, and that a man like Freddy would avoid complications if he could.
She laughed, flinging herself back on the pillow in a cloud of hair and emotion.
Freddy! Avoiding complication! As though the fool didn’t live for complications as the most fulfilling use of his time.
Why was she so stupid?
Had she always been stupid?
Probably.
She sighed.
Millie was the smart one. Everyone knew that.
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to slow her breaths, to deliberate on the amount of air she drew in and released from her lungs. She felt her heartbeat and told it to slow down. She saw Freddy again, trying to kiss her cheek, and told her dream self to shove him before he could.
She frowned.
There she was again, at the top of that bloody cursed staircase. And there was Freddy at the bottom. There was Freddy, turning, raising those blue eyes to find hers across the candlelight and the years.
There was Freddy in the hallway, touching her hand. There was Freddy in the dark cobbles outside her house, begging to know if he alone was feeling it, if he alone was swept into the madness.
There was Freddy kissing her. Touching her. Loving her.
She grabbed the pillow on the other side of her bed and pressed it into her face so that she could scream.
There was Freddy, holding Oliver’s shoulders, tossing him into the air, kissing his head.
She screamed and screamed and screamed.
And still, there was Freddy. Always.
When she was done, she sat up and leaned over to draw the lantern closer. She glanced at the carpet, where he gloated up at her from the gossip sheet, still undeniably himself, even in satire. He grinned at her, flashing those big, sharp teeth.
“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, and then she blew out the light so she would not have to see him anymore.
Unfortunately for Claire, Freddy did not need light to shine.
Unfortunately for Claire, sleep would not evade her anymore tonight.
Yes, she thought, twisting and sighing and luxuriating in pleasure in her sleep. It was very, very unfortunate.
CHAPTER 12
