She said nothing for long, weighty moments.
And then she turned her head side to side, and requested in a soft voice, “Gentleman, if I may speak with my fiancé alone.”
“By all means,” his father growled.
Marlow’s face tightened in pain, but he beat back the wince as he gave her a short bow and said, “My lady.”
Both men left, Marlow shutting the door behind them.
Loren looked back to Satrine to see she was already regarding him, or more to the point, his bared chest.
He opened his mouth but found his luck had not changed as he was foiled again.
“Allow me to get this straight,” she continued in that soft voice, her attention lifting to his face. “You were at a bordello tonight.”
“Dear heart—”
“And were set upon by rogues who you’d angered at another bordello you were at some weeks past.”
“Satrine—”
“However, where you weren’t tonight, or last night, or the one before, and the one before that, and so on, was anywhere near me.”
The physician grunted a sympathetic, fraternal grunt.
Loren fell silent.
She said nothing.
He hissed in breath as the doctor poured alcohol on his now-stitched wound.
The man then stoppered the vial, set it aside and looked to Satrine.
“Milady, this request comes at an inopportune time, I’m aware. But it would be most helpful if you could aid me with the bandage.”
Damn it all to hell.
She nodded, came forward, threw back the front folds of her cloak and lifted her hands to drop the hood from her hair.
Loren sat up as she assisted the physician in winding the bandage around his stomach and tying it off.
As usual, she smelled phenomenal.
She immediately retreated when this was done, the doctor packed up his bag, and bending over him, he whispered, “Good luck.” He then straightened and said to Satrine, “If his grace rewins your favor, I ask you to be certain he rests, at least for a good week. Nothing strenuous. He must allow the healing to set in.”
Loren found it alarming she didn’t nod her agreement. She simply dipped her chin in acknowledgement.
The physician took his leave and Loren took his feet.
“I believe you heard him say you should rest,” she noted.
He wasn’t facing this on his back.
He also wasn’t facing this with his chest bared. He knew the blows he took to his torso were already bruising, but even if he didn’t, her gaze falling to those areas would have told him.
He swiftly walked to the wardrobe in his dressing room, seized a fresh shirt, and pulled it over his head while returning to her.
She hadn’t moved from the spot he left her in.
He halted a few feet away.
Not knowing what to say, because he didn’t know her very well, therefore, he didn’t know how to read the strangely void expression on her face, he simply whispered, “Sweeting.”
“Is it a lost hope this friend of yours was at his favored bordello only to sip a whisky?” she asked.
Loren did not answer.
“I see,” she said, her voice again soft.
“It is not that he didn’t bring misfortune onto himself. He did. It is that the greater wrong was what they were doing. He wasn’t the only one they’d fleeced, Satrine.”
“I’m pleased you understand that the architect of his own downfall was indeed your friend,” she replied. “Now, I’d like to know if there were further nefarious shenanigans you were intent to see to at this establishment you were attending tonight.”
He had no response to that either.
At least, no good one.
“I was spending time with a friend,” he gritted.
He watched her swallow, something unbearably tragic moving through her expression, and then she said, “I’m not up on all things aristocracy, Loren, as you know. But one thing I do understand is that it’s your duty to produce an heir.”
This was not a good turn in the conversation.
He took a step toward her.
She took a hasty step back in a manner he stopped.
“I can’t begin to imagine you don’t know what a catch you are, sir,” she said. “You can have any woman you want.”
“I don’t want any woman. I want you.”
“You do?”
Shite.
With the way he’d been avoiding her, that was a pertinent question.
“Satrine, my dearest—”
“Were you with a woman?” she whispered.
“No, I was not. Nor was that my intent in being there this eve.”
Her brows rose. “This eve?”
Fuck.
She was far too clever, and it was frustrating that it could be annoying when most of the time it was appealing.
“I cannot contend I have not partaken, my love, but that was before I met you. Not after. And not ever again,” he promised.
“You seem to have missed it, your grace,” she continued whispering, but her words were now aching. “I don’t need you anymore.”
The pain in his body, at his side, every blow he sustained that night was nothing compared to the pain those words sent searing through him.