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She had fucking kissed him.
After spending a few moments being lectured by his brother about stealing right under people’s noses and agreeing to fix what he’d done, William went in search of his wife. It wasn’t difficult for him to find her. He’d noticed Porter leading her away, so he walked toward the patio only to see Victoria kissing the bloody coward!
Wasn’t she the one who’d insisted they act flirtatious and very much in love? Wasn’t she the one who was jealous of the attention he’d bestowed on Lady Carlyle to cater to her whim and steal a necklace from her? And now she was hiding on the patio, kissing the insipid lord.
William whirled on his heel and stalked away.
If he didn’t, he would stomp onto the patio and break Porter’s face, rip his lips off, and stuff them into a deep, dark place.
He would not make a scene, embarrassing Victoria in the process. But Porter would regret ever pressing his lips against Victoria’s. He would pay for his brazen actions, of that William would make certain.
The most vexing part of it all, however, was that Victoria had let him kiss her.
Why?
Why had she done that? Did she feel something toward the coward? Or did she want to make William jealous?
William tried to shake the images of them kissing out of his mind, but he couldn’t.
He was so close to getting what he wanted. She was living under his roof, sleeping inside his house—if not his bed—walking into ballrooms on his arm, and calling him her husband. But if she was willingly kissing other men and turning her nose from him, was there anything else he could do?
What if this entire charade was all for naught?
How was he supposed to convince her to fall in love with him again? What if the thieving he had demonstrated tonight only pushed her away while he just wanted to give her what she wanted?
William had never felt so much doubt in his life.
He needed to clear his head. So, he stalked out of the ballroom and walked aimlessly through the Kensington house.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this house, not even the second. However, this was the first time he’d ever been invited, the first time he’d ever walked in through the front door.
He stopped at the corridor leading to the duke’s study. He had broken into this house a few times, most notably the time when he’d demanded the duke acknowledge him. Driven by his need to belong.
William scoffed.
He’d spent his entire life carving out a spot for himself in the criminal world. But he’d never felt at peace there, never belonged there. Forever the lone wolf. He then tried to shove his foot into the aristocratic world, but people looked down their noses, refusing to accept a bastard among them.
Trying to fit into both worlds, he ended up an outcast in each. And all he’d wanted since the day he was born was to simply belong. Somewhere. Anywhere.
When he’d met Victoria, he’d thought he’d finally found that place.
He had never felt the way he felt with Victoria. The entire world fell away when he was around her, and nothing else mattered. There was no need for boasting or bluster, no need for puffing out his chest and pretending to be someone he was not. He was more than the sum of his secrets and sins when he was with her, and it was a liberating feeling he’d never thought he’d experience. With her, he could just be… himself. Speak his mind, tell his jokes, smile earnestly, and laugh genuinely, and Victoria accepted him just as he was. It was a kind of freedom he had never known before.
Perhaps, he’d been mistaken.
William walked along the long, dark corridor until he noticed an open door at the very end. He walked toward it and slipped inside, curiosity and a feeling of foreboding guiding him. There was something eerie about this room. He found a candle by the light of the moon peering inside the window and lit it, illuminating the room in a warm, golden glow.
Then he looked around and immediately regretted entering. He now knew what the eerie feeling was trying to warn him about.
The past.
William stood in the middle of the room, looking at the exquisite paintings. For a random observer, this gallery would seem like a treasure trove of beautiful art. For him, it was laced with pain.
His gaze was drawn to one dramatic Baroque work, its vivid colors and lavish details thrilling yet chilling. It depicted a beautiful woman in a vibrant crimson gown, her bare legs exposed scandalously. In her hand, she grasped an ornate knife by the blade, fresh blood dripping from her cut palm, down her pale thigh.
He remembered that painting vividly. Even now, as he closed his eyes, he could still see the crimson-red spots on the woman’s thighs. He had spent hours staring at those spots.
