Chapter 38

38

The carriage jolted to a halt outside Rose Cottage and Dorian descended.

He stopped and stared at the house where Patience had grown up. Where John had grown up. His heart squeezed. It was so small, old, and crumbling. He wished he had not only paid off Mr. Rose's debts but given him money to do much-needed repairs.

The garden behind the house was quite large, and he imagined Patience working there for hours like she had worked in Rath Hall. Weeds sprouted here and there, vines of ivy wrapped around a tree, and the leaves of some plants had large holes, perhaps eaten by slugs. Knowing Patience, Dorian was sure this wouldn't have happened had she lived here the past months. And even though she'd now been back for over a dozen days, the unkempt garden suggested she was too sad or tired to properly care for it.

His fault.

He swallowed and reached into the carriage and picked up a leather folder that held important papers. He tucked it under his arm and proceeded down the gravel path towards the cottage.

It was time to pay for his sin. To atone. To surrender. To take responsibility.

He knocked, the hollow sound echoing the emptiness in his heart.

The door creaked open, and Patience stood before him, her golden hair framing a face etched with worry and sorrow. Even so, she was a divine, feminine vision that pierced his blackened soul.

Seeing her was like gulping down pure water after years of drought. He drank in her features, searching for any signs of distress. She was paler, thinner, with dark circles under her eyes, and he didn't like that at all. She was dressed in one of the gowns that had been made for her while she was in Rath Hall. It was the color of lilacs, with delicate embroidery of purple leaves and white roses, which suited her clear complexion and highlighted her natural blush.

"Your Grace," she murmured.

"I know you told me not to look for you," he said, unable to tear his gaze away from her. "I will not take much of your time. I promise you, I didn't come to take you back." He gestured at his leather folder. "I must discuss this with you…my will…and then I'm off to London."

Her eyebrows drew together, and her eyes widened in worry. "Your will?"

"Yes. If you allow me to come in and take a few moments of your and your family's time, I will explain everything."

She nodded. "Please, come in."

He followed her inside, noting the simple furnishings with scratches, tears, and signs of wear. The walls had cracks in the plaster, and the embroidery hangings were yellowed and had moth holes. Yellow stains marred the ceiling, the result of a leaking roof. Everything was in stark contrast to the opulent grandeur of Rath Hall.

She led him into the sitting room, which looked more like a workroom where clothes were sewn, laundry was hung, and preserves were made. It smelled faintly of vinegar.

As Patience turned to face him, Dorian felt the weight of his sins pressing upon his shoulders.

Somewhere down the hall, perhaps in the actual kitchen, several female voices chattered, and occasionally laughed. And he guessed that Mrs. Rose and her daughters were in there, preparing supper or cooking something judging by the clanking of cutlery and dishes.

But Patience didn't belong here anymore, he thought, and was even more satisfied with the contents of the folder he had brought.

"Is your papa at home?" he asked. "Your mama and your sisters?"

She stood so far away from him, like a stranger, and he fought an impulse to stretch his arm out to her and beckon her to come closer.

"They are," she said.

So distant. When she'd left him, darkness had engulfed him. But he couldn't rely on her to always bring him light. He must find it on his own.

And this was the start.

"By the cheerful sounds, am I correct in assuming you have not told them about John?"

She shook her head. "I have not."

He nodded. He thought she wouldn't. He hoped deep down she still had some loyalty to him. But he knew he had never earned that loyalty. "Might they join us here?"

She searched his face, then nodded and left the room. When she returned with her whole family, the Roses gasped and called out cheerful greetings he didn't deserve. The small sitting room was soon crowded.

"What brings you here, Duke?" asked Mr. Rose with a smile from ear to ear. "Have you come to take our Patience back home?"

Dorian fiddled with the folder in his hands. It was quite a freeing sensation to realize the wrathful anger had no more power over him. Surrender and acceptance were both the hardest and easiest things he'd ever had to do. "I'm afraid not, sir. I have come to make a full confession, Patience, both to you and your esteemed family. The burden of my past weighs heavily, and I can no longer allow it to cast a shadow upon our…connection."

His voice caught on the final word. He had no right to hope. And still, he did.

Never mind. There wouldn't be any hope left after he returned to London.

"Whatever could this be?" asked Mrs. Rose as she and the girls took their places on the sofa and the free chairs. Patience remained standing. Was she nervous?

"Please, Your Grace, speak your truth," she said.

Dorian's burned hand ached under the glove. He clenched and unclenched his fist, massaged it with his healthy hand. He had finally gone to his physician, who had treated his skin with salves. Dorian had been removing the glove whenever he was alone and when he slept, and the pain and swelling were getting much better.

