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“Your assumptions are wrong,” she said, though there was no fight in her words. She decided not to continue arguing; he wouldn’t believe her anyway. He’d made his own conclusions. “But I was fourteen.”

He snorted. “Is that the marriage you were talking about?”

She nodded, although she doubted he could see her in the darkness. “Yes.”

* * *

Forty-eight hours earlier…

With Leila lying across his shoulder, her feet dangling in the air and her bound hands pressing against his back as she tried to leverage herself upright, Gideon approached the front entrance of his townhouse.

Hobbes stood holding the door open, with a wide-eyed expression on his face that the usually stone-faced butler was unable to contain.

Leila continued struggling against Gideon’s grip, muffled protests escaping from behind the silk cravat he’d tied around her mouth.

Even the footmen at the bottom of the main staircase swiveled their heads to follow his progress up the stairs, barely concealing their shock.

“Call for Mrs. Hill,” he commanded one of the footmen without breaking stride. “Tell her to come to my w—to the blue chamber immediately.”

The young man’s eyes widened, but he bowed and dashed away down the corridor.

Gideon shouldered open the door to the blue chamber and stepped inside.

He dropped Leila onto the mattress, then immediately stepped back, uncertain of what to do next. She rolled slightly, trying to right herself despite her bound wrists, dark hair spilling across the embroidered pillows.

He took the silk cords from the curtains, untied the handkerchief he’d used to bind her wrists, and secured her hands to the carved bedpost with the curtain cords.

Then he patted her down, ignoring her growls of protest, and found one more blade hidden in her boot. He shoved it into his belt.

When he finished, he ran both hands through his hair and stepped back, staring at what he’d done. The woman on the bed mumbled something accusatory against the cloth covering her mouth, her dark eyes blazing with fury above the makeshift gag.

“I’m sure I deserve that,” he said quietly, his voice hollow.

A soft knock at the door announced Mrs. Hill’s arrival. The housekeeper entered with her usual brisk pace but faltered when her gaze fell upon the scene before her. Her face went pale, and for a moment, she simply stared at the bound woman on her late mistress’s bed.

“You called, Your Grace?” Her voice was even, but Gideon could hear the tremor beneath.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, unable to meet her eyes. “Bring some clothes for our… guest. To make her comfortable.”

The housekeeper looked at him with the same expression she’d worn when he was six and had refused to eat his dinner—disappointed, concerned, and faintly maternal. It was a look that cut deeper than any rebuke.

“Mmm gehf!” came the muffled protest from the bed. Gideon couldn’t make out what she was trying to say.

“A guest?” Mrs. Hill asked, her face a grimace of horror. She attempted to school her features but failed, so she gave up and simply shook her head. “Do we expect her to stay overnight?”

“Yes.” Gideon nodded.

Mrs. Hill visibly tensed but didn’t protest. Instead, she nodded. “Very well.” Then she curtsied and left the room, Leila’s frustrated cries following after her.

“My servants are loyal,” he said, his voice hoarse. “They may not agree with my methods, but they won’t dare defy me.”

Leila growled in frustration, kicking her feet against the mattress.

Gideon moved to the window, bracing his hands against the frame as he stared out into the dark, misty night, hoping to lose himself in thought.

Instead, he saw his own reflection: tired, gray hairs populating his head, a scar on his cheek, and, over his shoulder, a woman tied to Sarah’s bed.

What have you become? The voice in his head was Sarah’s, as clear as if she stood beside him.