Morgan felt his cheer fade. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Lady Martain? Well, I suppose it was only—”

“No, my lord. It’s Maris Garrick.”

A shudder of revulsion. “Maris?”

Very upright, very proper, Rumm clasped his work-roughened hands behind his back. “If you recall, my lord, two days ago I did draw your attention to several letters received that you are yet to open.”

Letters from Maris. He’d lacked the stomach to read them. Had thrown them back at Rumm, now he thought of it, with a curt order to keep unwelcome missives out of his sight.

He sighed. Now was his hand forced. How easily he could hate Maris, for ruining his peace.

“So, Rumm. You are proven right, yet again.”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

In passing, he patted Rumm’s dejected shoulder. “No need for apologies. This is my doing.”

Because her arrival had unnerved him, or because he knew precisely how poorly she’d be welcomed, Rumm had left Maris to amuse herself in the foyer. Hearing footsteps on the staircase she looked up, her expression twisted between hope and annoyance. She was dressed with a restraint that belied her wanton nature, her cream silk tunic throat-buttoned, her skirts almost sweeping the floor.

“Morgan!” she said brightly, seeing him. Her eyes were cautious, her fingers tight. “So you’re not ailing after all. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you I was convinced you suffered an ague.”

He stopped on the fourth stair from the bottom of the staircase, hands clasped before him. His tunic was unbuttoned, his skin still damp with sweat and warm from the memory of Barl’s fingers and lips.

“No, Maris. As you can see, I am well.”

A hint of puzzlement in her face. “Yes. And your father? How does he go on?”

“Alas. My father is dead.”

Her lips parted. “Dead? But—” She frowned, the puzzlement growing. “There has been no announcement.”

“I haven’t made one yet.”

“Dead,” she said again. “So that means—”

And if it was a pleasure watching Barl think, it turned his stomach watching Maris. “Yes. I am now Lord Danfey.”

She took a step toward him, almost eager, then halted. “Morgan, I am sorry. Why did you not send for me? It’s not right, you shouldn’t be alone with your grief. You shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care to discuss my grief, Maris,” he said. “It’s a private thing.”

“Private?” Breathing hard, her milky skin flushed, she stared at him. “Morgan, what is going on? Why do you look at me so strangely?”

They had coupled in a closet, he and this girl. The tawdry memory shamed him. Felt like a betrayal of the woman he loved. Looking at Maris now, he was astonished at himself.