Chapter 16

16

Seven days later, Patience's family arrived.

As Dorian and Patience stood by the entrance of Rath Hall to greet the Roses, they scattered out of the carriage he'd sent for them in a big, loud, cheerful bunch, all rosy-cheeked and curly-haired.

He really didn't want to see more of the Roses than he needed to. Pryde had been right. Now he must deal with not only the sister of his murder victim, but also his whole family. He hadn't considered families existed that loved each other and wanted to be a part of each other's lives.

But his trepidation and regret disappeared the moment he glanced at Patience. Her whole face transformed so fully that something sweet burst in his heart like a little firework.

An odd thought occurred… Was this happiness?

She ran into the arms of her parents and then hugged each of her sisters. The longest hug was with a young woman a little taller than she, and thinner—Anne, her favorite sister, about whom she had told him .

Watching Patience glow, blossom daily from good sleep and from her time in the garden gave him an interesting, warm feeling as though small wings fluttered in the middle of his chest…

Was it happiness?

It must be. To be happy, all he had to do was make her happy.

What a strange notion. He was thirty-two years old, and he had only just come to this realization. Had he made so few people happy in his life that he'd never noticed the connection until now?

During the past seven nights, Patience had continued to come into his bed. Happily, he obliged, spreading his arms wide, and having her put her head on his chest. It was some kind of pleasure of its own, to feel her sigh and melt into him, trusting and contented and finally about to find peace and let go in his arms.

Only, he'd never be able to make her truly happy. Because of the secret he held.

If she knew what he'd done, she'd never be able to forgive him.

The first day with her family passed in walking and, to his trepidation, talking. They walked through the garden, and Dorian noted the swelling buds of Patience's roses. He took her papa on a horse ride, and Mr. Rose floundered like a sack of potatoes, pleading for a halt just minutes into the ride.

The whole day, the family behaved like he was their savior. Telling him how they now could finally sleep better at night, and how Mr. Rose even had some ideas to improve the estate so that next year they could finally hire some servants.

Mrs. Rose and the sisters kept blushing tremendously every time a footman offered them a cup of tea or opened a door before them. They kept chirping about how beautiful Rath Hall was, how lucky Patience was, and how grateful they all were to have Dorian in their family.

Dorian simply clenched his teeth. This was torture. He should not have invited them. He didn't deserve their love, their gratitude, and their admiration.

Had they known what he'd done to their beloved son, they'd never have wanted anything to do with him.

Eventually, dinner arrived, and he was forced to share a meal with them.

The grand dining room was set to receive the guests of honor. A grand crystal chandelier hung from the ornate ceilings over the long, carved dining table, gilded mirrors reflecting the flickering light of many candles. The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats, vegetables, and creamy sauces, mingling with the delicate scent of the floral centerpieces.

Footmen in crimson livery moved silently about the room, pouring wine and presenting each course with practiced precision while Popwell oversaw them.

Dorian glanced at the opposite end of the table where Patience sat, beautiful in her glittering pale pink dinner gown, her smile so bright it illuminated the room. It was the first time he had shared a dinner with his wife, and he was surprised by how much he liked it.

Normally so quiet and lonely, his dinner hour was now full of clanking forks and spoons, and inappropriately orchestrated conversation—too-loud bursts of laughter, interruptions, arguments—and it all felt like being a part of a family.

He wondered how it had been for Patience to grow up with Mr. Rose as her papa.

Had Dorian been born to the Rose family, would he have become spoiled and entitled like John, or would he be himself, except happier? Mr. Rose wouldn't have killed his son's pet, wouldn't have sent away Mrs. Rose so that he would raise a worthy heir. Mr. Rose wouldn't have made him duel every day and shamed his daughters for pursuing science. He wouldn't have locked Dorian in the glasshouse to starve and thirst, and finally break his way out and cut his arms so deeply that he almost died of blood loss.

But no matter now. All that was done.

