Page 95
Now, she sat alone in her room, waiting for Art to return from the funeral.
Lydia had wanted to go. But Art had insisted she stay behind.
People might recognize her. Gossip would spread. Word would reach London.
Excuse after excuse.
But deep down, Lydia felt it—this wasn’t about the funeral. Or about her safety.
He was keeping her at arm’s length.
And she didn’t know why.
Grief, perhaps.
Because even though he hadn’t loved the man, Wakefield had still been his father.
No matter how much Thorn despised him, there had been—perhaps an unwilling—attachment.
He had lived under the same roof as him. Imitated him as a child. Hated him as an adult.
Wakefield had been a constant presence in his life.
Perhaps Art didn’t even realize he was grieving. Perhaps he was denying himself that grief, feeling wrong for mourning the man who had ruined Lydia’s life.
Lydia had seen a lot of death in her short lifetime. She had watched people grieve their loved ones, their enemies, their neighbors—even strangers passing in the street.
And grief was different for everyone.
So although she wanted to be there for Art, to help him through this—she didn’t know how.
And he wouldn’t let her close enough to find out.
Maybe he thought she wouldn’t understand. Maybe he assumed she felt relieved at Wakefield’s passing. After all, she did blame him for her mother’s death.
But she didn’t feel relief.
She felt nothing.
Nothing but the need to comfort the man she loved.
Yes.
It was useless to argue.
She had loved him when they were young. She had loved him through the years of separation. She loved him still. And she would love him always.
The door clicked open, followed by the sound of footsteps in his chamber.
Lydia shot to her feet and rushed to the adjoining door.
She waited a few heartbeats—just enough to give him a moment alone—before stepping inside.
Art stood by the side table, a glass of whisky in his hand.
“How was the funeral?” she asked softly.
“Dreadful.” His voice was hoarse. “Just like the man himself.”
