Chapter 13

13

Dorian stood at the open window, his eyes transfixed on the delicate figure in the garden below. Patience knelt beside a withered rosebush, her slender fingers gently pulling the tangled branches apart. Sunlight was caught in her golden hair, under her white bonnet. She wore a simple dress, one of those she'd brought with her, and worked without any gloves.

When he'd put his ring on her finger, he noticed how calloused and rough the skin of her hands was. He'd assumed it was because she didn't have an easy life. Now that he knew the true reason, he was even more intrigued.

Beside her stood several small burlap sacks full of what must be soil, from which protruded rosebushes she must have brought from her family home. He wondered briefly where they'd been stored until now and if they had survived or if being uprooted like that and then held in burlap sacks without care had already killed them. He shouldn't have forbidden Patience working in the garden. If she had cared enough about her roses to defy her parents, it was clearly very important to her .

From here, he could hear her hum something, her voice high, like little bells, and so lovely his heart squeezed.

"O, where are you going?" "To Scarborough fair,"

Savoury, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

"Remember me to a lass who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.

He'd never liked folk songs, preferring Bach, Mozart, and Italian opera, but he closed his eyes, letting her voice seep into his psyche. He could listen to her sing anything for hours. Her gentle voice, her serene face, the way she tended to the roses with such care and devotion stirred something deep within Dorian.

His mind drifted to last night, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of her sighs in his ear. His heart quickened, and his breath caught in his throat. A tingling warmth spread through his chest and straight to his groin. His muscles tensed involuntarily, readying him for a closeness that was no longer there. But it was more than mere lust that moved him now.

He'd held her in his arms as she slept, her breath deep and even, tickling his skin. He'd guarded her as if she were a gentle otherworldly creature, fleeting and mercurial—one he was lucky enough to hold in his arms. Her presence soothed him, calmed his wrath, his inner demons. Something like peace had settled in his body, the strange sense that he was right where he was supposed to be, and he didn't need to run.

Getting a glimpse of the passion and tenderness he had denied himself for so long had opened a crack in his walls. And yet, even as he'd reveled in the pleasure of her responsiveness last night, a small voice had whispered that it was too good to be true .

She was a punishment sent to him by God. The forbidden fruit of happiness, so close its luscious scent tickled his nose.

And yet completely unreachable.

The memory of that dreadful night in Oxford twelve years ago slapped into his mind like a blast of fire, and his mangled hand ached and tingled in the leather glove.

Twenty-year-old Dorian had just got the news of his papa's death and marched out of the stuffy student pub The Bear, in urgent need of fresh air. Anything to relieve the strange mix of anger and loss he'd never felt before. I regret to inform you that on 3 October your father, the Most High, Noble, and Potent Prince, His Grace Frederick Louis, Duke of Rath, passed away… The words in the solicitor's letter rang in his head like a hammer striking iron. As you are your father's heir, his title will be awarded to you ? —

Lucien's footsteps hurried some distance behind him as Dorian shoved through the pub's back doors into the mews. The night air, cold and damp, clashed with the foul stench of pig manure. Despite the muck squelching under his shoes, Dorian relished the biting chill and the darkness that enveloped him, a stark contrast to the pub's noisy warmth filled with laughter and clinking mugs.

But the night wasn't silent. To his left, the distressing sounds of a struggle pierced the quiet—a woman's faint cries and a man's gruff grunts.

"Please, no…" the woman pleaded.

"Shut up. You'll like it," the man insisted.

Dorian turned, his heart hammering, and froze. Under the faint glow of a gas lamp, a man's back hunched over a figure pinned against a hay pile. The flicker of white under the lamp revealed a woman's skirt, female legs kicking on either side of the man. They were struggling, one arm of the man holding the woman down, the other fumbling at his breeches .

"You've been begging for this all night," grunted out the man.

It took only a moment to understand what was going on. Dorian needed an army of enemies to quench his rage and pain. But he didn't have an army.

He had only himself.

With fury shooting through him in a blast of fire, he launched himself at the man, his fists curling around the edge of his jacket, and pulled him back and away from the woman.

The man whirred around, freeing himself from Dorian's grasp. With yet another shock, Dorian saw that he recognized the man. It was Mr. John Rose shoving his shirt into his breeches.

The girl desperately pushed her skirts and her white apron down, tucked her hair under her bonnet, and ran away with her face flushed and her eyes big and teary. It was the maid, the daughter of the pub owner—Chloe… Catherine… Something starting with C… Christine, he remembered.

Mr. John Rose, a young gentleman with curly blond hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full red lips stared at him. A vile expression twisted his angelic features, which now seemed as out of place as smudges of bright paint on a masterpiece.

Dorian didn't know the man except as someone who had tried several times to talk to him earlier this evening. He seemed to be one of those men who were desperate to know someone of importance to advance in life.

"Lord Perrin…" said Mr. Rose with no sign of regret. "I suggest you haven't seen anything."

