He was seated on a small dais, waiting for Miss Letty’s speech to begin. Rows of guests faced the stage, and he fought to keep his anger from showing. He had to give it to Gigi: she knew how to put on a good performance. The statues of the Roman gods along the upper gallery lent gravitas to the event. Directly above him was Mars—fitting, given his pugilistic mood.
While Conrad knew it was important to make a good impression on Gigi’s family, he had no talent for pouring on the butter boat. Her menfolk hadn’t hidden their disdain, and he had a lifelong habit of never backing down from snobs. It stung that they’d judged him because of his origins. Because they believed him to be a social climber who wanted to get his grubby hands on Gigi.
Once they know who I really am, they will be singing a different tune.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to keep his secrets much longer. Justice would soon be his, and after that, the damned Harringtons would be falling over to welcome him into their family. He glanced at Gigi. She was seated on the other side of the stage, having an animated conversation with her brothers. It was clear that the Harringtons were a close-knit bunch, and Conrad wasn’t certain that even the strongest passion would convince Gigi to choose him over them.
If you don’t bind her fully to you, you will lose her.
He felt a flash of panic, which was quickly subsumed by righteous anger. Gigi was his. She’d shared physical intimacies and confidences with him. Though they hadn’t spoken of love, he was quite certain that she was falling for him as he’d fallen for her. Maybe he needed to hasten things along by getting her to admit to her feelings…
Miss Letty took center stage, clutching a roll of parchment. “To my esteemed guests, thank you for your patronage. If I may, I would like to say a few words.” When she untied the paper, it unraveled, brushing the ground. “I shall start with a brief history of this remarkable building.”
As Letty waxed on about Tobias Caldecott’s vision, Gigi cast covert glances in Conrad’s direction. He appeared to be politely interested in the speech, but his rigid posture revealed his true state of mind. He was furious. While she understood his reaction, she was annoyed too.
Did he have to be so heavy-handed with my family? Especially after I warned him to take things slowly. Now I must fix the damage he’s caused with his boorish behavior.
As she cast her gaze upward in disgust, a movement caught her attention…a flicker in the shadowed second-floor gallery, behind the statue of Mars. Concerned that a guest might have ventured up into the area, which was cordoned off due to needed repairs, she craned her neck, but she couldn’t see beyond the God of War’s looming figure.
She blinked. Had the grim-faced statue teetered? It must have been a trick of the light… Then she caught the flash of something black and white against the stone back, and Mars pitched forward with ominous momentum. With jolting terror, she registered the statue’s deadly trajectory and leapt to her feet.
“Conrad, move!” she cried. “The statue is going to fall!”
He looked up just as Mars toppled.
Chapter Twenty
Hearing his name, Conrad blinked. It took him a moment to register Gigi’s face above his. He was lying in a bed, and she was perched by his side.
“Oh, Conrad.” Her eyes shimmered with worry. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine?—”
A blinding pain shot through his head, blurring his vision. He groaned, and just when he thought it had passed, an undertow of nausea pulled him under.
Bloody hell, I’m going to be sick.
“Move, Gigi,” he said urgently.
“Do as he says,” a male voice commanded. “I will turn his head so that he doesn’t choke.”
“I’ll do it,” Gigi insisted.
Conrad felt her hands cupping his jaw, but before he could protest, his insides surged, and he couldn’t hold back the inevitable. An instant later, supported by Gigi, he puked his guts into a conveniently placed bucket. Afterward, he lay back, shuddering and humiliated. He hated being sick—hated how defenseless it made him feel. He’d learned early on that the weakest were culled. At Creavey Hall, being sick meant being exposed: other boys would steal your food or meager belongings or target you to prove their superior strength.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be, dear.” Gigi’s tenderness tightened his throat. “The physician said this might happen. You are lucky the injury was not more severe.”
“The injury…?”
It all came back. Gigi’s shout of warning, the massive statue hurtling toward him. He’d dove out of harm’s way, hitting the ground as it rumbled beneath him. Then something heavy had knocked his head, and he didn’t recall anything after that. Tentatively, he touched his temple and felt a bandage. Beneath the swaddling, pain pulsed.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“At Bottoms House,” a male voice said.
Lord Ethan emerged behind Gigi.
