by Owner
the choice away from her and as the thought registered, Lily felt her heart
begin to increase its pace until she felt completely flustered for she realized
that she had never been truly kissed.
Perhaps he read that in her eyes, for he stared at her for what felt like
endless moments, before detaching his hands from hers, taking a step
backwards, offering her a bow and then departing as though the hounds of
hell were chasing after him.
Lily watched his retreat through the crowds and while she damned herself
for letting him escape, Lily was far too perturbed by what had almost
happened to scold herself too greatly.
If the bastard who threatened her mother's life had been watching her, then
he could do naught but admit that she had attempted and made contact.
Hoping that for tonight that was enough, she moved away from the dance
floor and retreated to her aunt's side.
****
He grinned as Dorian stared down at the tasty morsel of muslin in his arms
and William could literally feel the sparks between them. It was an
interesting side effect, one that he hadn't even taken into consideration!
From the expression on Dorian's face, it would not be difficult for Lily to
seduce him and that pleased William more than words could say.
They stood for an inordinately long time in the center of the ballroom and
almost as though the whispers about the prolonged embrace began to
penetrate the bubble in which they both seemed to stand, only then did
Dorian let go, step back and bow before disappearing into the crowd.
It was a step forwards and one that although Lily would more than likely not
be able to understand, for it meant that she was closer to her ultimate goal
than she realized.
He had, horror of horrors, actually let her in.
William grinned into his punch glass and sank it back in one go.
After years of waiting, it seemed almost implausible that everything could be
coming together and so perfectly and so swiftly. Waiting for a woman as
perfect as Lily so obviously was . . . William felt truly vindicated!
With malicious glee, he stalked through the crush, and exited the townhouse
without saying farewell to his hosts. As soon as he stepped out into the night
and sucked in a breath of the dirty London air, he grinned his malevolent
pleasure.
Another missive was necessary to keep her as fearful as ever and one that
would keep her quaking in her chocolate at her next breakfast, was of the
utmost importance. He looked forward to her terror and hoped that it would
induce her to work all the harder to please him and entice Dorian.
Although, he thought that that wouldn't be too hard!
Dorian was quite obviously, already enticed. The seduction seemed
imminent and William looked forward to having the man under his control
once more.
****
His heart thudding sickeningly in his chest, Dorian rushed through the crowd
and escaped from the confines of the ballroom, where he stopped and
gathered his breath. It was ridiculous that he was panting, but it was not out
of a lack of good health. It was from what had just happened. Or what
hadn't happened.
Licking his lips, Dorian raked a hand through his hair and quickly settled his
breath before rushing through the Greene's mansion and escaping into the
London night.
The air was thick of smog and enough to have the healthiest of men
choking, but Dorian didn't notice it. Couldn't notice it, for his attention was
inward and not on his surroundings. He only realized that his carriage was
following him, when his coachman coughed and the rattling sounds of his
emphysema jolted Dorian into noticing. He came to a halt, spied his
carriage, stared nonsensically at it for a moment and then jumped into it
without another word.
With his cane, he tapped the ceiling twice, silently informing his team that
he wanted to travel as fast as physically possible to his London home on
Park Lane.
Once ensconced in the dark pit of his carriage, Dorian questioned his
motives for having ventured out. When his valet had been helping him
dress, he'd felt so certain that it was time he enjoyed the Season and all its
pleasures. Pleasures he had once sought out and relished, which now
however were as entertaining as watching the grass grow! And now, after
experiencing his first ball, he damned himself for having conceded and for
returning to London, when he should never have done so. When he should
have stayed in the country and left himself to himself.
God, he needed a brandy. Not just one, the bottle.
The need burned through him like a ravenous fire that could not and would
not be quenched and Dorian knew that he needed to lose himself in its
hunger, for only then could he find the peace he needed to sleep.
But drink was not the answer. He knew that, but it was currently the only
solution he had and had been for far too many years. It seemed incredible
that Camille could still affect him and after all this time, but she did. She
affected his sleep and his ability to concentrate. Affected his quality of life
and he could still feel the grief of what he had lost . . . Dorian knew that it
was taking time for him to come to terms with it, but he felt positive that
time would indeed heal this particular wound.
He could only hope to God that this was the case, for the prospect of living
his entire life in the same manner as he had these years past was abhorrent
to him and the content young man he had once been.
Grimacing, Dorian's hand tightened about the knob on his cane and stared
ahead at the black, formed wall. He'd grown so used to staring at one wall or
another and he was slowly growing sick of them.
