Chapter 9

9

Dorian's chest tightened as he watched Patience descend the stairs, his eyes transfixed on her. Time seemed to slow, and the world around him faded away, leaving only the vision of his wife before him.

Gone was the plain, mousy gown that had hidden her true radiance. In its place, Patience wore a stunning blush-colored silk gown that hugged her curves and accentuated her delicate features. The color gave her a youthful, healthy glow. The high waist and low neckline drew his gaze to her ample bosom, the sight of which made desire stir in him. The puffed sleeves of her gown were embellished with crystals that glittered in the candlelight.

Her golden locks were carefully arranged, with a few curled tendrils framing her face and a delicate pink rose adorning her elegant chignon. A single curled lock of hair cascaded over her shoulder, and he wondered how it would feel wrapped around his fist.

As she moved, the silky fabric of her skirt flowed like a waterfall around her legs. Long, seductive gloves encased her arms, and Dorian stared at the tantalizing strip of skin between the edge of her glove and the hem of her sleeve.

And her face… Dear God in heaven, he could walk the entire Earth and not find a more beautiful woman. Her large, expressive eyes sparkled as they met his gaze, her long lashes casting delicate shadows on her flushed cheeks. She smiled at him shyly, but with so much joy, hope, and excitement.

He wasn't just in awe. He was in hell.

He had successfully avoided her for twelve days after the wedding, even though he'd been acutely aware of her presence in Rath Hall, as though he could sense her with his skin. He could hear her walking; he heard her voice through walls; he could smell her if she had been in the room.

She was an invader, this pretty little thing with her innocent eyes and her plush lips and body. She took over his thoughts—not one minute had passed that he hadn't thought of her.

And not just of her, but of John.

Without knowing it, she was his jailor.

How in the world was he supposed to go to his aunt's soirée with her looking like that? Every man would want her just like he wanted her.

He had been wondering if his inability to perform with Lilith was a sign of a long-term problem. But looking at Patience now, he very, very distinctly knew that he did not have a physical problem—apart from the discomfort in his breeches.

Say something , he commanded himself.

"Good evening." He cleared his throat as she came to stand by his side, so small and enticing he ached to touch her. "Duchess."

"Do you like my dress?" she asked. "Will you be glad to introduce me to the ton? Am I pleasing you? "

Dear God, did she want to please him?

He regretted avoiding her in the past couple of weeks, and yet it was necessary. Just hearing those words out of her plush, pink mouth had his blood boiling.

He nodded, unable to look away from her lips. "Indeed," he rasped. "You're pleasing me very much."

His mind was wiped clean. It must be her lips. Lips like that had no right to exist in the world. Plush and round, and with that Cupid's bow that fit right into a slight dip in the middle of her lower lip. How would that mouth feel against his tongue? Would she taste like strawberries, as he imagined? Or cherries? Or the roses, the scent of which always lingered around her? Would she sigh if he traced her lips with his own?

The next moment, his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her to his chest and covered her lips with his own. He had to bow to reach her face, so small she was.

Soft.

Her lips were the softest thing. Sweet nectar that set his body aflame. He dipped his tongue into her depths, and shyly, she welcomed him. He wanted her; the beast was raging against his senses. He had to make a conscious effort not to tear that delicate lace and silk, not to let the crystals sewn onto her sleeves scatter over the floor, and then take her like he ached to take her.

She moaned into his mouth and softened against him. The feel of her body, the smell of roses in his nostrils, was like an invigorating elixir coursing through his bloodstream. He didn't feel like a man anymore. He felt like fire itself. And she was his fuel, his air, his embers, and his heat. God, he had to have her.

She was his wife. This could be a real marriage. He could feel she wanted him like he did her. He could let her in, talk to her, have dinners with her, get to know her…

He wanted to .

What was he even doing?

He stepped back and let her go.

He'd just wanted one drink from her innocence, her purity. Like a balm to his jaded soul, being near her, hearing her voice—even her naive questions—soothed something within him.

She was breathing as hard as he, those delicious hemispheres of her breasts rising and falling. She was flushed, her lips red from his kisses, and he liked her that way. Her eyes were big and dark, staring at him with questions.

She was shaking.

Distantly, he realized so was he.

"Pray," she murmured, "what was that?"

"Your kiss," he replied.

"My first kiss…" she echoed, touching her lips with her fingers.

He wanted everything he did to her to be her first.

Her only.

"Good."

