Broken Bride

“Oh really?”

“Go and get dressed,” I tell him. “Formal attire. We will both need to be on our very best behavior.”

Bobby laughs. It is good to see a genuine smile on his handsome face. The storm clouds which have been perpetually hanging over our house since Tilly's arrival clear for a moment. And all it took was a little raw brutality.

It’s been some time since we were on our own, just the two of us. I look over at Bobby sitting on the other side of the back seat of the car, and I feel a strong sense of pride.

I’ve made sure we both look the part. Bespoke suits, tailor made to suit our different physiques. Bobby has broadened over the time I’ve known him. He’s become muscular, my little bull.

He is solemn, but eager for what lies ahead. I know that he and I are not what other people would call ‘good’. Our relationship has always been strained, but there’s a new tension present which has been there from the moment Tilly arrived, and has only grown the longer she remains. Perhaps this outing will help repair what has been broken.

It has been a while since we ventured into the city, Bobby and I. Mark could not accompany us if he wanted to. If he is seen by law enforcement, he goes to jail immediately, the kind of prison even I could not rescue him from.

Lord Digby Spencer has put himself up in the penthouse suite of the Hilton. We are greeted in the lobby by someone discreet, who evidently recognizes us. He emerges from the crowd in a brown suit and gestures toward the elevators.

“Lord Spencer awaits your arrival.”

“Lord Spencer,” Bobby murmurs. “Fancy.”

At the top of the elevator, which opens up into the suite, which is the security equivalent of basically asking to be shot while you're breakfasting in your underwear, we are introduced by the same man. The introduction is largely unnecessary. The moment the doors open, a single figure dominates the sprawling, overly-contemporary space. He has his back to us, an arrogance few like him can afford.

The brown suit man coughs gently. “Mr. Angelo Vitali and companion to see you, Lord Digby.”

Digby turns around. He is a tall man with a thick shock of black hair and eyes which border on emerald green beneath dark brows. He is handsome. Very handsome. Around thirty-five years of age, if I had to hazard a guess. Which I don’t. Because I know everything I need to know about him, including his age. He’s forty-two, the second cousin of the late Lord Braybrooke.

He flashes a broad, welcoming smile at the both of us. His eyes run over me for a moment before fixing on Bobby, immediately finding my weak spot. It may have been a mistake to bring Bobby. I did not count on the Lord Digby having so much natural charisma and energy. Pictures don’t really do him justice.

The brown suit man blends into the background, not leaving, but disappearing nonetheless. I like him. I do not like Lord Spencer.

“Gentlemen,” he says, smiling. “Welcome. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” I decline for the both of us.

“Very well. It is a little early.” Digby smiles. His eyes are running over the pair of us almost constantly. He looks nervous, though he is also obviously trying to maintain a veneer of control.

“We’re here to talk about the return of Lady Matilda Braybrooke,” he says, in a very awkward sort of English way.

“You want her back? You can have her. She’s a pain in the ass,” Bobby pipes up.

Lord Digby laughs. “If only it were that easy.”

“It is that easy,” Bobby says.

“It isn’t,” I interject, before Bobby can give away our position entirely. “Lady Matilda is my wife.”

“Does that make you Lord Matilda?” Bobby interjects, amusing Lord Digby to no end.

“Go and wait in the car,” I tell him, my voice barely above a growl. I had hoped Bobby would bring some gravitas to the situation. When he stands there and scowls, he can be quite intimidating.

“It’s hard to find good underlings,” Digby sympathizes once Bobby has retreated from the room, accompanied by the brown suit man. “Or lovers. I understand the young man who just departed our presence is both.”

“I’m not returning Matilda. You can’t handle her anyway. Look at what she managed to do on your watch.”

“She was out of hand,” Digby agrees. “But that’s because her father spoiled her. She belongs with her family. She is part of a long, proud lineage, Mr. Vitali.”

Mr. is a slur when it drops from those overbred lips.

I smile quietly, imagining all the things I would like to do to Lord Digby. If I were to have this well-bred fop in my possession, stretched out on my rack, bound for my pleasure…