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He was also a thirty-seven-year-old man who didn’t feel like being controlled by his pathologically controlling father.
Who could blame him?
I didn’t.
In fact, I’d be the exact same way.
In fact, when my father was alive, I was the exact same way.
Though, not in company.
And my dad wasn’t quite as big of an asshole as Richard was, and could often be quite loving, and was always generous.
“Portia is really into Daniel,” I reminded her.
“You spoil her too, in your way,” she replied. “There are so many girls who are not spoiled at all, in truth, so much the opposite, it hurts my heart to think about it. So, when one has the devotion that Portia has, I won’t say a word against it. Except now, Daph.” She leaned over the arm of her chair toward me and went on, “We’re not safe in this house and specifically she is not safe with Daniel.”
I leaned over the arm of my chair too. “Tell me why you say that.”
She shook her head. “It’s just a feeling.”
I hated to say it, but it had to be said. “I have to have more than a feeling if I’m going to talk my sister into leaving the only man she’s ever shown this kind of affection for.”
Lou sat back, looking frustrated, and downed the last of her port.
I sat back too and suggested, “Let’s give it another day, two, see how things go. If they don’t improve, or you still feel weird, we’ll talk, and in the meantime, I’ll chat with Portia. Feel her out about all that’s happening.”
“All right,” she mumbled.
I drank the last of my Amaretto.
Then I jumped because I’d barely taken my glass from my lips and Brittany was there, saying brittlely, “Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”
Okay, maybe I wasn’t giving enough credence to what Lou said, because the maid didn’t even hide she’d been lurking unseen in order to watch and wait for us to finish our drinks, and then we were to be tucked away like living dolls our owners no longer wished to play with.
Lou and I exchanged another uneasy glance before we dutifully got up, set our glasses aside, and followed Brittany out of the Wine Room.
Outside my bedroom, due to Lou’s mood, I changed my mind about her not seeing my room and asked, “You want to come in? Keep chatting? We could ask Brittany to bring us another drink.”
A peek at Brittany showed no reaction to this, approval or disapproval, or, perhaps, scant proof Brittany was other than an automaton.
“No, I’m actually pretty tired,” Lou said. “That meal was heavy.”
It was heavy.
The petite fours were a disaster.
The dinner was a buttery, cheesy, creamy, saucy, and in the end custardy triumph.
“Okay, see you in the morning,” I replied, touching cheeks with her and giving her arms an affectionate, also hopefully restorative squeeze.
I stood in the hall and watched as Brittany escorted Lou to her room.
Only when she was inside did I duck into my own.
When I did, I found that earlier, I was not wrong.
Turn down service at Duncroft meant there was a soft light coming from the bathroom, the two large, tall, ornate lamps on the nightstands had been dimmed low, and all the others had been extinguished. The covers on the bed had been pulled back and smoothed, the pillows had been fluffed and arranged with the extraneous decorative ones removed and out of sight. And the heavy drapes at the windows had been securely closed.
