Persuasion

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.