Chapter Fourteen

S ales of A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine continued apace with Byron's new book, The Corsair . In theory, that would thrill any author, publisher, or bookstore that stood to make a profit.

All around Caro, her family celebrated each time they had to order more copies of her book. The fervor surrounding that book rolled into sales of her previous stories as well. Perhaps it was that pragmatic, practical nature Gerard and Leo so valued in her, but Caro's excitement over the situation was fading into concern.

Why now? Why this book? Why was Lorraine such a bestseller with members of the ton? That she'd based a hero on one of their own and that that same hero was sparking conversations put her ill at ease. The chatter she'd overheard about the heroine revolved around speculation of who Lorraine might be, as if she were a real person.

Caro nibbled her bottom lip as she settled into her desk chair. She'd been careful to remove specific clues tying Holland to Lorraine 's hero.

Hadn't she? The unease grew, and she pressed a hand to her stomach. No, of course she had.

And even if someone made the leap and found some kind of so-called evidence within the novel, it wasn't a crime to write a romantic hero inspired by someone real.

At least, she didn't think it was. Did the fact that Holland was a duke mean different laws applied to him? Maybe. More concerning was not his place in society but his place in her life. Holland was a private man. They'd talked about how difficult it could be to be the focus of everyone's attention. No hypothetical scenario existed in which he would be unbothered to discover the woman he was kissing had written a novel describing him in explicit sexual situations and profited from the sale.

The tea she'd finished not too long ago sloshed queasily in her gut. Caro consciously relaxed her shoulders and blew out a breath. Worries were moot, because she'd never need to have that conversation with Holland, and there was no way people could prove she'd written the book about him.

Speculation was no more than pondering things without proof. Rumors, really, and God knew there was no way to stop those.

So, business as usual. No need to concern herself further, especially when there was work to be done. She plucked the mail from its basket. Gerard had written to gently nudge her toward an answer to his proposal. Over cigars and brandy, one of the older members at the firm had inquired after Gerard's plans for marriage and a family, making comments about stability and a future at the firm. At the end of the meeting, he'd shaken Gerard's hand, then offered to introduce him to a niece. Subtle the senior partner was not.

She needed to respond to the note but was dreading it. While she felt for the situation in which he and Leo found themselves, she couldn't imagine agreeing. Legally, everything she owned—and consequently, all she earned as Blanche Clementine—would be her husband's, even if the marriage was a sham. A marriage for altruistic reasons was still a marriage.

Which made her mind circle back, as it often did, to the duke and his nameless prospective bride. He'd be tied to a loveless match in the name of duty, and that would be the end of whatever was brewing between them. It felt selfish to wish that day far off into the future, given what was at stake for the dukedom, just as it felt selfish to not help her friends, given what was at stake for them.

Another letter had been a note from her publisher congratulating her on the best sales numbers to date and celebrating the need of a second printing. Uncle Owen and Aunt Mary greeted the news with cheers when she stood and went to the sales floor to tell them.

Caro did her best to muster similar enthusiasm, but her mind was elsewhere today. She didn't feel the close kinship she usually did when with her family, and that wasn't their fault.

"All your hard work is finally being recognized on the scale it should be." Aunt Mary squeezed her in a hug. "You look like you could use some air, though, darling girl. Would you mind running to the shops and buying pasties? We are all feeling a bit peckish."

And so, while her family was busy creating a window display of the Blanche Clementine books they had on hand, Caro slipped out the back door. The weather was typically dreary for late February, and her walking boots slipped and slid through the shallow puddles that had settled on top of ice.

Walking in the brisk air cleared her head. As the cold pricked at her cheeks, Caro marveled that Aunt Mary always knew what "her girls" needed.

When she returned, the store was quiet. Two customers browsed in the lending library, and the only family member in sight was Hattie, who loitered in the doorway to the office.

"Where is everyone?" Caro set the bundle of delicious-smelling pasties on her desk. Immediately, the scents of pastry, roasted meat, and carrots filled the tiny office.

Hattie's eyes were huge. "Walter is upstairs. I think he's coming up to scratch."

"Already? Do you think Connie will go through with it?" Caro draped her scarf over a chair, then poured two cups of tea from the pot on her desk. It would be lukewarm by now, but she refused to waste tea. Each cradling their cups, they stared toward the door leading up to the living quarters.

