Chapter 64 - Sixty Four
The heavy silence of the study was a poor comfort to Eric. He stood in front of the large window, looking out at the darkening sky, but his mind was not on the weather. A thought, ugly and persistent, kept flashing into his mind—Anne’s venomous words from the night before: "George Pembroke has been going to your private residence, without your knowledge, ever since Delia moved in."
It was a lie, he knew. A desperate, clumsy lie from a spurned woman. And yet, the image it conjured, of George anywhere near Delia, made a muscle in his jaw clench. He let out a long, weary sigh. Trust was a fragile thing, and Anne had tried her best in an attempt to shatter it.
His gaze fell upon the letter lying on his desk. It had arrived that morning, bearing his family’s seal. It was from Philip. He had been avoiding it all day, but he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. Reluctantly, he went to his desk, broke the seal, and unfolded the heavy parchment. He began to read, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room.
Eric,
Did you make it home alright the last time we met?
Eric paused, a wry smile touching his lips. He asked himself, "Since when do we ask about each other’s welfare?" The question was rhetorical. He knew this was not an expression of brotherly concern. He continued reading.
I must admit, I haven’t seen you that combative in a while. I really felt it at meeting that your marriage to this young lady was quite important to you. At first, I thought your sudden defensiveness was just about your business, but then you even came running over to the same place you have refused to step your feet into in years. You even forced a show of hands in front of everyone. It was quite the performance.
It has made me deeply curious about your fiancée. What kind of person is she, to inspire such a change in my little brother? How would she react, I wonder, if she were to know the true nature of Eric Carson? Will she stay or leave? I find myself wondering what she is like when she is mad. Or, more interestingly, what she is like when she cries. Judging by the fierce protective way you behave around her, I am sure she must be especially beautiful when she cries. Her ...
Eric couldn’t continue reading. He had heard enough. A cold, chilling rage washed over him. The letter wasn’t just a taunt; it was a threat. Philip wasn’t just curious about Delia; he was fantasizing about her pain, about making her cry. He was treating her like a new, interesting toy he wanted to break, just to see what was inside.