“What the hell just happened?”
“The power of titles.” Blake did send a smirk at Bishop then.
“Don’t make me cast up my whisky. You either hate your title or you love it. Choose one.”
“Just because I hate it doesn’t mean it’s not useful. Besides, even though I’m invited, I more than anyone know that I shall only be on display there as would a bearded woman in a circus. I’m a novelty.” And he hated it, but he would go if it meant helping Lady Rosilee.
Bishop held his gaze. “There is no going back after this, after you introduce Lady Rosilee into society.”
Blake clenched his jaw. “She deserves the best.”
“I suppose you are right. No woman would voluntarily live in such a dreary castle you call home anyhow.”
Blake’s jaw tightened, the truth of the statement gnawing at him. He had enjoyed a simple life up until now. After he left London for the castle all those years ago, he’d left his father, stepmother, and those nightmares behind. And no one had ever troubled him there. He had certainly made the best decision for himself. Yet lately, it felt as if every single choice he made led him deeper into the mire, no matter how hard he fought to stay in control.
He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore,” he admitted. He was pushing forward and yet somehow pulling away at the same time—caught in a battle he wasn’t sure how to win, or if he even could. A deuced uncomfortable feeling.
Bishop tilted his head to the side. “That’s a dangerous place to be.”
“I know.”
Bishop leaned forward slightly, his tone lower than usual. “What are you after, Blake? Truly?”
He tensed at the question. What was he after? Was he trying to repay a debt? To prove something to himself? To find a glimmer of hope in an otherwise hopeless desert? The late duke’s voice echoed in his head—calling him a monster of a monster’s seed—a cruel reminder of the life he’d been shackled to for so long.
No, what he wanted above all . . .
“I thought I wanted to prove something,” Blake said slowly. “To show that I’m not him. That I’m not the madman he was.”
Bishop’s eyes flickered with understanding, though he said nothing. He simply waited.
Blake exhaled sharply. “But every decision I make feels like it’s dragging me closer to his shadow, not farther from it.”
“That’s the trap, isn’t it? Trying so hard to avoid becoming one person that you end up losing yourself in the attempt.”
Blake turned over the thought in his mind. Was that what had happened? Had he become so obsessed with avoiding his father’s legacy that he was, in some twisted, unwelcome way, perpetuating it?
Wouldn’t that be a savage turn?
“You’re not him, Blake,” Bishop added after a moment. “No matter what anyone says or what you think, you’ll never be him.”
That remained to be seen. Still, Bishop wasn’t the type to offer platitudes, and Blake suspected the man’s words came from a place of experience. “Perhaps,” he said. It was the only concession he could make.
Bishop sat back in his chair again, his smirk returning. “Well, it’s not a direct no. I suppose that’s something. And I’d hate to think you’re dragging me to London just to wallow in self-pity.”
Blake snorted softly. “No one forced you to come.”
“Someone has to keep you from spiraling into madness. But I think,” Bishop said, tapping the side of his glass, “that you’re far too stubborn to wallow in anything for too long. Besides, I’m your right-hand man, and the ball should be entertaining enough.”
Blake drained the last bit of his tea, setting the cup down with a final clink. “Entertaining? That’s not the word I’d use.”
Bishop shrugged, grinning. “Oh, I have a feeling it’ll be far more entertaining than you think.”
Blake glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you imagine you would be joining us?”
The man blinked. “I’m not?”
“No, you are not.”
