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Take your time. Thank you for the wine. It’s wonderful.
She moved to set the phone back down on the table when it began to ring in her hand. Arthur was calling.
“What wine?” he said, as soon as she answered.
“The bottle you sent up.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“The waiter said Lord Godwick sent up—”
Arthur swore violently. “I’m not the only Lord Godwick.”
Regan’s body went cold. Her hands shook. She set the wine glass down before she dropped it.
“I didn’t tell him I used to be a painter,” she said.
“What?”
“The waiter. He knew I’d been a painter, but I never mentioned that to him.”
“I’m on my way,” Arthur said. She could hear the fear in his voice. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t drink another drop of that wine.”
“Malcolm wouldn’t poison me. I know that.”
“How do you know that?” Arthur demanded. “You don’t know him. Neither do I. We don’t know what he wants from us or—”
Her head was starting to swim. The world went watercolored. She wasn’t sure what Arthur was saying. Regan collapsed onto the chaise lounge.
“Regan? Are you there? Regan?”
Tiredly, she brought the phone to her ear. “In the dream.”
“What?”
“In the dream I had about Malcolm,” she said. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “The one with the rose vine wallpaper and the empty frame…I didn’t tell you that in the dream, Lord Malcolm loved me.”
“He loved all pretty women.”
“Not like that. I don’t know why or how but he…caredabout me.”
“Regan, listen. You should probably call 999. If it wasn’t him, someone might be trying to hurt you—”
“No one’s hurting me. No one.Noone.”
“What?”
Noone. John No-one. She laughed when she got the joke. “Good joke, Lord Malcolm. I fell for that one, too.”
“Regan—”
Without knowing what she was doing, Regan ended the call and the phone dropped onto the floor.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chaise. There was no reason for Arthur to worry. She felt incredible…like she could fly if she wanted to. Still, it was lovely to hear Arthur so worried for her. He did care about her. He really did. Sweet lad. Her beautiful brat. If only she could love him, wouldn’t that be…lovely? Too bad she couldn’t. She’d sworn she’d never get married again, and Arthur had to get married. He have little brats of his own. He was the hare.
Heir, nothare. Regan giggled drunkenly to herself. This pomegranate wine was making her silly. When was the last time she giggled? Never?
Arthur wasn’t a hare.Thatwas a hare.
