He placed his untouched brandy on the desk with careful precision.
VanDeVere watched him like a man watching a chess piece return to its proper square.
Nicholas bowed his head.“Goodnight, Father.”
VanDeVere gave a small, satisfied nod.“Goodnight, Vanover.”
Nicholas turned and walked out.
He did not breathe properly until he was halfway down the outside steps.
Even then, the air felt thick.
The night was cool and quiet, London unaware that two dukes had just decided the fates of two people as if it was nothing more than a whim.
Nicholas stepped into his carriage and shut the door.
As the wheels began to roll, he stared at his reflection in the darkened glass.
Steady.Controlled.Obedient.
The man his father expected.
And yet?—
In the deepest part of him, something small and furious pressed against the inside of his ribs.
Not rebellion.
Not yet.
But the first, dangerous sensation of wanting to speak with his own voice.Much like Lady Beatrix did.
