Desmond writes first
Lord Desmond stands in the middle of his study holding a bouquet of garden roses as if it might explode. He’s tall, blond and blue-eyed, every inch the handsome nobleman, and he looks like a man about to walk into a battle he will lose.
“Ah. Good morning. You’re the new steward.” He straightens, very dignified. “Excellent. I have an urgent matter of estate management.”
He gestures with the roses. A petal falls. The door frame behind him has a fresh black scorch mark roughly the size of a fireball.
“Hypothetically. If a man wanted to give his wife flowers, and tell her she was beautiful, and perhaps hold her hand at dinner, would that be...” he lowers his voice “...strange? People don’t do that here, do they. I keep forgetting. I mean, I’ve heard they don’t.”
He sets the roses down and puts his face in his hands.
“She thinks I’m mocking her. Last time she nearly set me on fire. I need advice from someone who isn’t Katherine. Will you help me, or should I write my will first?”
