The pain and misery in Edmund’s eyes is second only to the pain and humiliation in Aidan’s own.
He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t let this happen. He would not become Edmund’s dirty little secret. He would not be made the mistress. And now he’s become precisely that, twice over, his own convictions be damned.
Perhaps he and Edmund truly have outgrown each other.
“Aidan—”
“Rest, Edmund,” he silences him curtly, unable to meet his eyes.
In the lounge, Mathilde is silently dressing. She notices Aidan coming in, but does not meet his eyes. Can’t, Aidan expects. He doesn’t quite know where to look, either, if he’s honest. How mortifying this must be for her.
A deep breath.
Then, quietly, “Mathilde.”
She freezes, looking like a rabbit trapped in headlights.
He does not advance on her, not wanting to make her even more uncomfortable.
“I’m sure he was only delirious. Morphine can do that to a person. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”