Chapter Seven
Nicholas did not go to bed.
He told himself it was because he had correspondence to address—letters from two peers in Cornwall, a memorandum from the committee, the small stack of pamphlets Winston insisted he read, even though Winston’s idea of “reading” involved underlining anything that sounded like a threat.
In truth, he didn’t go to bed because his skin still carried the faint, phantom weight of Winston’s presence in his study.
Winston had walked in as though Archer House belonged to him.As though Nicholas belonged to him.
And the worst of it—the part that sat like a pebble beneath Nicholas’s tongue—was that Winston hadn’t even needed to raise his voice.
He’d simplyassumedobedience.
Nicholas had built an entire life on the art of letting men assume what they wanted.
Tonight, it felt less like strategy and more like a collar.It rankled.In fact, the strategy had begun to rankle more and more of late.
Godwin appeared at the study door.“Your carriage is prepared, my lord.”
Nicholas looked up sharply.“I did not request my carriage.”
“No, my lord.”Godwin’s expression was faultless.“But His Grace did.”
Nicholas stared.
Godwin, with the solemnity of a man delivering an execution order, added, “The Duke of VanDeVere requests your presence this evening.”
Of course he does.
Speaking of rankling…Nicholas’s father did not ask.He did not invite.He did notrequestin any way that implied a second option existed.
Obedience was the price of being VanDeVere’s son—and Nicholas had been paying it since boyhood.Winston could ruin his future.VanDeVere could ruin his sense of self—and Nicholas had always feared the second more than the first.
Nicholas rose slowly, buttoning his coat with methodical care.He could feel his own body trying to do what it had been trained to do—settle, smooth, comply.It was always the best strategy when it came to dealing with his father.
He marched out to the foyer, took his hat from the sideboard, his cloak from Godwin’s hands, and paused only long enough to say, “Don’t wait up.”
Godwin bowed.
Nicholas walked out into the night.
VanDeVere House saton the finest square in Mayfair.The front steps were spotless.The windows were dark, save for one warm glow on the first floor—his father’s study.The lanterns along the walk were lit with careful symmetry, as though even the flames had been arranged to remind a visitor that order reigned here.
Nicholas handed off his coat and hat to his father’s butler and was shown to the study without ceremony.
No announcement.No lingering.No greeting from his stepmother or any well-meaning relation or servant.
Just the quiet, inexorable funneling of a son toward a father.
The door to the study was open.
His father stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him, gazing out at the square below as if he owned the street, the city, and every living thing that dared walk through it.
Nicholas stopped on the threshold.
“The Marquess of Vanover,” VanDeVere said, without turning.His voice was mild.Almost pleasant.Which was always how it began.
Nicholas stepped inside.“Father.”
