Chapter 92

• Claire's pov
• I twirled the stem of the wine glass between my fingers, watching the way the candlelight reflected against the burgundy liquid. Nathan sat across from me at the long table he’d insisted we eat dinner on, even though the kitchen island would’ve sufficed. But no, he wanted “proper dinner,” and Thomas had outdone himself again—slow-roasted duck, truffle mashed potatoes, a ridiculous salad with walnuts and pear slices like we were starring in a damn royal dinner party.
• But I wasn’t complaining.