Victor’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”
Lionel leaned casually against the wall. “Your performance,” he said lightly. “You played the devoted fiancé remarkably well.”
Victor’s expression cooled instantly. “What precisely do you mean by that?”
Lionel raised both brows. “Good God,” he said. “You truly are in a temper.”
“I asked you a question.”
Lionel studied him for a moment. “I mean,” he said calmly, “that this little arrangement of yours appears increasingly dangerous.”
Victor scoffed. “Do not be dramatic.”
“From where I stood, you looked ready to propose immediately. A real proposal that is,” Lionel replied.
Victor stepped closer, his voice lowering dangerously. “Careful.”
Lionel folded his arms. “That is exactly my point. See how even speaking of it blackens your mood.”
“There is no point,” Victor said sharply. “It is an arrangement. Nothing more.”
Lionel gave him a long, sceptical look. “If you say so.”
Victor’s irritation sharpened immediately. “You presume too much.”
“And you deny too quickly,” Lionel returned.
“You know nothing about the thoughts in my head,” Victor said.
“I know you,” Lionel said simply. “You have been reckless ever since mother and father.”
“Do not speak of it, Lionel,” Victor spat.
“It wasn't your fault, Victor. You were just a child as was I,” Lionel said.
“I will not speak of it,” Victor said. His fists tightened at his side.
“You will not speak of it, but you let it lead your life. How long has it been since you rode in a carriage?” Lionel said.
That irritated Victor more than it should have. Without another word, he brushed past his brother and strode down the corridor. Lionel called something after him, though Victor ignored it entirely.
Because Lionel was wrong. Completely wrong. I do not linger on the thoughts of mother and father, and I do not care for Miss Brown.
Victor Richards would never let any dark memories run his life, and he would not fall for a woman like Charlotte Brown.
Even if her touch still lingers against my skin.
He pushed open the door to his study with more force than necessary and immediately regretted the display. He rarely lost control of his temper, particularly over something as ridiculous as Lionel’s teasing. Yet his brother’s words lingered unpleasantly, needling at him with irritating accuracy.
“Nonsense,” he muttered, loosening his cravat slightly as though the room had suddenly become too warm.
He crossed toward the decanter near the fireplace and poured himself a drink, though even the sharp burn of whisky failed to settle his thoughts. Instead, his mind betrayed him once more with the image of Charlotte standing beside him in the foyer, her hand tucked through his arm so naturally that for one reckless moment it had not felt like pretence at all.
That was the dangerous part.
Not desire itself, desire was simple, familiar, easily managed. Victor had spent years surrounded by beautiful women, charming them and bedding them when it suited him and leaving before anything complicated could take root. Charlotte, however, complicated things merely by existing.
She's too sincere. Too self-sacrificing. Too willing to carry burdens that should never have belonged to her in the first place.
