Page 6

Thorn looked up and down the street in search of his carriage, but the road was empty. How did he get here in the first place? And when?

It wasn’t in Thorn’s nature to get drunk to the point of passing out, although he would be lying if he said that had never happened before. The last time he remembered being in this state, however, was years ago. And he had a good reason for that…

Thorn grimaced and pushed the thought away. He needed to get home.

He drew the corners of his cloak tighter together against the wind and turned toward Mayfair.

What had prompted his descent into his vices this time?

Sure, the arrival of his father’s wife was more than just an inconvenience, but it had never driven him to drink before. He dipped his hand inside his cloak’s inner pocket in search of gloves. Instead, he pulled out a letter addressed to him from his father.

Ah, there it is! The memory resurfaced with a stabbing pain.

A missive from his father had arrived a few nights ago, stating that he was on his deathbed and was requesting—nay, demanding—Thorn’s presence back at the Wakefield estate.

Curse the old man and his demands. He could rot in hell for all Thorn cared. Thorn had already successfully assumed the responsibility for the Wakefield estates from London. As a matter of fact—he took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time, fifteen minutes past noon—he had a meeting with the solicitor in less than two hours. He didn’t need to see his sire for anything. Just the thought of seeing him made him shudder.

It wasn’t easy to forget the old codger now that Thorn had returned to live under Wakefield’s roof while engaging in business affairs. He only wished he didn’t give up his bachelor dwelling where there were no reminders of Wakefield and especially his harpy wife.

Thorn finally arrived at the doorstep of his father’s townhouse, its cold and imposing facade looming over him like a dark cloud, a place as unwelcoming as the man who used to reside within.

Ah, dear, sweet home.

Thorn opened the door and was greeted by the stony face of the butler.

“Cecil.” Thorn tipped his head before handing the old man his hat and the cloak.

Cecil had served the Wakefield title for many years, and although he had never said anything objectionable, the glint of disapproval was forever present in his eyes.

Thorn turned toward the grand staircase and immediately regretted ever stepping foot back in this townhouse.

“Oh, how lovely that you’ve finally graced us with your presence, dear,” Rosemary Thornton, the Marchioness of Wakefield, intoned mockingly as she appeared on the landing above him. Her dark brown hair was swept into a tight chignon, and she wore a stunning green gown accentuating her feminine curves. Paired with a fur-lined spencer jacket in a complementary shade, she looked as though she was dressed for the dullest of tea parties. Her left arm was pressed close to her side, and she was holding a big, furry… rat?

The rat made a sharp, high-pitched noise, and Thorn blinked. What the devil?

Gliding down the stairs, her gloved hand hovered just above the banister, never quite touching it. “I thought we wouldn’t be seeing you for several months—if not years.”

“You thought or you hoped?” Thorn asked gruffly.

“There is no reason to be… well, you,” she said as she floated past him, flicking her wrist in his direction.

He turned slowly, watching her walk away. “If not with you, where else can I just be me… Mother.”

She rounded on him, nostrils flaring, the cool, unbothered facade quickly fading away. He knew how much she despised being called Mother. He hated to call her that, too. Only a couple years his senior and an abomination in his eyes, she did not deserve that title, but she deserved to be addressed with any other sort of respect even less.

She took a few deep breaths before her lips spread in an artificial smile, her eyes narrowing. “I am glad you finally came to think of me this way.” Her tone was sweet, but her words dripped with venom. “Although I’d prefer if you referred to me as the mistress of the house—the Marchioness.” Her smile turned into a self-satisfied smirk that made his skin crawl.

“And I’d prefer to never see you again.” Thorn turned back to the stairs and started his slow ascent as he spoke, “Pity, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, sure you can, my dear son,” she said in an irritating sing-song voice. “All you have to do is resume your regular debauched activities and never set foot in this house again.” Her skirts swished with each step as she retreated, and the sharp noise from her rat, followed by a bang of the door, punctuated her departure.

Thorn only hoped he wouldn’t see the poisonous witch again for the rest of his life, as unlikely as that seemed. His pulse still throbbed in his temples as he continued toward his room.

He needed a bath, a cup of coffee, and perhaps a good day’s rest. But there was far too much to be done. Besides, he would never be able to rest in this house.

Thorn hastily cleaned himself, changed his clothes, and ignoring Vlad’s attempts to groom his appearance, made his way to the study, where a steaming cup of coffee awaited him on the desk with the daily paper.

Thorn glanced at the front page.