Why should I care for his pain? Why should I care that he cares for mine? His caring only goes so far. He’s going to bind me again, for no better reason than to protect himself and his ranking. He knows it’s wrong but he’ll do it anyway. That’s who he is. That is Morgan Danfey.

But this time, when he bound her, as she screamed… she thought she heard him screaming with her.

“House party? What house party? You can’t mean to go gallivanting now, Morgan. Not when you’ve dragged that bound troublemaker beneath my roof.”

Knowing that too much would show in his face, Morgan continued to collect his father’s scattered breakfast leavings. By rights he should call for a servant to deal with it. If his father weren’t so displeased he’d be calling for a servant himself, and berating his son for dallying with a task far beneath him.

“Speaking of the wench, where is she now?” his father added. “And what mischief is she up to?”

He’d left Barl in Rumm’s care, with a stern warning to keep her calm and quiet until the worst of the binding’s aftereffects were past. And after that she was to perform light duties only. Rumm had nodded, perfectly obedient, but there’d been questions in his watchful eyes.

Questions I cannot answer. Questions I do not dare ask myself.

“No mischief at all, my lord,” he said, at last trusting himself to look round. “You have my word.”

Lord Danfey was in a quarrelsome mood, with hooded eyes and the corners of his slackened mouth turned down. There were crumbs on his brocade dressing gown, a smear of egg on his chin. Seeing them, Morgan hid a wince. His father was a fastidious man. Such small, seemingly insignificant tells spoke to him of a mind slowly but surely coming to grief.

“And when I’m slaughtered in my bed, Morgan, what will your word do for me then?”

The breakfast leavings tidied, he risked further censure by pulling back the parlour curtains to admit more fresh air and light.

“There’ll be no slaughtering, my lord, save of chickens for the pot.”

“Ha! So you say!” his father retorted. “But I say I don’t want you romping at house parties. What if I should need you? No. You do not have my leave to leave. You’ll stay on the estate, where I can easily put a hand on you if it’s required.”

The peremptory tone woke memories of stifled childhood. Irritated, Morgan frowned. “My lord, I must think you weren’t listening. I do not go to romp, but to make myself amenable to Maris Garrick’s family. If I am to tie myself to Maris Garrick, then—”

“If?” His father struggled upright in his wingbacked chair. “If?”