"She seems to genuinely like this one," Hattie mused.

"They haven't known each other very long. Can you imagine what a disaster it would be if Constance lost interest as she normally does, after she's said vows? I feel like this is awfully rushed."

Hattie shrugged and sipped her tea, but the expression on her face was worried. "Constance is a romantic. She wants the butterflies and sweeping passion of a grand romance. Perhaps she believes in finding the one and just knowing it's real."

Caro drained her tea, then set the cup aside. "She said something similar to me after they met. And you're right—she is a romantic. Where we see potential hazards, she sees adventure."

"Would you like another cup of tea?" Hattie knew her well enough not to wait for an answer. Instead, she shook the empty pot, then fetched the kettle and settled by the hearth to wait for the water to heat—which placed her next to the door to their flat.

"Are you going to listen at the door?" Caro hissed.

"Of course not." Hattie tossed her head in mock indignation. "It's not my fault I happen to have excellent hearing, and boiling water requires me to stand directly below the sitting room where a man is most likely proposing to our cousin."

Caro grinned, shaking her head. On the desk sat the rest of the day's post. Keeping one eye on the front counter, she flipped through the papers, sorting as she went. Several letters were for patrons who paid for mail service, which went into the appropriate basket. A bill for Uncle Owen got tossed into the accounts payable pile. Three letters were from private book collectors. With any luck, they'd mean sales of the duke's books.

Hattie scurried back from the door and dumped the boiling water into the teapot with such a lack of grace water sloshed over the rim and pooled on the wood. "She said yes; act surprised."

Constance opened the door, towing a man Caro assumed to be Walter behind her. "We announce the banns tomorrow!"

Uncle Owen followed, ruddy cheeks split with a happy grin. "I thought this day would never come."

Walter beamed down at Constance, looking like a man who was staring at everything he'd ever wanted. The expression made Caro's heart clench in her chest. Unconsciously, she rested a palm over the spot to soothe the ache. "Congratulations. May you have many happy years together."

"We have a wedding to plan!" Constance laughed, her joy overflowing like bubbles in champagne.

Aunt Mary joined their group, dabbing happy tears with a handkerchief.

For the second time that day, Caro found herself in the position of smiling wider than she'd like. She had her reservations about Constance being ready for marriage, but this wasn't the time to bring that up.

As soon as she was able, Caro retreated to her desk and her family moved their celebration to the larger space of the sales floor. The sounds of her family discussing wedding breakfast details became a soothing hum as she settled in to read the letters from collectors.

The first was payment for a recent order they'd sent. Money was always nice, and it felt rewarding to enter the additional income into the ledger. Letter number two was from a longtime customer. It was one part book request and three parts local gossip. Both made her smile.

The final letter held a familiar name, and she sighed. Mr. Lipscomb was a perfectly nice gentleman, if a bit demanding. However, he paid in cash versus on account and was a frequent customer as well as a discerning collector. When she read his letter, it was as she expected. Good news but with stipulations.

Yes, he would be thrilled to purchase three of the highly sought-after editions of mythology from the late duchess's collection, on the condition that they deliver the copies personally. Given the rarity of the books and their reflective value, Mr. Lipscomb wasn't comfortable entrusting them to the post.

The real story was simple. He wanted a visit with someone who could discuss his favorite topic—books—and he was willing to pay for it. The man was a bibliophile of the highest order. Thankfully, Uncle Owen would be thrilled to visit the old curmudgeon who'd become something of a friend over the years.

Once things quieted somewhat, Caro would bring the letter and enclosed partial payment to her uncle and inform him he was due for a visit to Kent.

Hattie slipped into the office and blew out a breath. "I don't know if I can smile that hard for much longer. Are we going to say something?"

Caro shrugged a shoulder. "Let her celebrate. There will be time to bring our concerns to her privately."

"What do you have there?"

Caro held up the last letter. "Mr. Lipscomb wants three of the duke's mythology books, but he wants us—

Hattie said the last words with her. "To deliver them. He's in Kent, right? Why don't you deliver them? You can take Mrs. Adams her cookery book and look at the cottage. The roads are passable now. The main ones, anyway."