It was strange, however, to imagine having a close-knit family who knew each other and who loved each other so much.

After dinner, they sat in the grand sitting room, drinking port.

"One thing I wish," said Mrs. Rose as she patted Patience's hand, "is that your brother was here to see you this happy. He would have been so proud of you."

Patience smiled warmly. "I'm certain he would be. I wish John was alive, too, Mama."

"He would be married now, too," said Mr. Rose. "I'm sure of it. Such a handsome boy. Was he not, Your Grace?"

All eyes fell on Dorian, and he froze, with his glass half raised to his mouth. The only sound was the crackling of coal in the grate standing in the fireplace.

"Did you know John, Duke?" asked Patience.

He'd told her not to ask questions, but she'd done so in front of her family, and now he was backed into the corner. The beast within him roared. He'd lash out, unable to control himself.

Damnation.

"Yes of course the duke knew him, Patience," said Mr. Rose. "He and the Duke of Pryde. When John wrote me, he wrote about all his friends. I was quite proud he had made friends in such high society. Is it not why you offered to marry Patience, Your Grace? Because you knew John?"

Dorian felt his shoulders and jaw tighten. How on Earth would he get out of this?

"Mhm," he mumbled.

"Were you as devastated as we were at the news of his death?" asked Mrs. Rose with tears in her eyes. "Goodness, of course you must have been. You were right there at that time, were you not? It was October, all courses and lectures in full swing."

"I still don't understand what could have made him kill himself," said Mr. Rose mournfully, his own eyes teary.

Dorian was in hell. He felt as heavy as granite, hot and sweaty. His mind drifted back to the morning at Shotover Park.

The woods around Oxford were quiet in the dim light of the rising sun. Dorian's breath pumped quickly in and out of his mouth, dissolving in the very fine rain that was like a heavy fog around him.

Black trees, shadows in the mist, were like cracks into a darker world. Only the cawing of hidden crows broke the silence. Cold water seeped through Dorian's shoes from the soggy grass.

Pryde, with his indigo coat and a pristine white shirt, held out the box with two dueling pistols. "Here are the pistols, gentlemen."

Dorian's face flushed hot with rage. He glared at Mr. John Rose, his opponent, who stood in front of him by Pryde's left shoulder. Fury was rolling through his body like waves of fire. He craved a war. Destruction. Enemies to obliterate. Anything to relieve the roaring energy that pulsed through his body like a chorus of battle drums.

"‘Gentleman' is an extremely generous word for Mr. Rose," Dorian said through gritted teeth .

"Dorian—" Lucien's warning was tired.

Rose cocked one blond eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest. Dorian could see the weak seams of his coat, the thinning, faded fabric. Perhaps it had belonged to John's own papa; perhaps it had been given to him with love and blessings to go to Oxford University and make a life for himself, carefully mended by his mama as best as she could to make him look good among the sons of aristocrats and higher classes.Would they approve of their son's behavior last night? Would they believe their darling was capable of harming a woman?

Clearly, the man's manipulative charm worked on Pryde, who didn't believe Dorian had seen the angelic Mr. Rose assaulting the barmaid at The Bear.

"Would you inspect the pistols, Luhst?" asked Pryde. "After you do, I'll do the same, to ensure correctness and fairness. After that, we will load them."

Rose likely did not own pistols, so Pryde must have offered his own for the duel. Gleaming in the early light of day, the pistols were exquisite. Lucien inspected both, looking into each barrel.

Dorian's head was pounding, the same thoughts chasing through his mind since last night. His father was gone. He was gone. Blasted! He should be relieved. Finally, the despot, the man responsible for every bad thing in his life would no longer be able to hurt him or Chastity. But all he could feel was rage.

Lucien nodded and laid the pistols back in the case. A twig snapped twenty or so feet away from them, coming from the collection of bushes.

All four men's heads jerked in the direction of the sound. In the gap between barren trees, Dorian thought he saw a flicker of white.

