“Back to your place, Mr. Shop,” she said sharply. She watched Theo as he left, his hand resting a second longer than necessary on my shoulder before he went.
Aunt Francis closed the distance between us, her severe expression exaggerated in the dim light. “That boy,” she said tersely, her fingers rising to tease loose curls behind my ear, “has his claws in you.”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
“Good,” she uttered dryly. “Boys are fond of treating hearts like toys. Particularly the boys of Lords. I’ve told you this.”
The reminder was not so much to point out the importance of the title, but to point out the illegitimacy of my own. Fake parentage. Fake name. “I know.”
“Right, then,” Aunt Francis said, the words slipping past her teeth in a tumble. “That’s that. The boy will be shipped to