Lucien finally caught up to Dorian, panting. Taking a look at both his friend and Mr. Rose, he shook his head. "Not another duel," Lucien said as he came to stand by Dorian. " Don't challenge him to a duel, you oaf! The girl is no one to you! Give him a good smack in the face and let him go."

"Do maids not deserve to have their honor protected?" growled Dorian as the rage he felt inside crashed against his guts like a storm surge. It was not just about the maid's honor. "Who's going to step up for her?"

He needed someone to fight. He needed something to destroy. A pretty man like Mr. John Rose would just do the trick.

"Dorian—" There it was, the warning tone he'd heard from Lucien thousands of times.

Dorian… Just before he'd taken a cricket bat and smashed his papa's favorite colonial vases when he was eight, after Papa had killed his lamb, Bramble.

Dorian… Just before Dorian had smashed his fist into a pulp hitting the wall over and over after Papa had taken Mama away. He'd locked her in an estate up north because she was too soft with Dorian. Because she was undoing the effects of Papa's spartan education.

Dorian… Just before Dorian had taken the fencing sword and slashed Papa's favorite portrait commissioned by Sir Thomas Lawrence, a famous artist, into ribbons. That was after Papa had broken Chastity's microscope and forbidden her to even think about studying anatomy and reading medical books. She was supposed to be the perfect lady. A socialite, learning manners and the subtle ways of leading a social conversation.

"You bastard," growled Dorian, looking into John Rose's smug face. Not a sign of remorse in his eyes.

"Why, did I take your turn with her?" asked Rose. "I apologize. You should have said."

"You were assaulting her," Dorian growled. "I demand satisfaction!"

"What is going on?" asked yet another voice as someone else appeared in the mews.

Distantly, Dorian noticed it was Sir Bertram, who studied botany and was often seen together with Mr. Rose.

John Rose's face fell in surprise. "A duel? Because of a maid? It's not your honor I offended…" He frowned in confusion. "Did I?"

"You offended her honor," growled Dorian. "She has no one to defend her, so I will."

John Rose shook his head slowly. "Sir, I have to say, your reputation is true. No one has called more duels in the history of Oxford than you."

"Shut up," spat Dorian. "Do you accept?"

"What is going on?" asked the Duke of Pryde, who emerged from the door with a puzzled look and stood next to Sir Bertram.

Dorian knew Pryde, like most aristocratic sons knew each other, but had never liked him very much as the man seemed to be aloof, stuck-up, and rigid. Perhaps he reminded him of his father. Father would have loved Pryde as he would have been the perfect son.

"It appears I'm challenged to a duel," said Rose. "And I didn't even offend the man himself."

"Come on, Perrin," jeered Bertram, "let this go. You've already called five duels this autumn."

"Lord Perrin?" asked Pryde. "Is this true?"

"He offended the honor of a woman, and she has no way of defending herself. I must defend her honor."

Pryde winced, looking Rose over. By that time he didn't look ruffled, his shirt back in his breeches, his coat on his shoulders, the rosy blush on his cheeks.

"Mr. Rose is not a dishonorable man," said Pryde. "He wouldn't assault a woman. You must be mistaken, Lord Perrin."

"Do you accept my challenge, or will you be a coward and dishonor yourself even further?" growled Dorian through gritted teeth.

Rose paled a little but straightened his neck and nodded. "I accept."

"I'll be your second," said Pryde.

Lucien sighed and shook his head. "I'll be yours, Dorian."

"First light in the morning. Shotover Park," threw Dorian. "Your choice of weapon."

The morning would come, but Mr. John Rose would never feel the warmth of the sun on his skin again.

With the memory still heavy in his chest, Dorian watched Mr. John Rose's sister—his wife—lost in her work, humming softly to herself.

He wondered what would have happened if John had lived. Would he have harmed more women? Would he have saved his family, like they had hoped? With better circumstances, would Miss Patience Rose be married to another man now?

Fear and jealousy clasped at his heart. Most men would have been better for her than him, no doubt.

Most men weren't her brother's murderer.

His right hand ached more and more under the heat of the glove. He needed to go to his physician again. Except, the man would say the same thing. He should remove the glove and let his skin breathe. His skin was suffocating, red and swollen, irritated and now aching all the time.

But he couldn't. He couldn't just openly show the world the physical evidence of that morning. Have people ask about it. Wonder about it.

Like his sin, it had to remain hidden.

Patience had already begun to chip away at his defenses with every sweet smile and tender caress. With her surprising ability to be an excellent duchess. She had gotten through his barriers, which terrified him in a way that no duel ever had.

Dorian clenched his jaw, his heart racing as he watched her straighten, brushing the dirt from her hands. He knew he should turn away, put an end to this foolish infatuation before it consumed him entirely.

He'd need to show up with her to London's events: balls, soirées, dinners.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, she looked up, her blue eyes meeting his through the glass.

And he knew he no longer belonged to himself. And never would again.

But he had to keep his dark secret. No matter the cost to his soul and to his heart.