A bubble of laughter slipped free.
Without the refuge of humor, she would have gone mad within moments. She pressed her fingers into her palms until the pressure hurt. Drake Fury was not a man who ever stayed down. He was born to rise. Shehadto believe that. She also had to do her part, so she moved back to the wall and began again.
The scrape of a key sliding into a lock snapped her attention to the door. Violet retreated at once to the window, the farthest point from whoever was about to step into her chamber.
Percival.
The name formed even as the door pushed open.
Violet lifted her chin, readying herself for the sight of him, for the smile she hated, for the voice that never failed to make her skin crawl.
But it was not Percival who stepped inside.
The man who entered was taller, broader, and his features, in part, resembled hers.
“Reginald.”
He smiled. A small, sinister curve of the mouth.
“Good day, dear sister.”
Detestable. “I should have known you’d never give up,” Violet said, fists clenching, “but I had hoped you’d come to see the light.”
“I am your guardian, Evangeline,” he said, as though that explained everything. “I do only what’s good for you.”
Her temper flared. “You have no idea what is good for me. Good is not confining someone to their chambers, demanding complete obedience, or punishing them by removing, item by item, everything they cherish.” Which he had once again done with Drake. “Where is he?”
“You mean that bastard son of the Duke of Crane? He’ll be dealt with soon enough.”
“Let him go, Reginald.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot do that.” He shook his head for emphasis. “My strife with him came long before you two met, but he is just another example of why you need a guardian such as me. I became responsible for you the moment our mother died bringing you into the world, and you will remain my duty until the day you die.”
“Mother’s death? You dare lay that at my feet?”
“I dare state facts,” he replied coolly. “She was not strong enough. That much is evident.”
Something hot and blinding surged behind her eyes and for a moment she could not speak at all. The staggering audacity of this man confounded her.
“You were a boy,” she said after a moment, her voice trembling despite her efforts to remain as calm as him. “A boy who decided, in his arrogance, that a woman’s death must belong to someone. And you chose me.”
“How could I not?” Reginald countered. “Father was undone. Grief hollowed him out until nothing remained but his corpse. You know that as well as I do.”
What did she know? She couldn’t even recall those days. She’d been too young. By God, her brother belonged in Bedlam. “You are madder than the maddest man in Britain!”
His gaze hardened. “Mind your tone.”
“No,” she said, stepping forward despite trepidation. “I have minded it all my life. I have swallowed your rules, your judgments, your punishments. Tell me, brother, did it feel good to make me cower in fear of you?”
“Women require a steady hand. Left to themselves, they become reckless. Emotional. Weak. You have proved that point.”
Her lips curved, cold and furious. “And you believe that hand belongs to Percival?”
Reginald inclined his head. “He is as good a man as any.”
And he listens to you.“He is the worst of them,” Violet snapped. “Right alongside you.”
His eyes flashed. “At least we are not criminals.”