He wanted to corrupt her to his wicked ways and drink from her innocence and teach her all about the body and about pleasure. But he could not.

"Let us go, Duchess," he said, putting much-needed distance between them. "My aunt must be waiting for us."

As they walked out and got into the carriage, his whole being kept reeling from the kiss, from the power of desire that had consumed him. Goddamn it. He realized a simple truth. He was never going to stop at one kiss. No matter the consequences.

When they were driving through the woods leading to London in the carriage, she looked so small and innocent huddling in the corner opposite him, he ached to sit next to her and take her into his arms. Damn him, he shouldn't do it. He'd already given her security, safety, and riches. He couldn't— shouldn't—give his victim's sister his empathy or his heart. It would be like tricking her.

And yet…

"What's wrong? Are you cold?" he asked, already unhooking his coat.

"A little…" she said as she watched him undress with big eyes, which were darkening as her gaze swept over his arms.

He watched her wrap his coat around herself and wished it were his arms. She leaned her face closer to the fabric. Did she take a sniff of it? Satisfaction spilled through his veins to see his coat cover her and protect her. The Rath crest of a red lion in flames on the coat was like a sign to the entire world that she was his.

"I'm mostly, er…nervous," she said.

"Nervous?" he asked. "You?"

"Yes, me! I've never been to a Mayfair soirée… I've never been to any soirée! What do I say? How do I behave? What am I allowed to ask…? What if I say something that would embarrass you?"

"Embarrass me ?"

He understood her nervousness as a provincial girl being presented to high society for the first time. What surprised him was that even now she was worried about making him look bad.

He'd underestimated her. And the effect she'd have on him.

"Yes, you," she said. "You've been raised in this world. Everyone looks up to you. The grand, rich, powerful duke. I, on the other hand, know what it's like when everyone looks down on you. I don't want that to happen to you, too, by association with me."

Something in his heart melted. The need to take her into his arms pulled at his chest.

"Sweet girl," he said as he slid onto the seat of the carriage next to her. "I couldn't care less what others think of me. However, if anybody dares to look down on you, they will know the power of my wrath."

His chest cracked as the radiant, ice-melting smile lit up her face, the one he already knew so well even in the short time he'd known her.

"I suppose your temper has its positive sides," she said with a sigh of relief. "Confidence. I wish I had more of it."

His confidence ? If only she knew…

He wished he could experience the world like she did, as a simple, wonderful place. He wished he had her inquisitive nature and curiosity about others, her wish to connect and her enthusiasm.

All he wished from others was that they would leave him alone.

"Do not think about confidence," he murmured.

Good God, listen to him, trying to comfort her. Since when had he become such a nurturing type?

And yet he continued, unable to leave her in distress, wishing to lift her spirits.

"You do not need confidence to get through today. I'll have confidence for you. If I had a drop of your natural charm and genuineness, I wouldn't need to scare people."

Her smile lit up the dark carriage like the sun.

"You do not scare me," she murmured, her eyes sparkling as she gazed at him.

Oh…Lucifer.

One hour later, they reached Mayfair, and his aunt met them with an air of excitement.

"My darling," she exclaimed as she looked Patience over and grabbed his wife's hands in both of hers. "You are transformed!"

Patience beamed, and Dorian's heart swelled as true joy lit up his dear aunt's face. She was the only person who had shown him and Chastity compassion and human kindness after their mama was sent away, and he only wished he'd married sooner if it made her so happy. Then he felt a stab of guilt at the thought that this would be for only one year and with none of the grandbabies his aunt longed for.

"Never in my life could I have dreamed of such pretty gowns," Patience said. "The ones you gave me were magnificent!"

"It was my pleasure," said Lady Buchanan as she let go of Patience's hands and threw a cunning glance at Dorian. "And, clearly, you've outdone yourself with this ball gown! Do you quite agree your wife looks stunning, dearest?"

Patience's big eyes were on him, shining with hope. It seemed her chest stopped moving as she held her breath. Dorian nodded, sinking into their blue depths. "Quite breathtaking, indeed." He lifted her hand and put it through his bent arm.

For a few moments, they stood like that, gazes locked, and he felt a familiar urge to pull her closer and kiss her.

His aunt interrupted his wicked thoughts by leaning close to his ear, whispering, "You did so well, darling. My grandbabies will be beautiful! I implore you, take care that your marriage proceeds without fault."

His stomach sank. If only she knew that this marriage was doomed before it began.

