Chapter Twenty-One

L ady Waterstone, it has been too long." Dorian's mother greeted their hostess with the faux society fondness everyone in their circle seemed to accept as authentic. It was an affectation he'd known since childhood, listening to his mother preside over tea and gossip during her days at home, but today it struck a discordant note. Lord and Lady Waterstone responded in a similar fashion.

Dorian made his bow to the couple, then stepped to the side of the hall and tried to blend in with the other guests.

In the carriage on the way here, the dowager mentioned a few women she'd like him to meet who had returned to Town in the past week. He'd sent her a quelling look, but she was immune to his lack of enthusiasm.

Thanks to the servants, whom he appreciated more than ever for their discretion, he'd fallen asleep with Caro in his arms every night this week. During the afternoons, she worked in the library, which looked emptier each time he went in the room.

Every volume of Shakespeare had been pulled and searched, yielding another dozen letters. She'd sat with him last night as he read them. And yes, the pain of betrayal was there. Thankfully, the edges of the emotion were no longer sharp enough to shred his soul.

Except for one letter. That one had taken his breath away. Juliet had written to Sherman, recalling the last time Dorian had been home. And while there were plenty of failings she could have complained about—he saw that now—she'd lied. Flagrantly, without any tether to factual events. The injustice of being maligned by someone he'd thought he could trust had been compounded by the agonizing knowledge that he'd never know why she did it.

Iron bars had clamped his lungs, and he'd struggled to find air. Caro had knelt between his knees, cradling his face, and breathed with him. Inhale. Exhale. Soothing words. Complete acceptance, even when he was showing weakness.

No one at the Waterstones' ball would do that for him.

Unless Oliver is around somewhere , Dorian corrected himself.

If he could, he'd leave here, pick up Caro from the shop, and bring her home to bed. Forget the gauntlet of her aunt and uncle and his mother they'd maneuvered through before now. They were fully grown, not children hiding an illicit affair. He hated having to lie or hide their times together and knew the subterfuge would wear thin quickly.

Wandering through the rooms full of people, he offered smiles but little conversation.

What would Caro think of these events? All the watching eyes and polite nodding to people you hoped you wouldn't have to engage with in actual conversation. It was the exact opposite of the life she said she wanted.

There were similarities to how she'd described growing up as a vicar's daughter. Everyone watching, expecting perfection. He suspected she'd feel the ton was familiar territory. Just with more satin and diamonds.

Inside the ballroom, couples mingled and laughed while a quartet provided ambiance to the evening. As he turned the corner to join the fray, the scent of orange blossom stopped him in his tracks.

He searched the assembled company for Caro's dark, shiny hair and eyes sparking with intelligence. Alas, no beauty assessed him from across the room with full lips and a stubbornly pointed chin. Instead, potted orange trees lined the sides of the room, lending their color and scents to the space. The stab of disappointment actually made him wince.

A blonde woman he vaguely recognized sidled up to him and stepped too close for comfort or decorum. Her bottom pressed against the fall of his trousers, and Dorian tried to step away. Was she Lord Stropford's wife or mistress? He couldn't remember. "Terribly sorry, Your Grace," she murmured. When she leaned into him, Dorian reared back but didn't have anywhere to go. "Blanche was right, wasn't she?" The woman shot a deliberate look at his groin, then winked. "Remember me when you're ready for a new, ahem, heroine, Your Grace."

However much she'd had to drink, it was three glasses too many. A shudder of revulsion made him twitch. Half of what she'd said made no sense, but the inuendo hadn't been subtle. "You should seek out the retiring room." Dorian stepped to the side, squeezing between a planter and the wall. While he might not remember if she was Stropford's wife or mistress, he was positive she wasn't his problem, and he'd be damned if he allowed her to be.

The dowager approached, making the blonde flounce away instead of following him. "She should be ashamed of herself, rubbing against you like that. One can't blame her for the attempt, but I don't like her methods."

"If she's on your list, the answer is no," he said.

She cringed. "I should think not. However, we should find the newest additions I mentioned in the carriage. I'd like a grandchild or three to keep me active in my dotage."

