Chapter 17

17

Three days later, Patience waved goodbye to her family as she stood with Dorian in front of their home, a bittersweet tightening in her chest.

Having them here had lifted her spirits. Dorian seemed to enjoy their company, too, despite his grumpy and growly ways, and that brightened her mood further.

However, things had changed yesterday. Dorian had left for his usual gathering with six ducal friends and returned even more irritable. Last night, he hadn't allowed her to sleep in his arms, leaving her restless and anxious. So she'd crawled into Anne's bed. Although she fell asleep, it was not as restful as when she slept next to Dorian. Never in her life had she slept as well as she did in his arms.

This morning, he'd been scowling into his plate and his cup of coffee.

The Duke of Pryde must have informed Dorian of her inquiries.

But despite Dorian's claim that he hadn't known John at Oxford, she was sure something connected him to her brother. Otherwise, why would John have mentioned Dorian in his letters to Papa? What other reason would Dorian, Luhst, and Pryde have for speaking of an incident involving her brother? Why would Dorian have paid off her family's debts and married her if not because of some connection with John?

Her life had been shadowed by the mystery of John's death, her emotions—grief, fear, confusion—stifled and unacknowledged.

She didn't understand why Dorian would be so furious about John. Perhaps her sisters would disagree—they'd been older when John died and could remember him better—but her few memories of her brother were fond ones. He had defended her from a group of older boys who were teasing her. He'd taught her how to skip stones across the pond near their home. He'd snuck her an extra slice of fruit cake on Christmas.

Dorian knew him, too, she was certain, despite his claim. But that didn't explain why he was lashing out, avoiding talking about John, and flinching with some strange emotions she couldn't decipher.

What mysterious incident was he reminded of every time he looked at her?

As Patience followed Dorian back inside the house, she stared at his broad, surly back. Even under layers of clothing and a tailored coat that accentuated his broad-shouldered silhouette, she could see his muscles subtly shifting with each movement.

After all, John had killed himself; Dorian had nothing to do with it.

But something had happened, and that something was big enough to haunt Dorian even twelve years afterward.

And she was living with this man, bound to him for the rest of her life. She didn't want to have secrets between them. Whatever had happened with John was keeping Dorian from being able to let her in.

She had to know the truth if she wanted to get closer to her husband.

They entered the sitting room with its rich, deep green paneled walls, adorned with intricate gold leaf patterns that caught the light from the tall windows. Heavy velvet curtains in a complementary shade of emerald framed the windows, partially drawn to allow the warm afternoon sun to filter into the room. The floor was covered in a plush, intricately woven rug in hues of green, gold, and burgundy.

Dorian turned to her. "You asked Pryde," he said accusingly.

She could already see the storm forming in his eyes, thunder clouds rolling across a tumultuous sea.

"Yes," she said, her chin high. "I see your friend is bound to his word."

Dorian chuckled and shook his head once. "You have no idea."

"I might."

"Do not ask around about John!" he barked. "I told you not to. This is one thing I will not budge about. I gave you your roses. I gave you my bed. I will not be pushed on this one!"

She studied him and chuckled, her own anger rising in her chest. "He was my brother, Duke," she stated. "Don't you think I have the right to know?"

"No. I am your husband and I tell you, there's nothing to know."

She scoffed, trying to fight the anger down, and failing. The basket, she tried to remember. He must have his reasons to be this way. He was damaged and wounded, and he was miserable .

But it was hard to remember those things when he got like this.

"My husband! You haven't been my husband very much at all. You keep me at a distance, even when you let me sleep in your bed."

He shook his head and began pacing the room like a furious lion. "It's for your own good."

"What do you mean, for my own good?" she demanded, clasping her hands.

"For your own good means that you will stay safer and happier away from me," he barked out. "Have you not learned that?"

"No," she said. "I have not. I want to understand you better, understand my brother better. I know you're a good man despite your anger, and no matter how ill you think of yourself. Nothing will change that."

"Then you must be more daft than I thought you were."

His words stung like the lash of a whip. Daft?

Part of her told her to fight back, to scream something, to throw something at him.

But that was not her. She didn't scream or throw things; she had empathy.

And she was most certainly not daft. She had been complimented by Sir Smith and Mr. Essop for her botany studies—for her ideas, her execution, her patience, her observational skills, and even on her skills of illustration. Perhaps she hadn't lived as long as he had, but calling her daft was quite unfair.

He threw a furious glance at her, and his eyes softened for a moment.

