Garrick didn’t flinch.
That was the thing about him. He never flinched. He had spent forty years building a reputation on the particular skill of absorbing whatever was thrown at him and returning it at twice the velocity, and he did it now at the breakfast table, in front of a suitor, with his daughter’s bruised face staring at him from across the room.
He picked up his cup, took a slow sip, and then he smiled.
“Rhea had a difficult journey home,” he said. His voice was warm and easy and completely unbothered.
He looked at Dorian with the frank, man-to-man candor of someone with nothing to hide. “She was held by Vane’s men for some time. The journey back was not gentle.” He set down his cup. “We are simply grateful she is home safely.”
The table accepted this.
Of course it did. It