Dorian rolled his eyes but smiled. "You're hardly an old crone needing children to give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning, Mother."

She shrugged. "And yet, neither of us grow younger." Surveying the room, she flicked the tip of her fan toward the wall near the quartet. "Miss Frances Simmons has been creating quite a stir. Good family, healthy dowry, and rather nice eyes."

He followed the tip of her fan and recoiled. "She looks like she's slipped away from her governess to play dress-up. No. Besides, I told you I'm not looking right now. Not yet."

Undeterred, the fan turned toward another corner of the room. "Mrs. Marshall, widow. Excellent connections, independently wealthy from her first marriage but quite vocal about wanting to remarry and have a family."

Dorian ignored his mother. After all, she was ignoring what he wanted; he'd do the same to her. He plucked a glass of something he prayed was alcoholic from the tray of a nearby footman. "Thank you," he murmured to the servant. Then, "I said no," to his mother.

"You can't even spare her a glance?" Gloria sighed heavily, the picture of put-upon motherhood. "If this stubbornness is due to your little bluestocking bookseller, you and I shall have words at the end of the night."

"Kindly leave my relationship with Miss Danvers between her and me." The times during his life when he'd outright defied or argued with his mother could be counted on one hand. But the way she spoke about Caro made him clench his jaw. He would fight over this. And that, perhaps more than the constant thinking about Caro and wanting her near, told him his emotions were thoroughly engaged.

Damn, he was falling in love with her. Absently, he rubbed at his shoulder, where he knew she'd left a mark the night before. This morning, she'd kissed it and whispered, "Mine," when she thought he was asleep. The spot warmed at the memory.

The dowager huffed, dragging him back to the moment. "If this is how you're going to be tonight, I will need a drink to see me through."

He turned back toward the footman. Caro's voice echoed in his brain. The servants are people… If you think they aren't discussing us right this moment, you're living in a fantasy world. "Another glass for my matchmaking mother, please." The man's lips quirked as he held out the tray. "Would you care to weigh in on the matter? If you had to dance with one of them to satisfy your mother, which would you choose? The blonde with the nice eyes or the widow with the eager womb?"

The footman's jaw worked for a moment before he answered. "The blonde often sneaks away to the balcony with… people. The widow seems nice. If it was me, I'd ask the miss with red hair over by the large fern. When she calls with her mother, she's kind to the staff."

"The redhead, you say? Excellent. Might I convince you to leave the tray of champagne? I fear this will be a long evening."

The footman set the tray on a nearby table, bowed with a smile, then departed.

Gloria watched Dorian with an expression he couldn't decipher. "What does that look mean?" he asked.

She took a glass from the tray. "Do you know him?"

"Know who? The footman? No. Why do you ask?"

Confusion wrinkled her brow. "You were quite familiar; I assumed you knew him. I've never seen you so friendly toward a servant who isn't in your employ."

"Am I not permitted to speak to people I'm not paying?" Dorian theatrically wiped his brow in relief. "I'm relieved to hear it. Now I needn't speak to a single person in this room."

His mother grumbled, "Frustrating man. You know what I am saying. It isn't done ."

Perhaps it should be. Perhaps treating servants and shopkeepers as if they were people instead of furniture should come into fashion. The thought was so clear in his head he nearly said it out loud. Except in his mind, the person speaking wasn't him, but Caro.

Following an impulse, and refusing to contemplate its source, he changed the topic. "Which is more important to you—me marrying a woman from a good family, or me being happy and possibly giving you grandchildren?"

She pursed her lips. "Couldn't you be both happy and married to a woman of good standing? Must one cancel the other?"

"I'm asking about your priorities. Is my happiness, regardless of who I find it with, more important than making a socially prudent match?" Why he was pushing this line of questioning, right this minute, he didn't know. Except that he couldn't look around this room without wanting to turn to Caro and comment on something. Or slip down the hall to a dark room and make her laugh, then moan.

The woman had burrowed under his skin, nearer to his heart than he'd realized.