He had resolved to make this confession—he was ready—and yet, the words he was about to say burned his throat like acid. Slowly, he took a lungful of air, commanding the tremor in his body to calm. When the words finally came, he didn't cower. Didn't hide. He had to take this straight on, and he looked directly into each of the Roses' eyes. He deserved to have to look into the eyes of these people, from whom he robbed a son and a brother, and receive the full strength of their wrath and pain.

And then he let the ax fall.

"I ended John's life."

Silence fell over the room as Patience sucked in air.

"John…who?" asked Mrs. Rose in confusion, looking around at her family for help.

"Your son, Mrs. Rose," he said softly, and her eyes grew into two saucers. "I was with him in Oxford. One night, I was a witness to him committing a grievous offense against a young woman. I intervened to defend her honor. It got very heated, and I challenged him to a duel. Sir Bertram witnessed that challenge. That's why he was so surprised I married you, Patience."

Mr. Rose jumped to his feet, his face paling at first, then reddening to beetroot.

"My John? An offense against a woman? He'd never?—"

"Of course he'd never—" began Patience's mama.

"Papa, Mama," said Beatrice—the second oldest sister, Dorian remembered. "You knew John wasn't all goodness and honor. We all knew it, didn't we, sisters?"

Her sisters all exchanged glances, looking sheepish.

"It's true," said Emily, the oldest. "I knew him best. He could be…quite petty. And vengeful, about small things. If I didn't give him what he asked, he would break my doll…and he broke your bottle of French brandy, Papa, and said it was Beatrice."

"No…" mumbled Mrs. Rose. "He didn't mean it, surely."

"It's just that you closed your eyes to his misgivings," said Clarice, who Dorian remembered was the third eldest sister.

"Locking them in the basket, perhaps?" suggested Patience .

Anne's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her porcelain features a mask of conflicting emotions. "I…I had suspicions of John's cruelty, although I did not remember him doing anything to me. But to hear it confirmed…" She drew a shuddering breath, her slender frame trembling.

Silence fell on the room as Mrs. Rose and Mr. Rose stared at the worn, moth-eaten carpet.

"What happened during the duel, Duke?" asked Patience softly.

"While our seconds and I were distracted, I noticed John doing something to my pistol," he said. "I was sure of it. But his second assured us of Mr. Rose's honor, and then both seconds inspected the pistols and found no fault. However, when I fired…it burst right in my hand."

Slowly, he removed his glove. He winced when leather scratched over the aching flesh. Heat flushed through him. Even if he had allowed Patience to see it, letting others see it was another matter. But he had to take all of the pain on, all of the discomfort, and accept his punishment. Slowly, he stretched it out for everyone to see, the burn scars like the landscape of an uninhabited world.

He cleared his throat as the memories of that morning clawed into him. "Wrath completely took me over. Had I been a normal human, a balanced man, or someone who has your ability, Mr. Rose, to turn away from dark emotions, your son would still be alive."

Mrs. Rose released a shuddering breath, her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to know. Please, stop. We should not talk about this."

Patience watched him with the stoic expression of a queen. "I want to know about my brother's last minutes. And you all need to know, too. What happened, Duke?"

He swallowed hard. The horror and pain in their eyes—he needed to bear it and finish his story, tell them what was in the folder, and leave. He owed them that much. "Overcome with rage, I strode to him. I did not know what I was doing. All I could see was red. I attacked him. We struggled. He had his charged pistol in his hands. It fired with my finger on the trigger. He died in my arms."

Silence fell on the room, and then a pained sob broke it as Mrs. Rose turned to Anne and buried her face in her daughter's shoulder, her body shaking in tremors. Mr. Rose stood stoically, breathing hard, his mouth crooked as he attempted to hide his grief but was unable to do so.

"And then you arranged it to look like suicide," finished Mr. Rose.

Dorian nodded. "I was a coward. An angry, despicable coward. I made it look like a suicide, and then I left for Rath Hall."

Patience frowned. "For your papa's funeral?" she asked. "Chastity said you came back with an injured hand and that you were not yourself…"

"Just prior to John's assault on the barmaid, I received a letter informing me of my papa's death," he said.

Patience's breath shuddered. "It is little wonder you lashed out as you did. You would not have been yourself after such a letter… That must have been quite a shock for you. He was your papa…even if he was a monster."

How did she do this? He was telling her exactly how he'd killed her brother, and she still found a way to feel compassionate towards him.

Mr. Rose lost the battle to contain his emotions, and his face contorted with rage as he pointed an accusing finger at Dorian. "You murdered my son! I don't care what he did. You had no right to take the law into your own hands!"

