William laughed, bitter and hollow. “Admitted it? I am not in the habit of admitting sins not my own.”
Helena turned back to him sharply, her mare pawing at the packed earth. “If you were decent,” she hissed, “you would offer for my hand.”
Blackmeer looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Decent? You speak of decency to me?” He leaned forward in the saddle, eyes hard. “I feel nothing for you but contempt,” he went on, his tone cutting. “Your entire little scheme backfired. What was it meant to be, hm? A trap to put a ring through my nose? Or a way to blackmail my father into paying your dowry?”
Helena’s lips parted in shock—but she didn’t deny it.
“I didn’t ruin you. You ruined yourself long before you met me,” he said coldly. “Your father couldn’t keep his ownhousehold in order—a wife carrying a bastard, a daughter sneaking men into her rooms. Had he come for my real crime, I would not have been offended. But what crime is there in being one of many?”
Helena’s face was pale now, mouth trembling. “You bastard.”
William’s knuckles whitened on the reins. “For what is worth, I didn’t mean to kill the old fool,” he said suddenly, voice low, shaking. “I was drunk. And too tired to care. I meant to miss. But I didn’t. And now his blood is on my hands.”
He closed his eyes for a beat. The image returned—Hawthorne on the ground, the blood gurgling from his mouth, the pistol suddenly heavier than it should have been.
Helena watched him in silence, breath shuddering. Then, flatly: “You think that confession absolves you?”
“No.” William opened his eyes. “It only damns me further.”
She said nothing, then turned her horse sharply. The mare tossed its head as she rode off into the mist, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner of mourning.
Blackmeer remained still. The cold settled into his bones. The echo of gunfire hadn't yet left his ears.
* * *
The scent of rose oil and bodies spent was already thick in the hallway when William stepped into Miss Nadia’s once more. The same gilded damask wallpaper, the laughter behind closed doors, the telltale creak of beds and the moans of pleasure. It should have felt familiar. Safe, even.
Maggie caught sight of him first. “My lord,” she said brightly, her bare feet padding over the carpet as she ran to greet him. Her silk robe billowed behind her, clinging to the lush shape of her. “You’re back.”
He didn’t return the smile. “Bring two more with you,” he said. “I’ll wait in your room.”
Maggie blinked—just once—then nodded, smile slipping into something softer, more professional. “Of course.”
He made his way up the stairs, the din of laughter fading behind him, and let himself into her room. The place was just as he remembered: gauze drapes over the bed, a low table covered in empty crystal flutes, and perfume lingering in the air like decay masked by powder.
He undressed slowly, methodically, folding his coat and cravat over the chair. A glance in the mirror startled him—his eyes were hollow, his lips pale. He looked older than twenty-six. Worn. Used.
His mind wouldn’t stop. The Earl’s face. Helena’s scream. The blood that bubbled up from the old man’s mouth. The blood that spread over his chest like spilled claret. The way his name had left the dying man’s lips like a curse.
He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, staring at nothing. Then the door opened.
Maggie entered first, radiant in her nearly transparent shift, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea. Her breasts were full, heavy, perfect, the nipples darkened and already peaked. Her stomach was flat, hips soft, her skin glowing in the candlelight. The other two followed behind, both brunettes, younger, with high breasts and doll-like faces. Beautiful, yes—but none as striking as Maggie.
He had a brief thought—cold and almost amused—that Maggie always chose plainer girls. Not plain, but just enough so no one would ever replace her as his favorite.
They climbed onto the bed with feline grace, the mattress shifting under their weight. Soft lips found his neck, his chest. Maggie’s tongue traced the line of his jaw while the younger girls moved down his torso like worshipers before an altar.
One of them took him into her mouth. She choked a little, trying to fit as much of him as possible, while the other played gently with his heavy sack. He closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in pleasure. He lay still, but something felt off.
“Kiss each other,” he murmured after a while, tonelessly.
The girls obeyed instantly. Their lips met, tongues sliding together, the sight calculated to arouse—but it did nothing. His body reacted—his cock full and hard—but his mind was miles away. His heart wasn’t in it.
“Maggie,” he said hoarsely. “Come here.”
She straddled him, letting her breasts sway near his mouth. He suckled on her like a starving man, but tasted only ash. One of the others climbed atop him and began to ride him, slowly at first, then faster, her breath catching prettily in her throat.
Still nothing.