In fact that was one of the other reasons why he'd decided upon returning to
London and ultimately attending Lady Greene's ball . . . . He was bored of
his own company and tired of conversing with his staff!
Until that female had accosted him, Dorian had not exactly been enjoying
himself, but neither had it been too traumatic! His friends, as ever, had been
supportive if over-jocular and he'd enjoyed their banter for the duration of
the ball.
In fact, Dorian knew that he did not deserve his friends. During the times
that Dorian had felt as though he'd dropped down into the deepest pits of
hell, they'd attempted to call on him but he'd sent them, via his servants,
away and had condemned himself into isolation until finally they left him in
peace.
He'd felt abandoned and doused in self-pity, but tonight had reassured him
that he had not been abandoned. They had simply left him alone to work out
his grief and in his own way.
Considering Derricks, Hart, Lourd, Ladry and Marlbrough were all deemed to
be the veriest rakes, a fellow couldn't ask for anything more for chums.
Tonight had been almost like escaping from the womb again and the old
Dorian felt pathetic for feeling that way. Before Camille, he'd been as bad as
his friends. The veriest Corinthian, parading about the ton as though he
owned it and had the right to
do anything he pleased. Now, he was like a
scared babe, one who was taking wobbling steps as he learned to live again.
Closing his eyes as shame roiled through him like bitter bile, he recalled the
vision in green. Lady Lily Mercer. He'd heard of her, of course. Her father
had died recently and his friends had declared her a diamond and to be as
cold as one too. She hadn't felt cold to him. Those eyes . . . green like his,
but not. So pure and ripe they'd been like luscious berries calling to him like
a siren, as though he were a man starved and in need of sustenance. The
auburn hair that had been like a flame atop her head, the curvy body that
would arouse even the most impotent of men . . . . She'd been a vision and
the diamond his friends had described her as and she'd frightened him.
A mere chit of a girl had frightened him into fleeing like a deer in the woods
ran from the guns of the hunter.
Gulping back the shame, he bowed his head.
Dorian wondered if it was only he, but the resemblance had been uncanny.
Perhaps not in the coloring, but that face . . . he gulped again. The face had
been akin to that of his Camille.
Feeling sick, he tried to dispel the sight of her the last time he'd beheld his
beloved . . . on her deathbed, on the day she'd given birth to their stillborn
daughter.
He firmed his jaw, because Dorian had resolved that he would no longer
weep like a woman over the past. Camille would not have wanted him to
mourn her for such a long period of time. Four years . . . it had been since
he'd lost her.
Shaking his head, Dorian conjured the image of the woman with whom he'd
danced and realized that the likeness had dissipated as soon as she had
spoken. There had been a confidence about her, a confidence that he
confessed was appealing. For any lady of the ton to have the aplomb and
nerve to walk towards a crowd of men, be they gentlemen or not, and
request a dance . . . well, it required a tenacity of spirit that he admired.
His Camille had been as shy as a newborn lamb. Forever retreating rather
than pushing herself forward and greeting the world with a hesitant if
beautiful smile.
Lady Lily was a proud beauty. Not exactly haughty, but fully aware of the
reaction her presence garnered.
He was partly surprised that she had gone to him. He did not doubt that a
lot of men within the Greene's ballroom would have wanted to dance with
her, would have sold their best stallion to be able to waltz with her and yet,
she had settled upon him.
Dorian was well aware that any woman would soon grow bored of his sour
disposition and lack of talking. Not even for his family fortune and title could
they withstand that. Yet, Lily had decided upon him.
Raising a brow at the thought, for his reputation and his past were renowned
amongst the ton, Dorian wondered why she had chosen him. Why she had
not chosen a more dapper and congenial man with whom to dance?
The female mind was as always difficult to contemplate and understand, but
in this case it was all the more difficult. Dorian did not have to be told that
his face would have been grim or that his displeasure at actually attending a
function would have been very, very visible. So it seemed that this Lady Lily
was indeed rather perverse! Either that, or she had a taste for the Gothic, or
and he shuddered at the thought, she knew of his past and pitied him.
Wincing, he pursed his lips and was grateful, when the carriage came to a
halt and the thought that in mere seconds, he would be sequestered within
the private and comfortable space of his home, had him relaxing
infinitesimally. He preferred the countryside, had done ever since his
marriage, but there was a comfort here too.
He'd spent many a Season in this house, tupped many a Cyprian and
delighted in a demi-mondaine's body in the master suite. Those memories
were there and they were the most prominent, and therefore, he had
reached a level of contentment that he had not felt for years. In this house,
he did not constantly think of Camille or of what he had lost. Instead, he
thought of his misspent youth and the jocular times he'd had with his
chums, and it was most comforting, most comforting indeed.
