Thou and I shall see him dine

When we bear them thither . . .”

Her voice had risen high above the storm wailing outside their carriage windows, and the wind battering the walls of it, with Val laughing and joining in until—

The world came whirring back. It certainly helped to shake the past that this lady’s off-pitch, discordant song bore no semblance to the celestial voice of another, a ghost who haunted him still.

“Sire, the night is darker now

And the wind blows stronger

Fails my heart, I know not how

I can go no longer . . .”

“Will you stop your singing,” he snapped.

The lady paused briefly, lifting her focus from the task that had occupied her, and held his gaze with a fiery, piercing intensity that bespoke a hint of hurt and even greater defiance.

In that moment, as the silence dragged on, he who’d ceased to feel bad about anything was hit by some emotion he’d long believed himself incapable of again feeling or knowing.

Guilt.

And the young, charming rogue he’d been long ago would have known how to cut the tense, awkward silence; he’d have been able to erase the sad little frown she gave him and dimple her cheeks. But neither was he that young man, nor did he even wish to be again.

In the end, it was she who broke the impasse. “Is that what they did wrong?” she asked, curiosity tingeing her query.

He puzzled his brow.

“Your servants,” she went on. And not allowing him a word edgewise—not that he had a damned one in that moment—Lady Myrtle’s black eyebrows shot up. “Of course it is. You killed them because you hated their singing. Tsk. Tsk.” She clucked like a chicken. “It’s in even worse form to kill a jovial servant for singing.”

And with that, she proceeded to sing louder.

Val briefly closed his eyes and emitted a black curse that would have sent most grown men bolting and might have been effective in scattering this fey lady . . . if she hadn’t been belting out a damned carol at the top of her lungs.

In their brief but telling exchanges, he should have known his skill as a duke attempting to command her to silence would be met with only obstinance.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I am paying you a visit,” she said.

“Me?”

She nodded.

So she’d rather spend her time with him, a stranger, and at that, one she took as a murderer of his servants?