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“Fascinating,” I said.
And that was the end of my attempt at an interesting conversational gambit.
Ian made a noise in his throat that was part amusement, part something else, and the something else part I felt in my nipples.
He was bent over his soup.
I glared at his profile.
He ignored me, continued eating and, I decided, doing both knowing perfectly well not only that I was inept at salvaging a dinner party gone awry, but also what he did to my nipples.
“Was the castle razed before Duncroft was built?” Lou asked.
Ian answered her. “Yes. It and the murder and mayhem within its walls were swept clean away. Except the house might have been new, but the bent toward murder and mayhem remained.”
“Ian!” his father snapped.
“If they have Google, Dad, they know the history of the house,” Ian reminded him.
“We don’t talk about such things,” his father bit off.
“No, you don’t. Everyone else in Great Britain and beyond does,” Ian retorted.
“You goad him on purpose,” Daniel accused.
“And?” Ian asked his brother.
I almost laughed, but not with amusement (well, not entirely).
And I thought Dad and his marital high jinks, Lou being my stepmother and young enough to be my older sister, Portia and her shenanigans, and me with my rabid bent toward cynicism were a mess.
These people put the dys in dysfunction.
It was my experience it was always the ones who thought they were superior who were, in reality, anything but.
And I still didn’t know where my car was.
“Do you think that perhaps this dinner might mean something to me…and Portia?” Daniel asked.
“Portia, my love, I forgot about you,” Ian drawled.
Oh…hell no.
“You may be the future king of all you survey, but that’s my little sister, so be careful,” I warned.
Ian turned instantly to me.
“Daphne, no,” Portia begged.
My eyes clashed with pure blue.
And I didn’t fucking back down.
It took some time before he said, genuinely this time, “My apologies.” He looked to Portia. “Apologies, petal.”
Her cheeks turned pink.
I harrumphed.
