Page 12

“No, Vlad, I won’t need you tonight,” an irritable but achingly familiar voice said, coming close behind the door—too close.

Lydia glanced at the door just as the doorknob turned.

* * *

Thorn closed the door to his room and leaned against it, his head making a dull thud upon contact. Thick curtains in his room ruffled in the draft, but otherwise, the room was dark and quiet. Just as he liked it.

Spending the entire day with ledgers, solicitors, managers, and random visitors was exhausting. The fact that some of his ventures were not paying off added to the stress, considering he now knew he would be penniless the moment his sire turned up his toes. Unless he found himself a bride, that was.

Thorn hadn’t thought about marrying in quite a few years. Not since he’d found out that she was gone.

He’d been lost for a long time since then—purposeless, adrift. For a long time, he couldn’t even bed a woman, much less seriously think of courting one. Even now, he had to drown himself in whisky before accepting that the woman in his bed would not be her.

It would never be her.

They called him a libertine, a rake, a debauched man as he hopped from one bed to the next, but how could he commit to any one person when his heart was already taken? Then broken.

And his conscience guilt-ridden.

My fault.

All of this was his own fault.

So, in order not to break another woman’s heart, he had to either hop-hop-hop or spend his nights alone. And now he was supposed to get married to keep the inheritance that had already cost him so much?

It had cost him everything.

Thorn shook his head to dispel the glum thoughts, his gaze sliding along the room. The curtains moved just a bit with the wind… Why was the window open, anyway? He needed to close—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Ah, here comes the bath.

Thorn stepped away from the door and ordered the servants to come in.

A couple of maids filed in holding towels, soaps and other items in their arms as the footmen brought in the bath and filled it with steaming water.

Thorn walked up to the stool by the bath and picked up the soap. Bringing it close to his nose, he inhaled the scent.

Lilies.

Why did it have to be lilies? Wasn’t he tortured by memories enough?

“Do we have different soap?” he barked. He must have been too loud or too gruff because the maid jumped in surprise.

“No, sir,” she murmured.

Of course not.

His step-witch, Rosemary, was in charge of procurement in this house, and she wouldn’t bother asking him what kind of soap he preferred. If she did, she would probably buy the opposite, anyway.

The servants silently left the room, closing the door behind them.

With a shrug, Thorn stretched and started to slowly undo the buttons on his shirt. After a long day of sitting hunched over the desk, the bath seemed like heaven. He freed the shirt from his breeches and tugged it over his head.

He needed more exercise, he thought, as his back crackled from the movement. Horse riding alone wasn’t enough, and he hadn’t gone boxing in over a week. He needed to get back to it. That ought to sharpen his body and clear his mind.

With that thought, he undid the falls of his breeches and dropped them to the floor.