Lucien threw a worried glance at him. "Goddamn it," he muttered. "No one can know about the duel. "

Pryde put the case with the pistols on the stump of a tree, and Lucien and he sprinted over the wet ground towards the bushes. Dorian took a few steps in that direction, but stopped, not wanting to leave Mr. Rose alone with the weapons.

A few minutes later, Lucien and Pryde returned, walking briskly. There was no one there.

Feeling relieved, Dorian turned back to Mr. Rose…

But he caught a movement. Mr. Rose had leaned over the case with the pistols and was just straightening up, a fleeting expression of being caught in the wrong written across his face.

"What did you do?" demanded Dorian.

Mr. Rose blinked furiously, stepping away. "Nothing, I assure you, sir."

Dorian marched towards him. "You tampered with the pistols, didn't you?"

"What's going on?" asked Pryde as he and Lucien hurried towards them.

"Mr. Rose tampered with the pistols!" cried Dorian.

Pryde, looking abashed for the first time, frowned. He ran his hand though his thick brown hair. "Mr. Rose wouldn't do anything dishonorable. Would you, Mr. Rose?"

But doubt tinged Pryde's voice.

"Never," said Rose."I was only admiring the metalwork, which is quite exquisite. I've never seen such beautiful weapons in my life."

"I thank you," said Pryde. "But?—"

Rose lowered his eyes in regret. "I should not have gone near them. If you wish, Rath, we can meet tomorrow morning and take the weapons of your choice."

"I am not Rath yet!" growled Dorian. "My title was not yet officially awarded to me. Goddamn it to hell. I just want this done with."

Truth was, he needed this relief, this distraction of violence, after learning of his father's death.

"We will inspect the pistols carefully, of course," said Lucien.

"Of course," said Pryde.

Lucien and Pryde meticulously inspected each pistol, peering down the barrels and examining every mechanism. Dorian watched them like a hawk, ready to scrutinize any sign of foul play.

Finally, Pryde nodded to Lucien. "All seems in order."

They loaded the pistols carefully, ramming powder and ball down each muzzle. Pryde handed one to Rose, who had gone pale, his angelic fa?ade cracking. Lucien passed the other to Dorian, who gripped it tightly, the pounding rage in his chest only growing.

Dorian and Mr. Rose took their positions, standing back-to-back.

"On my count," said Pryde solemnly. "Twenty paces on go. One…two…three…"

Dorian and Rose strode forward, puffs of breath visible in the cold morning air. At twenty paces, Pryde shouted, "Go!"

Whipping around, Dorian raised his pistol, adrenaline surging through his veins. Rose stood facing him, arm extended, face white with fear.

Dorian fired. A deafening crack split the air. Agonizing pain exploded in Dorian's hand. The pistol ruptured, metal and wood shredding his flesh. He howled, clutching his mangled hand. Blood poured over his fingers. Ringing filled his ears.

Through the smoke he saw Rose frozen. The bastard had sabotaged him after all. Rage wiped Dorian's mind clear of thought. Ignoring the maimed wreck of his hand, he charged Rose.

"Dorian!" cried Lucien, but he didn't heed the call this time. He couldn't feel the pain anymore, just the warmth around his hand, just the red, scorching fury in his body, the all-consuming need to destroy the man.

"Stop!" cried Pryde. "Halt!"

He couldn't even if he tried. His father was dead. He was free and yet he would never be. And here was a dishonorable man in front of him, his quivering pistol pointed at Dorian, taking shaky steps back.

Rose should just fire and be done with it. Because Dorian was wrath itself, unstoppable, punishing, furiously cold.

Dorian reached him.

He didn't remember what he did. There was the pounding of fists. His blood smeared over John's face and clothes.

And then a blast of a gun, somehow in both their hands. But his finger was on the trigger…

Chest heaving, agony coursing through his ruined hand, and still furious, Dorian glared down at Rose's corpse.

He'd just killed a man. Taken a life. Dozens of duels, and this was the first time he had actually murdered someone.

