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“He’s playing too rough,” Arthur said. “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

“Do we have a choice? He was at your townhouse, the Half Moon… God, what does he want from us?”

“I don’t know, but if he doesn’t stop tormenting you I’m throwing him on the fire.”

He said that last part loudly, as if Malcolm were listening. Regan rather thought he was listening. Listening and laughing.

“He’s in Hell, supposedly?” Regan said. “Wouldn’t think he’d be afraid of fire.”

Arthur ran his hand through her hair. “Are you all right?”

“I am now. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Are you sure? You can rest here and—”

“I want to be in bed with you. I want you to stay the night with me.”

“Let’s go back to the townhouse.”

“Why? He was there, too, remember?”

They were playing Malcolm’s game, and had been from their first night together. The game wouldn’t end until someone won—Malcolm, most likely.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” she continued.

He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. They went up to her bedroom and Regan switched on the bedside lamp. Weary and worn-out, she sat on the end of the bed and rested her head against the post.

Arthur stood by her side, facing the portrait of Lord Malcolm Godwick, thirteenth Earl of Godwick.

“One more day, old man,” Arthur said to the painting. “You have until midnight tomorrow to tell us what you want, or I will throw your portrait in the Thames. Maybe you aren’t afraid of fire, but I will make you afraid of me.”

Nothing happened. She could only hope Lord Malcolm didn’t call their bluff.

Regan thought about what she’d seen in the haunted wood, what the ghost had said to her, what she’d felt watching Arthur with that girl…

Something told her that Malcolm, for whatever reason, wanted her to care for Arthur. Why else would he have tortured her with visions of Arthur with another woman if he didn’t want them together in some way?

“You have until midnight tomorrow,” Regan said, “or I will send Arthur away, and I will never see him again.”

Arthur looked at her in shock, his eyes wounded.

The fire in the gas fireplace kicked on, and the moment they both turned their heads to look, the portrait of Malcolm fell off the wall.

“He didn’t like that,” Regan said.

Arthur nodded. “Neither did I. You didn’t actually mean that, did you?”

“No,” she said. Thanks to her marriage, she knew how to lie and lie well. “Of course not.”

11

Mars and Venus

Arthur stayed the night with her in the penthouse bedroom. He held her to his chest as she fell asleep, his body wrapped around hers, covering her like a shield.

Sleep didn’t come easily for her, but it came more easily than usual in his arms. She might have slept the whole night through but for her phone ringing.

The first ring jarred her brutally from sleep. Regan sat up, hand to her head, looking around as if an alarm had gone off.

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