Theron
The silence in the dining hall was heavy.
Theron sat at the head of the long, mahogany table and stared into a cup of black coffee. The staff moved around like ghosts, shooting worried glances at him.
"Is Mr. Vale not joining us, Uncle?" Julian's small voice sliced through the silence.
Theron's hand clenched around his cup. The name was a twist of knife in his gut.
Before he could answer, the doors swung open.
And Peregrine—no—Finn sauntered in with a swagger in his hips.
His ash-brown hair, usually neatly combed, was a dishevelled mess that fell over one eye. He wore the same clothes, but with disregard. The cravat was loose and the top button of his shirt was undone.
He looked like he belonged in a back-alley pub, not the home of a Duke.
His hazel-green eyes landed on Theron and a smirk spread across his lips.
He headed to the sideboard and piled a plate high with food. Then, ignoring the perfectly set table, he dropped into a priceless, silk-upholstered armchair by the window.
He swung his scuffed boots up and planted them on the fabric.
A small, horrified sound escaped Mrs. Albright's lips. Barrow looked like he'd been struck.
Theron felt a wave of fury, but underneath it, something else stirred. Something dark, ugly and humiliatingly familiar.
He hated this coarse, insolent stranger, but he hated himself more for still noticing the way the sunlight turned his hair to gold, the elegant line of his jaw, the undeniable beauty of him.
"Mornin' all," Finn said, his voice a lazy drawl. "Starvin', me."
He picked up a piece of bacon with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth, chewing loudly.
Theron stared, transfixed.
A young kitchen maid, her cheeks flushed, scurried in with a fresh pot of tea. Finn's eyes followed her. As she passed his chair, he winked at her.
"Alright, love?" he purred, his voice a low rumble. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."
The maid turned a shade of crimson and practically fled.
Finn threw his head back and laughed, a loud, harsh sound.
"Mr. Vale, what's wrong?" Julian asked, his small face scrunched up in confusion.
Finn's laughter died. He slowly lowered his boots to the floor and turned to the boy. For a split second, the hard mask softened.
"Nothin's wrong, lad," Finn said. "Me an' His Grace here have just reached an understandin'." He shot a look at Theron, his eyes glinting with malice. "Ain't that right, Your Grace?"
Theron had had enough.
He slammed his palm onto the table, the loud sound making Julian jump. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor.
"Julian, finish your meal," he commanded, his voice clipped and cold. "I need to have a word with Mr… Vale."
He strode out of the room without a backward glance. He knew Finn would follow.
When they reached the entrance hall, Theron spun around.
Finn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that goddamn smirk on his face.
"What the hell was that?" Theron hissed.
"Just havin' me breakfast, Your Grace," Finn replied, shrugging.
"You know what I mean." Theron closed the distance between them, using his height to intimidate. It didn't work. Finn didn't even flinch.
"Whatever game you think you're playing," he snarled, his voice a low growl, "it will not be played in front of my nephew. Your performance earlier was a disgrace. It will not happen again. In front of Julian, you will maintain a shred of the decorum you are so clearly capable of faking. Is that understood?"
Finn just stared at him, his expression blank.
Then he burst into laughter.
"Or what?" He pushed himself off the wall. "You'll throw me out? Go on, then. I dare you. Be fun to see what Sir Henry Langley makes of it all. I bet he'd pay a pretty price for a story about the great war hero and his secret perversions."
Something inside Theron snapped.
He acted without thinking, his hand shooting out, grabbing the front of Finn's shirt, yanking him forward until they were chest to chest. "You will watch your mouth," he hissed, his face inches from Finn's.
He could feel the wiry strength of Finn's body, the heat of him.
For a second, the hatred in Finn's eyes was replaced by something else. A flicker of shock. Of awareness.
He leaned in, his lips parting slightly, his breath ghosting over Theron's skin.
"Careful," Finn whispered. His voice was a rough, intimate caress. "Don't get too close. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."
Theron's breath caught. His traitorous body went rigid with a feeling that was not hate.
Then he heard it. Soft footsteps from the gallery above.
He dropped Finn's arm and stumbled back, a flush creeping up his neck.
Finn calmly smoothed the front of his shirt, the smirk returning to his lips. He gave Theron a slow, lazy wink.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Theron standing alone in the middle of the hall, utterly defeated.