He dropped the pistol on the ground with a quiet thud. Lucien and Pryde ran to stand on either side of him.

They looked at each other. Whatever happened next, their lives would never be the same.

"He did sabotage your pistol…" murmured Pryde in shock as he looked over the remnants of Dorian's pistol. "There's a stone in the barrel… How did I not notice it? He must have found the exact right size so that it didn't move…and before we loaded them."

Lucien sighed and shook his head. "How are we going to hide this?"

And now, twelve years later, Dorian was faced with John's grieving family. The hearts Dorian had broken because of his rage, because he couldn't stop himself from attacking the man who'd maimed his hand.

He had killed a man, and these were the consequences—not just John's life gone, but the lives of these people ruined. John's sisters could have each been married. His oldest sister was probably thirty, far too old now to find a good match.

He met Patience's gaze. She was eyeing him with an alert interest and attention.

She was onto him.

And they all were.

"No doubt you were as sad as we were?" asked Mrs. Rose again.

He clenched his jaws. "I did not know Mr. Rose at all."

"Well, he wrote that he did know you," said Mr. Rose. "I distinctively remember—I still have his letter…"

Unable to contain himself any longer, Dorian jumped to his feet, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. This had to end, this interrogation, this torture of his conscience. Had he not done enough for them? Marrying Patience, giving them money, and even promising them income?

"Enough!" he roared. "I beg of you."

They all jerked back.

"Your Grace…" whispered Mrs. Rose. "What is it that we said?"

"It's you who did not really know John," growled Dorian. "Do not talk of him as if he was a saint!"

"Ah, that is indeed enough," said Mrs. Rose with a tense chuckle. "You're quite right, Duke, of course John was not a saint. He had his quirks. We all forgave him them because he was our only son, our beautiful boy, our hope for a better life."

Dorian looked around the room. All of the girls looked at him with shock, Mr. Rose with a frown.

"Please forgive us, Your Grace," he said. "We did love our John. You're just another connection to him, part of his life we wish we knew more about."

"Pray," said Mrs. Rose. "Let us not spoil such a nice day. Let's introduce the duke to a lovely tradition we have in our family."

"Indeed," said Mr. Rose as he plastered a broad smile on his face just like Patience often did. "Now, girls. How about our little game of basket?"

"Oh yes!" cried several of them in chorus, most of them putting broad smiles on their faces.

It was a little unnerving to see that, but Dorian could now understand where Patience had acquired this strange habit.

"I'll bring the basket!" Anne said and hurried out of the room.

Dorian had wanted to call after her suggesting that one of the footmen who stood at attention in the room could go and fetch it for her, but she was already gone.

Dorian sat back down in his chair, wishing for this evening to end and for this family to leave.

Not because he didn't like them.

On the contrary.

It was just that they were a constant reminder of his worst sin, and he worried he would lash out again. His nerves felt like the strings of a violin, and the presence of John's family did not make it better, especially since they kept singing his praises, and even forgave Dorian his very inappropriate and rude behavior.

Soon Anne returned with a simple square basket—one, Dorian imagined, that could be used to pick mushrooms or wild strawberries. Not that he had even done that himself.

He cleared his throat and watched Anne give the basket to her mother.

"We just go in a circle," said Mrs. Rose to Dorian. "And each of us tells what we experienced. Something good that happened. What we learned. And if we felt anything bad, we say it quickly and put that bad emotion in here and forget it. Pretend it doesn't exist. We lock it up, and it never bothers us again."

She gave him a smile that didn't touch her eyes. Dorian wondered how much of what she said was true.

His life was nothing but fury, frustration, regret, guilt, and doubt.

All he wanted was numbness.

Perhaps this basket would make him numb. Would this work? he wondered.

Again, he understood more of how Patience grew up—her joyfulness, which sometimes felt forced, and her attempts at putting on a brave and happy face.