The cottage. Caro pursed her lips, that terrifying sensation of hope rising within her at the thought. If she saw the place and loved it, it was possible the royalties from a second print run would mean she could afford to purchase the property faster than anticipated. "That's a good idea. I'll mention it to Uncle Owen." She picked up one of the forgotten pasties, broke it in half, and handed a section to Hattie. "Here, eat. We need to keep our strength up if we're going to survive Constance as a bride."

"Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck—" Dorian pointed toward the mantel, and the clock obligingly rang once. "Very good. Well done. And down it ran, hickory dickory dock." A gulp of whisky drowned his laugh.

Flames danced in the hearth, jumping and flickering as they cast shadows about the room. He hadn't bothered to light a candle, since it had been broad daylight when he had entered the study with Blanche Clementine's newest book, a glass of whisky, and an intention to relax for a few hours.

It was dark now. Which meant the single chime was one in the morning, not afternoon. Time didn't matter after enough whisky. He might've dozed earlier, but there was no way to be sure. The book lay on the table, discarded when the insecurities that had threatened to steal his breath in the carriage after meeting the playwright returned. Sherman wasn't a handsome charmer, which meant their affair didn't make sense. Questions about how he'd failed as a husband cut deep, but whisky soothed the wounds.

The bottle had done its job, smoothing everything into a blur about him. There were no sharp corners left in his world except perhaps the desk, which he'd stumbled into and reeled away from before landing safely in this chair. Just as well. The wingback was far more comfortable than the desk chair had been.

Besides, this new seat allowed him to warm his feet near the fireplace. At some point, he'd lost a boot. Chilly toes clad only in a stocking were grateful for the nearby heat source. Dorian squinted as he attempted to wiggle his toes in time with the fire's irregular dance. Alas, the flames moved to a music he couldn't hear, so he gave up after a few seconds.

Perhaps the stocking was how he'd slipped and stumbled into the desk. It was a mystery.

Questions were hard. Thinking was damn near impossible. Words in general were mighty difficult. Which was how he knew he'd had exactly the right amount of whisky.

The paisley print of the fabric covering the opposite chair made his eyes hurt, so he closed them. Juliet had chosen the paisley. He hadn't been terribly fond of it, but he'd wanted to make her happy. Wanted to make her happy in all things. What a fool he had been to think he'd succeeded.

"Oh, Holland. What are you doing?" Her voice seemed to come from the chair. The last remnants of logic warned that if he looked too hard in that direction, her absence would be obvious, so he kept his eyes closed lest she leave.

"You don't normally drink like this, my love. What is on your mind?"

"You're not real." Even his voice sounded blurry.

Her laugh. God, how he'd missed her laugh. "Humor me. What has you climbing into a bottle and drinking alone like a sad little man?"

"Sad little man. Funny you should call me that. The more I learn about Sherman, the more I wonder what you were thinking." A stab of pain tried to strike near his heart, but Dorian took another drink to wash it away. "Why'd you do it, Jules? If I could just make sense of it all, maybe I wouldn't feel so… scared."

The feeling didn't have a name until that moment. But God, he was scared. Scared of being taken off guard like that again. Scared of loving again. Scared that he'd somehow make the same mistakes or choose the same kind of woman and end up feeling all those awful feelings in the future. Scared that there wouldn't be enough pieces of himself left to put back together a second time.

Fumbling, he placed the tumbler on the table beside him. It would be easier to do if he opened his eyes, but he didn't want her to go away. Not yet.

"D'you remember how we used to pity those other couples in our set? The ones everyone knew were having affairs? We will never be like them , we used to say. God, how horrible we were. So arrogant. Completely confident the other wouldn't stray. I hate not knowing what happened. I wish we could sit and talk. Like we used to, in the beginning. Before everything got so busy and we became more interested in taking care of everyone else instead of each other."

He cracked open one eye and fancied he could almost make out the pale-gold shimmer of her hair. Before the specter of a memory could disappear, he closed his eye. She wasn't gone quite yet. She'd stay and let him speak. Which made a distant part of him wish he weren't swimming quite so deep in the whisky, so he could determine if Juliet was really there, or if that golden mirage was courtesy of the alcohol.

"Why didn't you join me in Vienna? And then Greece, or any of the other places they sent me? Even after your mother died, you promised to travel once you sorted her things. It was too late by then, wasn't it? Sherman was already in your life, and I didn't know it. Wish you'd told me. Maybe we could have fixed it. Or said goodbye and left you to be happy. I just wanted you happy, Jules. Wherever you are now, I hope you're happy."