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question." The dowager gestured to the room at large. "You're surrounded by excellent marital prospects. Even the redhead the footman mentioned is an option, although her dowry isn't terribly impressive. The only choice you need make is which one to court. They're all excellent candidates for your next duchess. Again, is this about your Miss Danvers?"

Yes, actually. "Merely speaking in hypotheticals."

Gloria emptied her glass in one long swallow, like a woman in the desert at an oasis. Shooting her son an annoyed look, she exchanged her empty glass for a full one. "I'm going to enjoy the evening socializing with my friends. Perhaps you can befriend the maid while I'm gone, or offer to help washing up in the kitchen, should you grow bored of hiding in this corner." Shaking her head, she swanned away and was soon lost in the crowd of velvet, feathered turbans, and glittering jewels.

Dorian sipped his champagne as he leaned against the wall near an orange tree. After a moment, he spied Oliver amidst the sea of black coats. Finally, a friend. Dorian met him at the edge of the dance floor.

"Bixby is in the card room. Fancy a round of whist and some light interrogation?" Oliver said.

"Not particularly, but an opportunity is an opportunity."

In the card room, a cheroot haze settled above the heads of the guests—men in black jackets and one woman in shining red satin. When he and Oliver entered, a hush fell over the players, then dissolved back into chatter after a few seconds.

Lady Agatha Dalrymple sat across from her husband, Mr. Alfred Dalrymple. Together they seemed to be dominating a game of whist, communicating silently in a way Dorian suspected could only happen after decades together.

Lord Bixby and another man Dorian couldn't recall the name of were no match for the older couple, if their grumpy expressions were any indication.

"Ah, Lord Southwyn, Duke. Are you here to offer more of a challenge than these two? I am afraid their boasts overstated their ability," Lady Agatha said. Mr. Dalrymple smiled at his wife, obviously enjoying her. Dorian had always liked the man.

"Southwyn and Holland can wait. We'll rally during the next trick, won't we, Dobbins?" Lord Bixby said.

Oliver shrugged. "We'll wait until there are seats available at the table, milady. Don't mind if we watch, do you, gentlemen?"

The trick went to the Dalrymples. Bixby's jaw hardened until the man's teeth were in danger of cracking.

Lady Agatha, bless her, kept up a stream of increasingly blunt questions interspersed with pointed commentary as she and her husband claimed trick after trick. "Lord Southwyn, will we soon hear wedding bells for Miss Althea? I'd thought you would rush down the aisle, given your interesting history with her family." She tsked at the other players. "Lord Bixby, hearts are trumping this round, so do not try to claim that trick. Is that your problem? Do you not understand the rules of play?" She plucked the four cards from the middle and added it to the others at her elbow.

Oliver pulled a chair over from the nearest table and settled his lanky frame into the seat. "Long engagements are unremarkable. Miss Althea and I will walk down the aisle when the time is right."

Pulling another chair over to flank his friend, Dorian heard what Oliver didn't say. That it was Althea who refused to set a date, not Oliver.

"Hurry it along, if you please. I would like to celebrate your wedding before my bones are too old to climb the church steps."

"Rushing into marriage hasn't done anyone favors, my love," Mr. Dalrymple commented.

The older man's wife shot him an exasperated look, although fondness warmed her tone. "Says the man who danced with me only twice before asking for my hand."

"You were the tallest girl in the room and a beautiful widow. You knew what you did and did not want in a second husband, and I hoped I fit the requirements. Besides, I had to act quickly if I was to avoid spending the rest of my life with a crick in my neck from looking down at my bride," Mr. Dalrymple teased. "When it's right, it's right. Best not to rush if they aren't feeling that rightness. Not everyone will be as lucky as we are, Agatha."

Lady Agatha laid down an ace, then faced Oliver, ignoring the groan from the other team. "Is it not right, Southwyn, and that is why you tarry? Your Grace, what say you about all this? You are well-versed in the joys of a love match. And I expect we shall see rather interesting things from you yet, given the talk about Town. Should your friend sweep Miss Althea off her feet or wait?"

