Chapter 22

22

"You have allowed me to use the garden and the glasshouse," Patience said gently. "May I ask what happened there? Why has it stood so abandoned? Why have you kept me away from it?"

He looked at the glasshouse, its triangular roof visible through the tree canopy, grime and algae making it almost impossible to see through. The angry beast within lashed at him. And he clenched his fists to stop it from lashing out at her.

But there was a new part of him that, to his great surprise, wanted to tell her the story.

He'd never told anyone before. Lucien and Chastity knew what had happened; they'd both been there to witness it. But she hadn't. And, just as she had shared with him about wanting to publish a paper, he ached to share with her, too.

"I was ten," he said. "A boy, really. It was right after Papa sent Mama away, and I rebelled against him."

His chest tightened, and he looked at the rest of the garden. His fists clenched while he battled the painful memories. He felt the weight of Patience's blue eyes, and the sympathy and understanding in them.

"My papa had taught me to fight. Every morning, in that very garden"—he pointed at the tangled overgrowth—"he'd have a fencing master fight me with real swords. He had fired three previous masters who had refused to train a ten-year-old boy with real steel. They preferred wooden swords at that tender age. But Mr. Beaumont didn't mind using real steel on me. I don't think he had any ability for empathy—just like my papa. He never injured me, though, not really. He was a true master who was skillful enough to make controlled movements without harming his opponent."

He cleared his throat.

"Chastity was six years old and grieving the sudden departure of our mama just as I was. It was a punishment, you see. I couldn't stop feeling all those emotions, crying because Papa had killed my lamb. A lamb was not a worthy pet for a future duke. If I'd decided to adopt a hunting hound, that would have been so much better. And Chastity was as bad. Already at that young age, she was reading books on the classification of species, microscopy, and classical mechanics, instead of playing the pianoforte, doing needlework, and learning to dance.

"And so Papa yelled and thundered at her, and she, even at six, told him she would rather have gone with Mama because Mama had thought she was too smart for her age and that giving her books on science was the only way to provide her mind enough challenge to develop."

Dorian cleared his throat again and met Patience's gaze. He wondered if she had experienced anything similar to Chastity, with her uncanny intelligence and talent for botany. Had John tried to defend her, as well, or would he have belittled her about her intelligence like Dorian's own papa had done with Chastity?

"But Papa got enraged and slapped her across the cheek. I couldn't just stand by. I picked up my sword and came between Papa and Chastity, shouting for Papa to back away and that he would not touch Chastity again.

"Chastity was crying, holding on to her cheek, and I was seeing red for the first time.

"Papa laughed and told the fencing master to fight me in a duel. The fencing master simply unarmed me. Papa always refused to fight his own battles, sending his servants to fight them for him.

"Then he threw me into the glasshouse and locked the door from the outside.

"It was summer. It was so incredibly hot. The humid air, barely any ventilation, the sun baking through the glass… I hid under the palms. They gave me some shade, but soon I was thirsty. Hungry. I spent two days there, drinking from the trough with dirty, slimy water that was kept inside to increase the humidity. I got sick and vomited. I'm ashamed to admit I was desperate enough for drink and for food and felt so bad that I knocked on the panes and cried for someone to let me out. It was on the third day that I saw Chastity coming to me, Lucien on her heels, crying that they were going to let me out.

"And Papa came behind them, screaming that he'd take a whip to Chastity if she took another step forward."

Dorian's beast screamed at him to not say another word. But he looked at Patience, who had the saddest eyes in the world, the eyes of someone who understood.

Who accepted him anyway.

"And it was that fear that turned the rest of my energy into rage. Fear of Papa doing something to Chastity again. I picked up one of the stone troughs and threw it into the glass panes .

"I had to get to her before Papa took out his whip. Glass shattered and flew just like the mirror the other day.

"I had to go through the hole to get to Chastity.

"I was just so enraged with Papa and so afraid for her. I think it's the fear that's always my downfall. I feel fear, and then I have to lash out. Have to rage. And attack. With words or with fists. Sometimes with weapons.

"Because if I'm not raging, then I'm afraid.

"Then I'm lonely.

"Then I'm so utterly unworthy that I just can't deal with the pain."

"Oh, Dorian," Patience whispered.

She reached out and took his wounded hand in both of hers. They were small and so tender he could almost choke.

"You are very worthy," she whispered. "You're perhaps the worthiest person I know. The worthiest and the most wounded."

He chuckled. He could hear and understand her words, but they didn't reach his heart; he couldn't accept them as the truth, even though hearing someone as brilliant and lovely and kind as her say them made his chest warm in response.

"I didn't realize how much I cut myself. My hand. I must have cut the vein on my wrist. I don't know. There were many cuts on my face, shoulders, and body as I pushed through the broken pane.

"Chastity screamed. Lucien screamed. I pushed Papa away from her, and his tailored coat was marred by smudges of blood from my palms."

Dorian didn't know how he was speaking so easily of this when the memories pounded in his head like a drum.

"Oh no, Dorian," Patience said, and when he looked at her, tears rolled down her cheeks.

Because of him .

"Darling, I don't deserve you," he whispered, his voice cracking.

He took her face in his hands and wiped her tears with his thumbs. Then when she didn't stop crying and new tears rolled down her pretty flushed cheeks, he kissed every one of them away, tasting salt.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm alive. I'm fine. I lost consciousness, but the fencing master knew how to stop blood. Nature of his profession, I suppose. Papa called for a physician who tended to me properly. I did have a fever after as one of the cuts got infected, but I pulled through. See? I'm fine."

"Thank God," she croaked through a thick throat, and he couldn't stop being surprised.

How could someone be thanking God for his life?

If she knew what he had done to her brother, she'd be praying for his death instead.

"I'm so glad you pulled through," she said as she drew his hand towards her face.

She looked at his gloved hand and he swallowed hard. Over the past two weeks, he'd begun to notice the redness was spreading, and the ache had turned into true pain. The best thing for him would be to remove the glove.

But he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

"What happened to this hand?" she asked as she took it between her palms, and he could barely breathe. To his astonishment, she planted soft kisses right on the leather.

God, those lips. His mind was a complete wreck of confused emotions—the echoes of fear, wrath, and guilt…and love…and, to all demons, desire she'd started in the depths of his body with her full, pink lips.

He opened his mouth.

I challenged your brother to a duel, and he sabotaged my pistol, and it exploded in my hand. Enraged by his dishonorable act, I attacked him…and the pistol fired.

He didn't kill himself, Patience.

It was me.

I took his life.

I put your family through misery.

He imagined the pain in her eyes, the disappointment, the way she'd let go of his hand in disgust, and the way she'd never look at him again.

She'd never think of him as worthy.

He'd lose her.

And yet, he could have her for the rest of his life. She was his by right. All he had to do was to keep silent and hide what a monster he truly was.

That he was a murderer.

He closed his mouth.

"An accident," he whispered as he couldn't look away from the way her plush lips spread against the skin of his wrist now, above the glove.

And still, like a true scoundrel, thinking all those thoughts and feeling all those confused things, he was more and more aroused with every kiss she left on his body.

"Well." She let go of his hand, wrapped her arms around his neck, and looked straight into his eyes. "I hope I made it all better."

And then, like a little seductress, she kissed him.