"Patience—may I call you Patience? I know I must call you Duchess, but I thought you wouldn't mind? And you must call me Aunt, not Lady Buchanan. "

Patience nodded. "I think that is a marvelous idea! I would most definitely prefer it."

"Capital. Now, tell me, Patience, how has Dorian been treating you?" she asked as she unwrapped Patience's hand from around Dorian's arm and put it around her own elbow, and led her towards the table with a punch bowl and glasses.

Dorian followed them, close enough to hear.

"Very well," Patience said and stole a glance at Dorian. "You have a wonderful nephew."

"Oh, I know I do," said Dorian's aunt as she smiled at him with a content smile. "If he appears grumpy or starts growling do not take it seriously. He's truly a sweet boy inside."

Dorian wanted to growl in response but restrained himself. As his aunt led him and Patience around the ballroom, introducing them to different important figures of the ton, all he could think about was how he could protect his beautiful wife from the predatory gazes of other men.

She was naive, and they'd crush her. Some of them would want to laugh at her expense, because she came from a simple gentry family. And perhaps they would even know the scandal surrounding her name. Others, predators just like him, would want to use her innocence to seduce her.

Dorian could feel himself bristle up as they navigated through the ballroom filled with two or three dozen guests. Everyone threw curious glances at his wife. Some were judgmental. Some were, like he'd predicted, full of male admiration and appreciation. Whispers came from all around them.

His aunt stopped before a group of people with Patience proudly at her side. A large circle of new acquaintances formed around them, his wife at the center of everyone's attention.

Lord Bentley, a gentleman his aunt's age, asked, "Your Grace, you're bearing yourself so well, you must be a quick learner. A useful quality for a duchess with such a steep climb in society."

Dorian tensed, already opening his mouth to protect his wife. But to his surprise, Patience didn't cower, didn't hunch, and didn't mumble something polite in response.

She chuckled and beamed that bright, glittering smile at Lord Bentley, the one that seemed to lighten up the whole room. "You're so right, Lord Bentley, it was some journey. Just the other day, I found myself in quite a predicament. You see, I was so accustomed to doing things for myself that I completely forgot about the army of servants at my disposal. I had spent a good half hour searching high and low for a broom to sweep up a small spill in my chambers, only to remember that I could simply ring for a maid!"

He stared at her in awe as ladies and gentlemen standing in the circle around them chuckled. The tension in Dorian's chest released. She didn't need to worry about confidence, for she wasn't just fearless with him, asking questions and making requests.

She was simply…herself.

He couldn't tear his eyes off her as she continued with a charming grin. "And then there was the time I nearly had my lady's maid in a fit. With my sister Anne not present, I absentmindedly began darning a small hole in my stocking, much to my maid's horror! She insisted that such tasks were beneath a duchess and whisked the offending item away, leaving me to ponder the mysterious ways of the aristocracy."

As everyone around them chuckled again, Dorian could just imagine the shock of the French lady's maid he'd had Mrs. Knight hire. That also made humor spread through his chest like sunlight. His hand was right near Patience's arm. He could feel charges of energy running between them like tiny lightning bolts of pleasure .

During the conversation, the Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton had approached the group with Lady Hazel Fitzgerald, the eldest of the Duke of Kelford's younger sisters, who looked very nervous. He had greeted the older woman quietly, as he knew her grandson Spencer Seaton very well. The dowager was one of his aunt's closest friends, and the ladies greeted each other warmly. In her seventies, the dowager had striking blue eyes and perfectly coiffed gray hair.

"I must say," the dowager declared, "it is refreshing, to have such a new perspective and to meet a duchess with such a down-to-earth nature."

He agreed. Just like his aunt and everyone else around them, he was charmed by his own wife. He found himself conflicted, being proud of having this woman for his duchess and yet wanting to keep her all to himself and not let the predators of the ton try to dim her light or take her away from him.

Who knew a young and innocent girl like she would be the perfect wife and companion for him?

Who knew he'd like it so very much?

While his aunt led Patience to another group, and Patience continued to charm everyone, Dorian saw Spencer with Joanna and excused himself to go and talk to his old friend and his wife.

After that, Lucien and Constantine found him. Could he ever trust either of them with Patience like Spencer had recently trusted him with protecting Joanna?

Lord Spencer Seaton had returned to London last year, after having been press-ganged into a war. He had lost his title of duke, and everything else, since he'd been presumed dead. He'd had difficulty adjusting, and it was Miss Joanna Digby who had brought him back to life as they faced a common enemy. Spencer had asked Dorian to watch over her, and he had defended her against the powerful man who was trying to kill them.

