Page 61 of A Proposition for the Comte

‘But?’

‘There are rumours you are in England for more than a holiday and Viscount Harland Addington had his enemies. Is this the reason you were at lunch with his widow?’

Lian swore under his breath. He had forgotten the way London held its gossip in such high regard. In Paris, too, there was the propensity for such tittle-tattle but it was less noticeable somehow. He decided to be honest.

‘Violet Addington has nothing to do with why I am here. I simply enjoy her company.’

‘Then let us drink to simple, Lian, and to hell with it all.’

Thornton went to raise a toast but his elbow slipped, the brandy glass falling to shatter on the black and white tiles below, the frowns from those around directed their way.

‘Come, I will take you home,’ Lian said. ‘Tomorrow the day might look brighter.’

But even as he said it he knew that it wouldn’t. Lytton’s sister was sick and Violet was barren, the future shrivelled into fragments that could not be put back together with a simple hope no matter how much one might want it.

The fine crystal crunched under his boots as they walked towards the door.