"Do you really think you'd have let me go? That we'd have lived separate lives?" Jules asked.

He swallowed roughly around an immediate answer that might have been a lie. Surely a ghost would know if he lied. "I want to say yes. Now I'd say yes. But that's 'cause I'm ready to let us both move on. Back then… no. I'd have thrown a fit. Ranted about being away from you just as long as you were away from me, without straying. Even though it was hard. Weeks between letters. In the middle of a bloody war. I petitioned the king constantly to release me from my duties. Didn't really matter, though, because in the end, I wasn't there. I'm sorry, Jules."

It had been a special kind of hell to go out in society during that time on the Continent, to see and be seen. To make connections for the king, pass along information, and do his best to negotiate the thousands of minute agreements needed to get supplies and support to their soldiers. During it all, feeling something was wrong but not being able to go home again without his king's permission.

The only reprieve he'd found was even more dangerous—going behind enemy lines to accomplish special tasks that kept him too busy, tired, and scared to worry about what was happening back in England.

"I'm sorry too."

"Was he good to you, at least? Did he love you?"

"I can't answer that," Jules said. Her ghost would know, wouldn't she?

Dorian blindly thumped his fingers along the table until they found the glass of whisky. "I guess the only one who really knows anything is Sherman."

"Then ask Sherman. What do you have to lose? After all, you're the all-powerful Duke of Holland." Her voice held a mocking note she'd never wielded against him before now. "We both know you could drag the man through the streets, then drown him in the Thames and not see a moment behind bars."

"Don't tempt me. Might regret it the next day." Damned conscience. "Answers. I need to understand. Didn't I give you anything you wanted? Full control over your fortune. Whatever your heart desired." For a moment, all was quiet except the crackling fire in the hearth. "Because when you were happy, you'd just… glow. And I was content to be the one who saw it."

"I told you I was sorry in my letter."

"I know. Still wrecked me, though. Hard to risk feeling that way again. Even though there's a woman on my mind constantly these days."

"Your bookseller. You could be happy, but you'll need to let me go."

"Scared." It was easier to say it aloud the second time. "Caroline's special, isn't she? Strong. Brave. Braver than either of us ever needed to be." Exhaustion and whisky tugged at his consciousness, luring him toward sleep. Everything was blurrier and more slurred when he spoke after what might have been five seconds or five minutes. "Just tell me what I did wrong, so I don't do it again." Silence. "Sherman would know. He knew everything. Lucky bastard. I'm going to have to find him to understand, aren't I? Besides, I need to make sure he didn't rob you blind."

With herculean effort, Dorian opened his eyes, even though he knew it would make her disappear. This time, he chose to let her leave. Whisky made his head loll heavy on his neck until he rested his forehead on the wingback padding of the chair and stared blankly into the flames dancing in the grate.

"Goodbye, Jules. I hope, wherever you are, you're at peace. Glow for them, duchess."

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to see Hastings waving a glass of noxious-smelling liquid in front of his face. Dorian recoiled but, without anywhere to go, only managed to smash the back of his aching head against the chair.

"Drink this, Your Grace. I will not tolerate any arguments on this matter. Drink. Then breakfast is waiting for you in the morning room. After which, a hot bath will be next on your agenda."

Dorian opened his mouth to argue anyway, and the wily butler tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth. It tasted only slightly better than it smelled.

"You're fired," he groaned without any heat as he considered licking the upholstery near his face to get the taste off his tongue.

"Indeed, Your Grace. The staff will expect you for breakfast in five minutes."

Closing his eyes, he prayed to whatever deity hadn't turned his back on him quite yet that his stomach would not cast up its accounts when he stood. Footsteps he wouldn't normally notice sounded like hammers dropping on the wood floor as the butler walked toward the door.

"Not really fired," he murmured, feeling like a heel.

"Indeed, Your Grace. Five minutes, or I'm summoning the dowager to deal with you" came the reply from the doorway before the indispensable servant left Dorian to his morning-after regrets.

Two things settled in his gut alongside the tonic. One, the only person who might tell him where he'd gone wrong was the man Juliet had run to. And two, the thought of finding out was just as terrifying as the idea of never knowing.