Dorian flinched at the accusation, the weight of his guilt pressing down on his shoulders. It was the simple truth—he had no right to play judge, jury, and executioner. And yet he had.

Mrs. Rose, her eyes red and swollen from crying, glared at Dorian with a mixture of grief and fury. "How dare you come into our home and tell us this now? After all these years, you finally have the decency to confess? You robbed me of my son, and now you expect us to understand?"

Each word felt like a dagger to Dorian's heart. He could feel the pain and anger radiating from Mrs. Rose, and he knew that no amount of apologies could ever erase the harm he had caused.

Emily jumped to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. "You killed our brother and then had the audacity to marry our sister? Was this all some sick game to you?"

Beatrice, usually the most level-headed of the siblings according to Patience, couldn't contain her anger. "I know John had his faults, but he was our brother! You had no right to take his life, no matter what he did!"

Clarice's and Frances's faces were flushed with anger. Clarice declared, "We trusted you, Your Grace. We welcomed you into our family, and all this time, you were hiding the truth about our brother's death!"

Anne, tears streaming down her face, looked at Dorian with a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. "I looked up to you, Your Grace. I thought you were a man of honor. But now I see that you're nothing more than a liar and a murderer!"

The accusation hit Dorian like a physical blow. The guilt was overwhelming, threatening to crush him under its weight.

Patience stood in the middle of the room, her face torn in a helpless expression. "Please, everyone, let's try to remain calm. I know this is a lot to process, but we must try to understand?— "

Mr. Rose cut her off, his voice shaking with fury. "Understand? What is there to understand, Patience? This man killed your brother and then married you! How can you defend him?"

Mrs. Rose, her voice hoarse from crying, turned her anger towards Patience. "And you! How long have you known about this? How could you keep such a secret from us, from your own family?"

The room descended into chaos, with the Rose family hurling accusations and insults at both Dorian and Patience. The air was thick with tension and raw emotion, as years of grief and betrayal came pouring out in a torrent of angry words. They could no longer stuff their negative feelings in a basket and pretend that all was well. And it seemed as if everything they'd been tamping down for more than a decade was bursting forth.

Dorian stood silently in the middle of the room, his head bowed, accepting the fury of the Rose family. He knew he deserved their anger, their hatred. He had taken the life of their son and brother, and no amount of explanation or justification could ever erase that fact.

A few minutes later, the angry, pained shouts calmed down, and Dorian opened his leather folder. "I do not deserve your forgiveness. And I'm not daring to ask for it. All I wanted to do was to tell you the truth. I do, however, want to tell you that I would give anything, everything to go back and to stop myself in that moment. To take control of my anger and to have compassion, like all of you have. I'd do anything to keep your son alive, Mr. and Mrs. Rose."

Some of Mr. Rose's anger fell from his face, and the man nodded solemnly. "I…er…I appreciate you saying so, Duke."

Dorian exhaled sharply, expecting for the man to do something, but he only stared at him with great sadness and tears in his eyes. "Sir, if you would like to beat me, I will not fight back," said Dorian.

Mr. Rose exhaled a long breath and stared at him for a while. Dorian stood, waiting for the man's reaction, hoping he would take a swing at him.

"That is not needed, Sir," said Mr. Rose. "I have no wish to beat you."

Dorian nodded and shook his head. He did not deserve these people. He didn't deserve Patience.

But he wouldn't stop trying.

He retrieved a document he'd had his solicitors compose yesterday. "This is my will. Patience, you will get everything I own, and should you be pregnant…should there be an heir, he will inherit my title. An heiress will have a substantial inheritance and a dowry, which no one can touch but her when she is grown enough to decide to marry."

"Dorian…" began Patience, but he didn't let her finish.

He had to go through this and leave to face his destiny.

"However, in the event that my title is stripped from me in a few weeks or months, this document"—he raised another paper—"transfers everything, all assets except Rath Hall, which remains tied to the title, to your name, Patience. The state cannot touch it or take it from you, even if you're no longer the duchess."

Everyone opened their mouths to ask something, and Patience took a step towards him, worry on her face. But he wasn't finished, and he raised the third document, which he laid on the tea table in the small space between stacks of books and a heap of fabric.

"And this document, Mr. Rose, is for you. I hereby free you of the clause of our marriage contract whereby Patience must spend one year with me. As of today, you are granted an estate nearby and an income of two thousand pounds, which, I believe, will be enough to repair your home and help you restore your tenant properties, as well as provide you a good income and a worthy dowry for your daughters should any of them wish to marry. Money will never return John to you, but I hope it will give you some relief in your circumstances."

He handed the leather folder to Patience, who watched him with an open mouth.