With a sigh, he unlatched the door and jumped out. His coachman knew to
leave well alone and pack away without any prompting from Dorian himself
and he swept along the path to his home, up the six stairs that led to the
four story town house. Almost as soon as his foot hit the top step, the butler
opened the door and Dorian glided through and into his home.
“Good evening, Hague.”
“Good evening, my lord,” Hague murmured respectfully and bowed his head.
“Yes. Yes.” He held out his cane and hat and passed it to him and then
hovered in the hallway, before the round table which one of the maids filled
with a flower centerpiece. “Bring me a decanter of brandy, Hague.”
The butler ducked his head and departed, leaving Dorian to make his way to
the study cum salon, which was his favorite room.
As soon as he stepped foot inside, its welcoming warmth enveloped him and
Dorian shuddered with relief. He was in his own home again, privacy
abounded and freedom too. The tabbies were not watching and speculating
why he was in town again. The girls were not discussing him behind their
fans and eying him up as a potential suitor.
Here, he could be himself and damn the consequences.
It was a large room with a large fireplace that took up three quarters of the
floor-to-ceiling height. It flickered with an incongruently small fire that licked
the temperature in the cavernous space up a few notches.
Before it sat two leather armchairs and a small carved oak table, upon which
rested a book he was halfway through reading and a candlestick.
Behind those chairs and to the left, was his plantation desk, a few book
stands which were overfull with reading material, an armoire and myriad
other pieces of furniture, which he kept out of tradition and not for purpose.
Instinctively, he moved towards the chairs and took a seat, staring into the
flames as he did so. The room was otherwise dark but he did not feel like
reading or even working on his ledgers. No, tonight he wanted to feel the
freeing pleasure of being foxed. Of not being held to account for his actions
and losing himself in a balloon of brandy and not awakening until late in the
day tomorrow, when the whole process could start again for all he cared.
There was a knock at the door, more for a warning rather than to ask for
permission, and Hague walked in with a decanter. Hague was a good chap,
one who had stood by him through his halcyonic pre-marital days of no-good
behavior, and through the pits of hell Dorian had taken to traversing after
Camille's death. Through it all, Hague had been his usual dour self, neither
casting approval nor disapproval but always there and always, in his own
way, supportive.
It was the same with Mrs. Jerrard, his cook. He rarely saw her, but when he
did, she clucked over him like a mother hen and even though at times, it
could be irritating, he knew he was fortunate in his staff.
Hague settled the tray on the table between the chairs. As he rested the
silver salver upon the surface, he reached for the candle and walked towards
the fire. Bending down, he lit the squat taper and replaced it on the table.
“Sit down, Hague,” Dorian ordered wearily and watched as Hague perched
watchfully on the leather chair.
“If I may say so, my lord, you won't find salvation at the bottom of that
glass.”
Used to Hague's quiet way of speaking, Dorian just laughed. Even as a
young lad, who had been discovering that his cock was for more than just
pissing out of, and now as a grown man, who'd been widowed and almost a
father, through it all, Hague still tended to treat him in the same indomitable
fashion.
“No. But the headache in the morning will take my mind off my troubles,
Hague. And it's the bottom of the bottle, not the glass,” Dorian pointed out
as he filled the balloon of brandy three quarters full.
“You're far too young to be so troubled, sir.”
Scoffing, Dorian raised his glass to that. “That I do know. It seems I'm being
punished for my gallivanting youth, Hague. Misery is my watchword now,”
he toasted with a faint smirk then stared bleakly at the wall. His words had
been truer than he cared to admit.
“I'll be the first to say you were a ragamuffin, Master Dorian. A misbehaving
scamp, to be true, but you weren't evil and you didn't and never have done
anything to deserve the trauma that's been your companion these last few
years. But you must prevail, sir. You must. Don't let the life be taken from
you, sir.”
He grinned, but it was a wry slash on his face. “Don't go on, Hague.”
The butler shook his head and sighed. “If that's everything, sir?”
“Yes. Of course. Sleep well, Hague.”
“And yourself, sir. Shall I inform Smith that you're ready to change?”
“Yes. You can do.”
Hague nodded and departed. Dorian did not need to see the flicker of a
smile on his face to know that it was there. Hague's words had worked.
Dorian, whose intention had been to stay here until the wee hours of the
morning with naught for company but his decanter of brandy, would be
rising through the floors and retreating to bed.
