Rochester’s face was all shadows and hard angles. “As I said: she is unwell. She might be better cared for elsewhere.” Tristan’s fist was white around the cane. “Be plain.” “There are places more suited for people with her moods—” “Are we speaking of Bedlam?” The earl tilted his head, his smile thin as if slashed with a knife. “Bedlam? No. There are private asylums that are quainter, more suited for her care.”