"Ah, do not make those eyes at me!" he yelled as he stopped. "Just take your damn basket and throw your pain and hurt in there like you've done your whole life. That'll make you feel better, huh? Put your fake smile on your face and pretend like I didn't say anything."

He must mean well , she kept repeating to herself. He didn't truly mean to hurt her with those words. She had an urge to do something with her hands, so she walked to her needlework from yesterday, picked up the circle, and sat on the chair. She fought the tears, but her vision blurred. Her chest and throat hurt from spasms.

She tried to smile, but it came out all sad, with the corners of her lips pushing downwards instead of upwards. Oh God, how she wanted to cry. Just to let herself go and sob and wallow in this sad, bad emotion.

But that was not something she did. Look at the positive. What was she grateful for?

She picked up her needle, but her hands shook, and as she stabbed it through the fabric, a sharp pinch told her she'd pricked herself.

She cried out and put her finger into her mouth, smudging her needlework of a sunflower with a smear of blood.

No, no, no. She was actually going to cry, wasn't she?

"Great!" Dorian grumbled as he hurried towards her. "You can't even handle a needle."

She glared at him at that, and for perhaps the first time, she couldn't stop her harsh words.

"You can't handle a wife, sir!" she yelled. "Why can't you tell me of a simple memory with my brother? What is so horrible that happened in Oxford that you keep denying it, running away from it like a coward?"

"Like a coward?" he roared, his face going crimson.

"You are a good person. An angry person, but a good person. You can do better. If you just opened up and let me in?—"

"A good person?" he spat out .

This was going badly. Very, very badly. She had never seen him this way.

In three great steps, he crossed the room towards the mantelpiece and grabbed a beautiful porcelain vase with freshly picked snow drops in it. With his eyes bulging and his mouth contorted into a fierce scowl, teeth bared, Dorian grasped the object and hurled it into the large mirror above the gilded mantelpiece. The mirror and vase shattered.

Patience shrieked. He was going to kill himself!

The spray of glass and porcelain went through the room like a storm. There were many flashes of light as the mirror broke into hundreds of sharp pieces, showering straight on him.

Patience covered herself instinctively, but the next moment, she was on her feet and dashing towards him.

Dorian stood in the pieces of glass with his back to her, breathing hard but not moving, and when he turned, she gasped in horror. There were several shallow cuts all over his face like a map of thin lines. But one was long, and a streak of blood rolled down from the cut. It was on the side of his face, from his temple down to his jawline, and a very small piece of glass was still stuck at the bottom of the cut.

"Dorian!" She couldn't stop the angry, terrified notes in her voice, and for the first time didn't want to retract it with an apology. "You could have killed yourself!"

"Step back, Patience," he said. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

It was the first time he had addressed her by her name, and oh how she liked it, even in these terrible circumstances.

But she didn't step back. On the contrary, she walked through the carnage, with shards of porcelain and mirrored glass sparkling on the furniture, stuck in the upholstery of the chairs and the settee. Pieces crunched under her shoes as she made her way towards him.

"No, step back," he repeated.

Footsteps hurried towards the room, and Mrs. Knight and several footmen barged in.

"Duchess, please step away," said Mrs. Knight, who didn't show her distress with anything but a fleeting, terrified look, and was already on her determined way towards Dorian, lifting her skirts slightly.

"No," Patience said, surprised at the determination in her own voice, causing shocked glances from everyone. Perhaps she had spoken too harshly. "No," she said once again, softer. "I will not step away from my husband. Come, Duke, I'll take care of your cuts. Mrs. Knight, please call for a physician, I'm sure the duke has one?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Knight after a short pause and a questioning glance at Dorian. "The duke's medicinal basket is right here."

To Patience's surprise, the housekeeper went into one of the cabinets of the sideboard and retrieved a wooden box, which she handed to Patience.

"We keep one in every room of the house," said Mrs. Knight.

Patience held the basket in one hand and took Dorian under his elbow like a child.

"Come, Duke."

She ached to call him Dorian, like he'd called her Patience, but didn't dare.

He grumbled, "Do not fuss over me. And there's no need for a doctor, Mrs. Knight, I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds, I've done this for most of my life."

Most of his life? Oh God, the image of the broken glasshouse came to mind, and she imagined small Dorian trying to sew his own cuts.

"In every room?" Patience glanced at Mrs. Knight, who stood next to the footmen with a perfectly neutral face, though there was worry in her eyes.