Shifting in his seat, Dorian didn't know what talk about Town she referenced, but he suppressed those questions as well as his doubts about the compatibility of Miss Althea and Oliver. Instead, he opted for diplomacy. "Like your husband, I believe finding the right person is more important than a predetermined timeline. But I also trust Oliver to always act in the best interest of his fiancée. Besides, she has an excellent family, who will help her navigate the path to matrimony. A useful asset, wouldn't you say, Lord Bixby?"

The other man jerked his gaze from the cards he held. "What was that?"

"Family. Aren't they a wonderful asset while out in society?" Dorian tried for a casual, friendly tone. "I only have my mother and my late wife's cousin, I'm afraid. I seem to recall you have several family members rattling around London to keep you company."

Oliver, bless him, picked up the conversational thread and played his part to perfection. "Not so great when they're a burden to the family tree—am I right?" In a loud aside to the Dalrymples, he said, "Doesn't everyone have a few calling themselves family they'd rather not claim? I'm sure Bixby can relate. We've all heard stories."

The corner of Lady Agatha's lip—rouged red to match her gown—twitched as she exchanged a look with her husband. "Not all family is worth claiming, in my opinion. And not all family arrives by blood. I am relieved to know Miss Althea need not be a matter to concern myself with. But I do worry that you have been listening to gossipy chatter, Lord Southwyn."

Oliver reared back with a hand to his chest in a theatrical response that made Mr. Dalrymple chuckle. "Not I, my lady. I am a man of logic and science. As such, I only give credence to stories that show predictable patterns." Dropping his playful tone, he turned his head to speak directly to Lord Bixby. "Not all our family members are dearly beloved, and one must question when some still coddle those who make repeated offenses."

Dorian accepted a snifter of brandy from a footman but did not imbibe. Multiple glasses of champagne were turning his head as fizzy as the drink. So, he watched. With Oliver speaking, this chat-turned-interrogation seemed less personal, leaving Dorian to observe. If Bixby knew and approved of his cousin's actions, his response would show it. In theory, anyway.

Lord Bixby and Dobbins were having a silent conversation of their own. For his part, Dobbins looked positively gleeful. Dorian decided on the spot that he didn't like him. If Dobbins was enjoying the conversation, it was reasonable to assume Bixby knew of Sherman's activities as well.

So it came as a surprise when Bixby glared at his friend. "Unfortunately, some of us"—he paused meaningfully—"bow to familial pressures and provide introductions for extended family members. Once those connections are made, there's no going back, and we cease to be in control of the situation."

Then, Lord Bixby did something Dorian hadn't predicted. As he placed his cards on the table, he folded his hands over the pile and spoke directly to Dorian. "Our family members might do things we find appalling, and we are left with little recourse but to distance ourselves the best we can. I believe you also know this feeling, Your Grace, regarding your late wife's cousin. In this matter, you and I are aligned in our disapproval. I offer you my deepest sympathies as you muddle through potential ramifications that are entirely beyond your control yet impact you directly."

Interesting.

Lady Agatha clapped. "Well said, Lord Bixby. Lord Dobbins, now would be an ideal moment to take your sniggering elsewhere. Like minds are welcome in our game of whist, and you fail to meet that criterion." She smiled at her husband. "Darling, would you be so kind as to bring me a drink and something from the refreshment room? Winning makes me peckish."

Mr. Dalrymple winked, then set his cards face down on the table. "Absolutely. Holland, would you mind stepping in? Southwyn, you can take Dobbins's place." He walked around the table to kiss his wife's creased cheek, then removed her empty glass and leveled a stern look at Lord Dobbins until the man shuffled off.

Oliver and Dorian took their seats and picked up the cards.

Lady Agatha said, not unkindly, "I am not sure what this is all about, but I hope we are not sitting to play with our enemies."

Offering a hand to Dorian, Lord Bixby said, "I offer no ill will, and I will do nothing to harm you or yours. If you'd like to meet in private, I can equip you with valuable information."

Dorian shook his hand, accepting the offer of peace. For now. "I appreciate that. Thank you."

"Excellent. I am happy to see everyone getting along. Despite the color of my gown, a bloodstain would have been a beast to clean if this had devolved to fisticuffs."