He wondered if she had done this ritual by herself every night she'd been here. And if she was so unhappy here and had locked up all those unhappy thoughts every day in a mental basket, what would she have left?

Nothing.

"Today, I learned so much about my new son-in-law," said Mrs. Rose. "What a great host he is, that he is treating my daughter very well, and what a stately home he has. I was tired during the journey, so I'll put that here." She made a gesture like she had gathered the words in her hand and put them into the basket, closed the lid, and locked it with an invisible key. "I was also sad to talk about John, and very sad when the duke had such a strong reaction, so I'll put both of those experiences here." She mimed locking it again and gave a large, relieved smile. "That is it! Now it was a wonderful, perfect day."

The rest of the family smiled around her approvingly, and she passed the basket to her eldest daughter, who sat to her right .

Mrs. Rose did seem happier and more at ease afterward, and Dorian wondered if this odd method truly worked. Could he lock up his wrathful demon and the murder of John Rose and just live happily ever after?

Most of the girls said they were tired and surprised at Dorian's reaction but forgave him and understood he was going through some hard times and was probably tired, as well. Some of them said they felt envious of Patience, which made her blush deeply, and she nodded to them. Others had conflicts with each other and asked for forgiveness.

Dorian's mind reeled. How could a family be this way, so open and so vulnerable with each other? Sharing emotions?

His father's reaction would have been to lock each and every one of them in the glasshouse until they learned to be tough. Dorian had been too emotional, his papa had said. Emotions were for milksops, not for a duke worthy of his line. He couldn't show any softness in the House of Lords, or when pursuing his interests—plotting to take over better lands and gain more influence with the king or queen or making alliances with other dukes.

It was for his own good, his father had said. One day, Dorian would thank him.

His father had been wrong about that.

One after another, the Roses locked their fears, exhaustion, shame, envy, and anger into the basket—and every one of them looked fresher, their backs straighter and their smiles broader.

When the time came for Patience to speak, she looked at him. "I was so happy to see my family today," she said, and he knew she was talking to him directly.

A genuine smile crossed her face, and he melted all over again.

"I realize today, my perspective has changed. For the first two weeks here, I wished I could leave. I didn't like it here." She put her hand around her mouth as though gathering those words and then put them into the basket. "But today, it's been over three weeks that I've been married to this man. I know that even if I'm still a little afraid in Rath Hall, I'm afraid less and less, and I wouldn't choose to leave even if I could."

She had wanted to leave? His heart lurched in desperation; he hadn't realized how much he hated that idea. But she didn't want to leave anymore. Relief washed over him.

Combined sighs and awws came from around the room.

Patience handed the basket to Dorian, and he took it with a feeling of dread.

"Er," he said, staring at it. "I don't think I'd be fit to?—"

"Nonsense, Your Grace," said Mrs. Rose, smiling kindly. "Just say one thing you'd like to lock up and one thing you're grateful for. I know you high aristocrats do not like to talk about your emotions, but we're family now. It'll make you feel better, you'll see!"

He cleared his throat. Good God! What was he going to say? He needed to lock his whole self up in that basket. He didn't have any positive emotions.

Not until he saw Patience hugging her family, whispered a voice in his head.

"I really don't know—" He stood up to hand the basket to Mrs. Rose, but she shook her head very insistently.

"Just try," she said. "We're here to listen."

It was the family he'd wished for but never had.

This was so stupid.

"I'd like to lock up the anger," he said and quickly and awkwardly made the gesture of scooping up something around his mouth and putting it into the basket.

He hated this so much. What good was it going to do?

He didn't feel any less angry at all .

But these nice people didn't have to know that.

"And now what are you grateful for?" asked Mrs. Rose.

And that he didn't have to struggle with at all. His gaze fell on his beautiful wife—on her golden locks and her gorgeous face, so full of life. On her lush lips that begged to be kissed.

"Patience," he said simply, and there it was again, that warm, light feeling in the middle of his chest. The one he decided was called happiness. "I'm grateful for Patience."