"I'm afraid his grace is prone to…accidents."

Accidents… coming from outbursts of rage. Has he always been tending to himself? Did he never let anyone touch him?

Has he ever hurt others in one of his rages? she wondered with a slight chill down her back. Were the servants or his sister in any danger from him? Was she?

She remembered how safe she had felt in his arms even after he'd taught her the pleasures of being spanked, which was surely a barbaric thing to happen between two people. But even the way he had slapped her bottom was tender, in every single slap she didn't feel violence. She felt his desire to please her. To bring her pleasure and not pain.

"All right," said Patience. "Still, let us go and I'll take a look at you."

"That would be best, Your Grace," said Mrs. Knight, though she didn't meet Patience's eyes after Dorian opened his mouth to protest. "I'll make sure the sitting room is taken care of as soon as possible."

Dorian looked at the hundreds, maybe thousands, of shards around the floor and furniture and nodded.

They went upstairs and into Dorian's room. Quietly, Patience took a basin, poured in fresh water from the carafe standing by its side, and brought it to Dorian.

She had learned a little of tending wounds by watching her mama take care of her siblings and herself whenever anyone was injured. They didn't have money to spend on a real physician, so the mending of wounds and treatment of illnesses and such was in their own hands .

Dorian sat on his bed, propped by his pillows. Patience put the basin on the night table and opened the box. There were different instruments. Tweezers, a hooked needle, catgut thread, fresh and clean bandages, some salves, and bottles of what must have been used to clean wounds, as well.

"Are you certain you want to do this?" he asked. "I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. I usually do. Mrs. Knight and the housekeeper in my London house, Mrs. MacAllister, only help in the worst cases, though both are trained to deliver urgent aid."

She looked at him, and there was a knot in her stomach again at the sight of his beautiful face, so wounded.

Because of her. He'd lashed out because of her.

"Of course I'm certain I want to take care of you. You could have seriously hurt yourself," she said as she picked up the tweezers.

"I don't care about that. I could have hurt you," he said. "And that, I couldn't bear."

She carefully picked the glass out of his skin. He didn't even flinch. The shard was small and came out all bloodied. A thin streak of blood oozed out when she removed it but thankfully only a small one.

"I was far enough away," she said softly. "I was scared for you."

His face went slack as he stared at her. "Scared for me?"

"Of course." She dipped a fresh cloth into the water and sat on the edge of the bed by his side. Softly, she patted the small scratches of blood over his forehead.

"You said you were scared," he chuckled. "That's a bad emotion. Wouldn't you like to lock it away?"

"I will," she said as she moved to the scratch on his nose. She was very aware of his big and vulnerable sky-blue eyes on her. He looked completely defenseless. "But you should know what effect your outbursts have on people."

He swallowed. "I have my suspicions."

"Then why do it? Aren't you a well-bred man? Aren't you supposed to be all cold and collected and not show any emotion at all?"

She cleaned the cloth in the water and wetted a fresh, untouched side of it and moved to the biggest scratch. He hissed slightly as she patted it.

"I am supposed to, yes," he said simply.

"Pray, what troubles you?"

Blood was still oozing from the cut, although not as much anymore. She didn't think he needed stitches, but it might leave a scar.

Another one.

"A great deal troubles me," he murmured. "I don't expect you to understand."

"But I'd like to," she whispered as her hand froze on the side of his face.

Their eyes locked. His anger was spent, his defenses down. And she could truly see him, all the pain and desperation that raged in his soul.

"I'd very much like to," she repeated.

"I—" he began and stopped. "I—I'm not worth it, Patience."

"What are you talking about?" she said and chuckled. "Of course you are."

He shook his head. "I'm really not."

But to her surprise, he leaned towards her across the few inches that separated them and very gently kissed her. The taste of his lips, the touch of his body against hers soothed an ache she hadn't known she had.

She moaned right into his face as she opened her lips and let him in. He caressed her tongue, and she his. The kiss grew more desperate, needier. Heat coursed through her, her body aching, throbbing for his touch, yearning for him.

But he withdrew, his gaze wild and somewhat unhinged. He was panting as much as she was.

"Thank you, my dear girl," he rasped. "You cannot imagine how grateful I am. Your touch—" He cleared his throat. "Sometimes I wonder what I did in this life to deserve someone as wondrous as you treating me so well."

Patience blinked. As wondrous as she? Did he mean it?

She smiled, and this time there was nothing forced or fake in it.