55. THE THIRD LETTER
THE THIRD LETTER
London, England
The third letter reached Drasko on a sunny May day in his Mawr office.
At the sight of it, tentacles of hate wrapped around his neck, choking him. This could be a single mindless task or another dagger into his independence.
This time, Drasko disregarded the sinister sparkle of the precious diamond centered in the brown seal and opened the letter swiftly.
On May 28th, precisely fifteen minutes after three in the afternoon, you are to walk into St. John’s Church and present Charles Hatchet, the Earl of Weltingdon, with the document that is enclosed with this letter. The bride’s guardians are to sign another paper.
If everything goes smoothly, the bride is yours.
Drasko stared at the words with a sense of utmost shock.
So, he was to marry. Some innocent soul had unknowingly crossed Uriah’s path. Or was that another debt to collect?
Did it bother Drasko? He had agreed to it.
Was he hoping it wasn’t Charles Hatchet’s paramour, the opera singer? The idea disgusted him.
But he needed to know who , for the simple reason of preparing himself for the least amount of surprise and to make proper arrangements. He would marry, yes, he had no choice, but it didn’t mean he would accept her as his wife, whoever the poor creature was.
Drasko sent his men out on the task and spent the rest of the day in his office.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
But nothing could prepare him for the name of the bride brought to him that very evening.
Grace Sommerville.
She was to marry the earl?
Stunned, he repeated her name again and again, telling himself this wasn’t possible.
No, Uriah wouldn’t do it, not out of spite, and definitely not out of good intentions. But he had planned it all along, known what would happen. Of course, Uriah had. It was coming—the circle of repeated mistakes, unfulfilled hopes, broken expectations. Just like Uriah had warned him.
Drasko was utterly at a loss. He had always been certain that with the research he’d done for years, he’d have his own say in what she would be to him.
Nothing , he’d promised himself the first time he saw her play.
Nothing at all , he had told himself for years, wanting to get closer yet knowing what consequences that would have.
And now…
He didn’t sleep that night. He paced around his house, then took a carriage to the tower and from the top of it, watched London wake up, the dawn creeping up to the blanket of heavy clouds that hung over the city.
This is nothing, nothing at all , he repeated like a mantra as he gathered his men later that day, arranged for the guns in case there was pandemonium among the guests, and waited in the building not far from the church, obsessively checking his watch.
Two o’clock.
He tried to stay calm. It was just a task.
Fifteen past two.
He would handle it with utmost professionalism.
Thirty past two.
He didn’t have to get involved with her, despite the supposed marital vows.
Forty-five past two.
He was angry, at Uriah, at fate, at himself, at her .
Three o’clock.
After all, the Earl of Weltingdon might refuse to sign in favor of a grand vow of love.
But that, of course, was a joke. Drasko knew it as soon as, fifteen minutes later, he stepped into the church and saw the earl, whose shock at recognizing him soon changed into poorly concealed anticipation.
No broke man ever sacrificed a great amount of wealth for love, and Charles Hatchet proved it.
Drasko still hoped that something would miraculously put an end to this farce.
Until his eyes met hers .
Hope bloomed in his chest for a minuscule fraction of time, but right away was dismissed by her sharp gaze. He couldn’t deny that out of all twists of fate, this was the cruelest yet. In a matter of minutes, she was to be his wife.
Drasko clenched his teeth. Rakshasa burned on his back.
He couldn’t help the memories, both their blood mixed on the bungalow floor the night of the attack. Not when he stood at the altar face to face with Grace Sommerville and for a tiny second was whipped back in time, her mesmerizing gaze swallowing him whole and spitting him back out.
Grace Sommerville was twenty years of age. Drasko was twenty-nine. And no human soul resented her as much as he did.
Though once upon a time, it was quite different.
They used to call her choti , a little one.
And once upon a time, he simply called her little jaan.
But that was in another life.