Chapter 29

29

The next evening, Patience knocked softly on the door of Dorian's study, the light of the candle in her hands trembling from her breath. It was late and Rath Hall was quiet, with all the servants having retired for the day.

"Come in," came his voice from behind the polished mahogany, and she entered, her heart beating in her throat.

His study was dark, save for candelabras standing on the fireplace and on his desk, illuminating his serious face. Her stomach fluttered as she saw him studying a document, his gloved hand on his chin, deep in thought.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asked, and his face jerked up, surprised.

And terrified…?

"Patience…" he murmured as he snatched up the paper he had been studying and pushed it under the stack of books. "I thought it was Mrs. Knight."

She frowned. Did he just hide something from her?

She approached him. The scent of his study was an extension of him—bergamot, pepper, and something musky, like leather. The scent that made her think of pure bliss, skin gliding against skin, lips brushing.

"No, it's just me. All of the servants have retired."

"Oh." He licked his lips.

She cocked her head. "I came to fetch you to bed. You must rest before your long stay in London. All those business things you must do…"

He looked so lonely, sitting in the dark room with just a few candles illuminating his kingdom—the books, the stacks of paper, the quills and ink jars, the portraits of the previous dukes staring down at him with judgmental eyes.

"Are you certain you don't want to come with me?" he asked. "Will you be able to sleep by yourself?"

She sighed and nodded. "I will try. I don't want to leave the garden while there are still a few last weeks of spring to prune and to plant seeds."

He nodded. "And I have business that I have been putting off for far too long."

"Are you worried about something?" she asked. "Something in London?"

His gaze darkened as he rubbed his hand under the leather glove.

She put her candle on the sideboard next to the other candelabra, walked over to the desk, and leaned against its side."Come to bed with me?" she asked. "You're leaving for London tomorrow, and I'll miss you."

He stretched his hand out to her, his gaze softening. She laid her left hand in his, allowing skin-to-skin contact, and tingles danced through her blood.

"It's me," he purred as he pulled her to him. "It's me who'll miss you, sweet girl. "

He spread his thighs and placed her between them, her arse leaning against the edge of the desktop. His hands ran up her thighs and towards her waist. She was already changed for bed, her hair falling freely over her shoulders.As he undid the belt of her dressing gown, its sides fell open, revealing her chemise. She shuddered and arched her back as he began kissing her stomach, waking up her body, her flesh responding to him with an aching desire.

"Did you come to ask me to bed?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin through her chemise. "Or to seduce me in my study?"

As he pulled her chemise up, revealing her naked thighs, her head fell back. Before she could respond to him, her gaze grazed over one particular portrait, and she froze.

Good Lord…the man strongly resembled Dorian… Except he wore a white wig and had harsher, more angular features. He was also larger, with more flesh around his stomach.

She sat straight up. "Is that your papa?"

His head shot to the portrait. "Yes."

She looked at him, his gaze haunted as he stared at the image. Then he met her eyes.

"Do not allow him to interrupt us," he murmured as he reached for her lips, resolve in his face. "You chase away the darkness that he's cast over me my entire life."

Her heart squeezed tightly."And you're the strength I thought I'd never have," she replied.

She glanced down at his glove. Her body wanted him. Her spirit did, too.

And yet, the glimpses into the happiness they could share for the rest of their lives were just that…glimpses. Dreams. That's what their true happiness would always be as long as there were secrets between them .

She cupped his face. "What would it be like, to trust you as I trust Anne? To know everything I feel and think…you can understand? And for you, to be able to tell me every little thing that crosses your mind…?"

She took his gloved hand and looked straight into his face. His gaze was haunted."For you to tell me what's hiding here? And whatever it is that you can never tell me about Oxford?"

He was frozen in place, completely terrified.

She ached to tell him she loved him. That she would understand, whatever his secret was. She'd accept him.

He rose to his feet and left her proximity, walking behind his desk. "Leave it be."

She jumped to her feet. "Wait… Dorian." She reached out to him.

In her hurry, her hand knocked the stack of books and papers that was at the edge of his desk, and they fell, scattering around the floor, papers flying.

She dropped to her heels next to him to help him pick them up. Book by book, she gathered them and put them onto the desk.

When she went to pick up the aged sheet of paper with ruffled edges and old ink, blurry with time, she didn't at first register anything. She'd almost put it on top of the desk when her eyes grazed over the date.

October 8, 1802.

And then the place.

Oxford.

She froze, the paper trembling in her hands. Dorian was still picking up the books and the letters, and her gaze flicked over the writing, at times unclear. Unfamiliar.

Severe burns… she managed to read.

Metallic fragments in the sinew…

…likely from a great burst, like a gun or a bomb…

…likely will never have full control of the fingers…

…might lose the hand…

Services in the amount of ￡10.

Dr. Long, Oxford.

Shock pulsed through her like slashing blades against her skin. Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet his.

"Is that what's hiding under your glove?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Burns…lacerations…?"

The words caught in her throat. Chastity had mentioned burns, but this... this was far worse than she had imagined. The severity of the injury, the implication of violence—it all crashed over her in a rush.

He froze, his gorgeous face distorted in a grimace of terrible fear. He could be a cornered animal.

"From what?" she demanded.

He swallowed hard. "An accident. I told you."

She stood up and approached him. Clearly, he was distressed. Traumatized, perhaps, from whatever had happened back then.

"Yes, you told me. But here it says from a gun or a bomb."

"Patience—" he said, stepping back from her. "Stop."

As though she was going to hurt him.

"I'd never hurt you, Dorian," she said, her voice trembling, her hand stretching out to give him back the doctor's bill. "Don't you know that?"

He snatched it, almost tearing it apart."Just leave this alone," he grumbled. "Please. It's just ghosts."

Ghosts that were still haunting both of them. Their marriage.

And his soul.

Dr. Long, Oxford.

The idea formed in her head. He'd be in London for at least five days. Enough time for her to sneak in a trip to Oxford.

She nodded. "Very well. I'm sorry I've inquired about something you're not ready to share. Let me just tell you, whenever you're ready, I want to see all of you. The good. The bad. And whatever you're hiding under your glove."