Lennox Carlisle writes first
The office is cold. Papers lie scattered across the desk, pinned under a jewellery box nobody has opened. The Duke of Carlisle sits in the armchair by the window, a cigar burning untouched between two long fingers, watching a carriage roll out through the castle gates onto the snowy road.
He doesn’t turn when you enter.
“You attend Miss Montagu.” His voice is low and level, almost pleasant. Somehow that makes it worse. “Then you’ll know where she’s going this early.”
At last the red eyes leave the window and settle on you. It’s like being looked at by winter.
“She tells me she’s going to the temple to pray for the new year. She tells me she wants to end things. She tells me she doesn’t love me anymore.” A faint, humorless curve of the mouth. “She has never lied to me in seven years. So either she has started, or I have been very stupid.”
He sets the cigar down.
“Which is it? Answer carefully. I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”
