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Gone.
And now she had exactly what she deserved.
Nothing.
{ Chapter 19 }
Strider looked down at his nails, then let his gaze stray to the wood carvings framing the flat black marble about the fireplace. An intricate design of lions and leopards playing up and down the sides of the mantel, the left side was clearly original. The right side, a reproduction. Burnt or broken off at some point, it had been clumsily repaired, the new carvings not of the same wood and a poor imitation of the left side of the mantel.
He'd have that redone. Redone right once this place was his.
There was a fellow on Parkers Lane—an underrated woodworker—craftsman—that had worked under several prominent architects in the finest homes of London. Though exceptionally skilled, the man didn’t know how to talk to people. His words came out in short bursts that rarely made sense—so he’d never made the type of money that he’d deserved. The type that would have gotten him out of the rookeries.
Pen would enjoy watching the craftsman work with the wood. In Belize when they were little, there was a man that carved figureheads for the bows of ships—fantastical women with magic in their wooden eyes. Mermaids, goddesses—his wife. Pen would sit under amangrove treeoutside his lean-to, watching him carve wood for hours, always amazed the man could create something out of nothing. Strider could still see her sitting there, her yellow dress getting dirty in the roots of the trees, her green eyes intense on his gnarled hands shaving away curls of wood. How her whole face would light up when she realized how he’d just made lips, eyes, hair, come to life.
Stop.
What the hell was he thinking? Contemplating what Pen would or would not like.
He’d given himself no margin to think on her. Not until this was done.
He shifted his stare to the window,staring at the boxwood hedges unfurling out from this side of the manor—a castle, truly. A gothic masterpiece set with soaring arches, flying buttresses and hovering gargoyles, it served the purpose of intimidation well. Whichever duke in the line built it must have had a macabre sense of purpose. History he’d hope was well documented within the house, for he doubted any of the family would dare to speak to him after he took over the estate.
Strider was moments away from finally grinding that arrogant smirk off his cousin’s smarmy lips. Finally taking back what was rightfully his. Everything he’d worked to destroy after he was thrown out of Leaven Manor years ago. Everything that he would now restore to its former glory.
All of this for his father and what had been stolen from him. His title. His legacy.
Strider wouldn’t let his father’s memory drift into forgotten dust of the past.
He had to concentrate on that—the task at hand. Not on what Pen would like. Not on what Pen was thinking. Not on what Pen was doing.
He’d exiled her from his life—rightfully so—and was disgusted with himself for how often his thoughts strayed to her. How often her face—so serious as she looked at him—would fill his mind. How the frown of her mouth could turn in an instant to the most glorious smile he’d ever seen. How her eyes would crinkle along the edges when he would catch her looking at him—like she couldn’t quite believe he was real, that they were together again.
Stop.
He only had one thing to think about at the moment.
Crushing his cousin.
He couldn’t afford any more distractions by that woman.
He heard the uneven clomp of his cousin’s feet on the wooden floor outside the drawing room. Ten years older than him, Frederick Hoppler, the current Duke of Leaven, walked toward the room with his limp from a childhood ailment. Strider refused to refer to him as the duke or as Hoppler, as both of those were Strider’s domains by all rights. His cousin would never be anything more than ‘Frederick’ to Strider.
The footsteps paused for a long breath just beside the open entryway.
Coward.
Strider kept his gaze on the window, refusing to turn to the doorway of the room.
The footsteps resumed, the clacking of boot heels turning into dull thuds as Frederick stepped onto the Axminister carpet swallowing the floor in the room. Impressive, for Strider had thought Frederick had sold all the rugs of worth a year ago. Though this one looked more worn. Different from the last time Strider had set foot in this room. But still a crumb of elegance when, by all reports, squalor echoed throughout the halls of Leaven Manor.
“Mr. Hoppler, you are not welcome in this home. I thought we determined this the last time you were here.” His cousin’s droll monotone broke into the silence of the room as his steps stopped. “The footmen are at the ready to repeat the encounter you last had here at Leaven Manor. They rarely get to throw men out, so this will be a treat for them. How is it you even convinced my butler to let you in?”
“The man wants to keep his job.” Strider turned to face his cousin. The man was smaller than him, but had some of the same facial features as his father. Strong nose, eyes that tilted inward slightly, dark hair. But the whole of his face was thin, sallow. Sickly, even. Too much wine and women, as Strider knew his vices to be.
“Keep his job? He’s about to lose it.”
“I’ll reinstate him when I move in here.”
