Bastian hissed under his breath. He stared at the brown paper package on his desk. At least one of the servants had seen it, so he couldn’t risk not giving it to Victoria. Did he have any right to keep it from her in the first place? As her husband, he believed he did. No other man, aside from a relative, had any business sending his wife presents. Feeling very little guilt, he tore open the note, which was once again addressed To my heart. A plainly dressed man in an unmarked coach had delivered it ten minutes ago. I wish I had arrived in time. Think of me when you wear these, my love. He’d sent her something to wear? Well, she would not be thinking of him because Bastian had no intention of letting her know who’d sent whatever it was. He wanted to throw the package in the fireplace and burn it, but instead he simply burned the note, scattering the ashes thoroughly. It was dishonest, but he would not deliver his wife a love note from another man. He went upstairs to find her in what was now their bedroom.
