Page 29 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo
“He doesn’t look pleased,” Veronica fretted, a sheen of sweat gathering on her brow despite the plummeting temperatures.
Lorelai forced herself not to remark upon the colossal proportion of her sister-in-law’s understatement as the Earl of Southbourne stalked toward her. His hair had thinned, and his waist had thickened over the years, but he was still the same bulky, manipulative sadist she’d been raised to fear.
If she disembarked the carriage by the time he reached them, the people milling about would take note of their arrival, and an audience would at least decrease the likeliness of an unpleasant interaction of a physical nature.
Apparently, Veronica had been of the same mind, as she leaped for the latch before Moncrieff had even appeared from his perch to help them down.
Ungainly teal skirts barely seemed to hinder Veronica at all, as she daintily hopped down without the use of the steps, and turned to assist Lorelai. “Quickly, now,” she urged.
Lorelai gathered up the length of her veil in a billowingivory armful, and reached out to take Veronica’s hand. Her landing was decidedly less graceful, and the gathering wind threatened to rip her veil from her grasp.
The ground beneath her slippers seemed to tremble as the driver’s heavy boots landed beside her.
Startled, both ladies gaped at his broad back as he advanced. The wind whipped his black leather coat around his long legs as he strolled toward the cathedral as blithely as an invited guest.
Just what did he think he was doing?
Mortimer jabbed an accusatory finger at her, condemnation seething from him like an inquisitor to a witch. “Did you do something to scare him off?”
Lorelai flinched. “W-what?”
“God, you’re as bloody useless as a lame mare! Your fiancé,” he thundered. “You couldn’t even entice that tub of guts to show up to his own wedding, you—”
“It’s my fault Mr. Gooch isn’t here, I’m afraid,” the coachman said casually.
With one nimble motion, he reached into his coat, produced a long, bejeweled dagger, and shoved it beneath Mortimer’s chin.
He didn’t stop pushing until the point embedded in Mortimer’s brain.
Lorelai watched her brother die horribly. Slowly.
And quietly.
His hateful tongue skewered through right on the yard of the cathedral as his knees buckled and he fell to the earth.
A strangled sound emanated from Veronica, and she and Lorelai clutched at each other, shrinking back toward the carriage.
There must have been a commotion. A ripple of awareness as the attendees inside became cognizant of the turmoil out on the grounds. Sobs. Screams.
Lorelai marked none of it.
A weighty fatigue settled upon her and black spots danced in her periphery. The world swayed. Or did she?No. Not now. She couldn’t faint. She couldn’t leave poor Veronica alone to face whatever came next.
Because the coachman turned to address them both. He removed the cowl that had hidden his features and turned down his collar.
A black cloud of horror smothered her. Black, like his eyes. Like his hair. Like the grief that had swallowed her when he hadn’t returned all those years ago.
Like the churning storm that framed him now, summoned by whatever ancient, malevolent God had unleashed him upon this earth.
She couldn’t say his name. Because this devil before her surely was not Ash. He was taller. Wider. Darker ineveryway possible.
He’d just…murderedher brother. Without sentiment, explanation, or ceremony of any kind.
And now he simply regarded her with the same sort of triumphant expectation one would after a particularly well played bout of croquet.
“Captain.” Moncrieff blocked her from flinging herself at him, whether to assault him or embrace him, she hadn’t yet decided. “I do believe it’s time we quit this affair.”
“I do believe you’re right.”
