His hand curled into a fist. "Damn you," he whispered, though he was not certain whether he meant Lionel, Richard, Theodora, Livia, or himself. Henry surged to his feet and, in a fit of frustration, threw the desk he was seated at over, everything on it tumbling, ink running through paper.
Lionel was right. What had he done? He stood amid the wreckage of his own temper, breathing hard, staring at ink spreading slowly across parchment. The court papers were ruined. Petitions soaked through.
Henry could not bring himself to care. What had he sacrificed to keep Livia? And would he even truly have her? He had bargained with his mother, and still there was no certainty at the end of it.
She had chosen Richard. If his mother had ordered the house in Covent Garden prepared for Livia, then it meant her plan was already breathing. Soon, Livia would be away from Richard.
It sounded like victory. It felt like damnation.
*****