He locked eyes with her amid the shocked stares of her family as the room fell into complete silence. He drank in her features for the last time. The softness of her pink lips, the delicate curve of her cheekbones, and the way her golden hair framed her beautiful face like a halo. Her blue eyes, usually so warm and inviting, were now filled with a mixture of pain, confusion, and love. It was a sight that would be forever etched into his memory, a bittersweet reminder of all that he had lost.

"Goodbye, the light of my life," he said softly. "I will love you till my last breath."

Patience's eyelashes trembled as her eyes filled with tears. She swayed towards him but didn't take a step. He nodded to the Roses and walked out of the room, through the corridor, and through the door and into the open air.

The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It seemed almost mocking, the beauty of the world when his own was crumbling to dust. He strode towards the carriage, his vision blurring with the tears he fought back.

He got into the carriage and it pulled away from the house, the horses' hooves drumming. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. His mind still reeled with the pain and accusations the Roses had thrown at him. His life was over. His heart was shattered. God knew, he had earned every last piece of that pain.

And together with the guilt, a blessed sense of peace began to seep into him. There was no more anguish, no more wrath to torment him. No more demons to escape. Because he had finally done the right thing. He'd leave this life with peace and a clear conscience. He'd still be in hell, but at least he'd spend the last days, weeks, or months of his life in peace.

He looked down at his hands. He realized he'd forgotten to put on the glove, and his mangled hand was free. Strangely, he had no more desire to hide it. On the contrary, it was a relief to feel the air on his scarred flesh.

Everything was in the open now. He was surely going to his death, but his soul felt lighter.

"Dorian, wait!" a voice called out, clear and strong. A dear, familiar voice.

He froze for a moment, scarcely daring to breathe. Then he turned and looked out of the window. Patience ran after the carriage.

His heart slamming hard, he knocked on the opposite wall to signal the driver to stop. The carriage came to a halt, and he descended.

"Where are you going?" she demanded as she stopped before him, breathing hard.

"To London," he rasped. "To give myself to the authorities."

Her face slackened in shock. "To… But you will hang."

He nodded. "I will accept whatever punishment is suited."

She shook her head. "That's why the will…all these documents…"

"Yes. My affairs are in order. You will be protected, secure, free to do whatever you wish for the rest of your life. Just—" He had to catch a breath before saying the next part. "Just don't marry anyone you don't love. Don't give your freedom away for anything else."

She gasped. "No, this is ridiculous. Mama and Papa are not pressing charges. "

"They should. You should. I deserve it."

He turned to climb back into the carriage, but she stopped him. "I will never do that. Neither will Papa and Mama. I'm sure they've already forgiven you."

Forgiven him? "How could they?" he asked.

She swallowed hard and laid her hand on his cheek. "I know I have."

His heart cracked open, unfurled like a rose in the first rays of spring, her words a balm to his soul. He leaned into her touch, savoring the warmth of her palm against his cheek, the tender caress a lifeline in the tempest of his emotions.

"Patience," he whispered, his voice ragged with longing. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. I don't deserve you."

She shook her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "But you have it, Dorian. You have my forgiveness, my love, my everything. I cannot bear the thought of losing you."

He closed his eyes, a single tear escaping to trail down his cheek. "I am a broken man, Patience. A murderer. How can you still want me, knowing the blood that stains my hands?"

Her thumb brushed away the tear, her touch infinitely gentle. "Because I see the man beneath the scars, the beautiful soul that has been battered but not broken. You are more than your worst mistake. You are the man I love, the man I choose, now and always."

A shuddering breath escaped him, the weight of her words settling into his very bones. He reached up to cradle her face in his hands, his gaze searching hers for any hint of hesitation or doubt. There was none, only a love so fierce and pure it stole the breath from his lungs.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. "But I swear, I will spend the rest of my days making you happy. "

She smiled then, the smile that always flooded his heart with sunlight. "You already are, my love. You already are."

And then she was kissing him, her lips soft and insistent against his own. He surrendered to her, pouring all the love and gratitude into the slide of his mouth over hers, the gentle nip of his teeth, the sweep of his tongue.

When they finally parted, breathless and flushed, he knew he could never let her go. She was his salvation, his guiding light, the beacon that would lead him out of the darkness and into a future brighter than he'd ever dared to dream.

And in that moment, he knew he was home.

Patience squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with happiness and love. "I love you, Dorian."

Dorian felt the last vestiges of his old, bitter self fall away.

For with Patience by his side, he could do anything, be anything. She was his redemption, his salvation, his everything.

"It is me who loves you, sweet girl," he murmured. "I'll spend the rest of my days proving myself worthy of the precious gift of you."