Before he could ponder the question for any length of time, his friends pulled him aside, into an empty room adjacent to the ballroom.

"How are you doing after Elysium?" asked Lucien. "You left early. Did you feel well?"

"Fine. I—um…" He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one heard him. "I didn't partake of Lilith's services."

His friends looked at each other.

"Whyever not?" asked Lucien.

Pryde sighed deeply with understanding in his chestnut eyes. "Because deep down, he's a loyal man. He has a wife and wouldn't betray her honor with another woman."

Dorian felt his jaw working and nodded. Pryde understood matters of honor like no one else would.

Pryde shook his head. "I told you you're walking a dangerous line, friend. I warned you this was a disastrous match."

"If he wants to fuck his wife, what's wrong with that?" asked Lucien. "Look at her. I'd never leave her bed if she were mine."

A sharp slice of jealousy made him grind his teeth. The three of them turned to look at Patience, whom they could see through the open door. She stood twenty feet away, sparkling, laughing like a little bell, and making everyone around her laugh, too. Her gaze quickly darted to his and locked on, and the same euphoria as he felt when he kissed her filled him.

"I will pretend you didn't just refer to my wife and your bed in one sentence," said Dorian through gritted teeth as he turned back to Lucien. "Next time you imply anything similar, you're a dead man."

Pryde bit his lower lip, his chin jutting forward. "Rath, listen to yourself. You're snapping at your best friend. You refuse to sleep with anyone but your wife. Clearly, you want her."

Dorian's jaws clenched so hard he thought they'd snap.

"He's right," said Lucien.

"You must think about what you are going to do," insisted Pryde. "You want intimacy with your wife, but clearly you can't tell her everything . It's not just about you. The two of us are at fault, too. We helped you cover it up. We orchestrated the suicide. We have lied to everyone for twelve years."

Lucien sighed. "I'm sorry. Just teasing you, friend. I'd never do anything to seduce your wife."

Dorian nodded. "I know. I know. I can't look at her without remembering the incident in Oxford with her brother."

"Your Grace," came a strangled-sounding female voice…one he recognized all too well.

He turned around to find Patience in the doorway.

"What is this incident that had to do with my brother?" she asked.

Dorian froze, his heart dropping like a stone.

Good God, how in the world had she come so close when he'd just seen her chatting with a group of people twenty feet away?

Her eyes were wide, the light he'd seen just a few minutes ago gone from them. The sparkling connection between them had also disappeared.

What had he even been thinking? Kissing her…being proud of her…imagining the life they would never have anyway?

This was the life written for him. Keeping his terrible secret. Being miserable. Being alone.

He searched for the right words, but all that came forth was a strangled "Patience, I?—"

"Did you know him?" she demanded .

His heart pounded in his chest, shame and fear threatening to drown out all reason. Walls were closing in around him, the secret he had so carefully guarded now in danger of being exposed like an open wound. He could not bear it, especially not after he had allowed himself to believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that there might be something real between him and Patience.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he slammed his fist onto a nearby table, sending an ornate vase crashing to the floor.

Shattered pieces of porcelain rocketed around the room. The chatter of the people in the other room quieted. Several people rushed to the doorway to look in at him.

"Dorian—" Lucien said quietly, but with his usual warning. "This is a little too far."

"Your Grace, please—" Patience whispered, taking a tentative step towards him, her eyes wide with fear and concern.

A footman hurried over, gathering the broken pieces of the vase.

"Stay back!" Dorian snapped at Patience, unable to control the fury that coursed through him. "You do not understand the forces at play here, nor the danger you place yourself in by seeking answers!"

Patience hesitated, her brow furrowed. "But why? What did I ask?"

"I will not be questioned by a naive, sheltered girl who knows nothing of the real world!"

As the words left his lips, Dorian could see the hurt they inflicted upon Patience, her face paling as if she had been struck. And in that moment, he knew that the tiny glimpse of happiness he'd just allowed himself to experience earlier today was gone.

"Very well, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice brittle with heartache. "If that is how you truly feel, then I shall trouble you no further."

With a final, anguished look, Patience turned and fled from the room, leaving Dorian with ladies and gentlemen staring at him in the wreckage of his rage.

"Pryde, you've never been so right. There are no two people as wrong for one another as she and I."