The study smelled of leather and burnt coffee. Celeste sprawled in an armchair, swirling a stolen brandy while the silver-haired statue—Alaric, Duke of Something-or-Other—stood rigid by the fireplace.
"Let's recap," she said. "My great-aunt left me this dump. You, apparently its self-appointed guardian, think I'll tarnish the family silver. Did I miss anything?"
Alaric's gloved hand curled around a poker, stoking the embers. "You lack the bloodline's dignity."
"And you lack a sense of humor. Guess we're both defective." She knocked back the brandy, relishing his flinch at her swallowed grace. "Look, Your Grace, I don't want your dusty titles or your tragic backstory. I just need a roof that isn't a motel."
He turned, firelight carving hollows under his cheekbones. "Then stay out of the east wing."
"Or what? You'll haunt me?"
A beat. The logs crackled.
"Yes."