Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

“Where were you last evening?” his mother asked, her voice ringing in his ears.

Dorian had been expecting her to comment on his absence, but not so soon.

She stood in the doorway of the study, her arms crossed, a stern, disapproving look on her face. With a sigh, she turned her head away from him, as if the very sight of him disgusted her.

Dorian couldn’t help but blink, his mind drifting back to where he had been and for what reason.

How could she possibly know?

Was it possible that someone had seen him? The thought churned in his mind as he pretended to busy himself with paperwork. He was tired and sore, as if he had not slept a wink the night before—and he hadn’t.

Dorian raised his eyes to her again. “I was out.”

“Out? Out—I know exactly where you were,” she snapped.

Dammit.

He had hoped to keep his late-night errand discreet.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Do you have someone watching me?”

“I wish I had! Instead, I learned of my son’s visit to a certain establishment through a letter.” He had never seen her looking so furious, so defeated. “You are to be married⁠—”

“I am aware.” He frowned, thinking of Eleanor with a slight pang of guilt.

Dorian truly did not wish for her to know, if she did not already. If someone had sent his mother a letter detailing what they had witnessed…

At least it’s not in the scandal sheets yet.

“Then you must know what this could mean if word got out?”

“Who sent the letter?”

His mother’s arms dropped to her sides, and that was when he noticed the piece of paper crumpled in her fist. Surprising him, she tossed it and just narrowly avoided striking him in the face. Dorian caught it and wasted no time carefully smoothing it out.

The penmanship was rough, the message simple, though it hinted at the workings of a gossip. Whoever had written it had clearly seen him there in person—or had a close secondhand account. Surprisingly, they failed to mention one important detail.

That fact offered some relief.

Dorian had been careful, but apparently not careful enough. He frowned, shifting his gaze to the open window. The curtains swayed in the slight breeze, rippling and dancing in shades of navy. Racking his brain, he tried to make sense of who would be so bold as to bring this up, let alone to his own mother.

Catherine?Would she be so bold as to mention my visit?

“Dorian, please–”

Dorian felt his composure waver, the weight that had been set on his shoulders felt as if it were crushing him to the floor. He swallowed hard, struggling to control his tone as he spoke, his words turning cold as ice and sharp as a knife. “I am trying to find my brother’s–your son’s killer. I am trying to find out who is threatening us,” he took a breath. “And if I must visit the most unsavory of places, so be it. I will get my answers there, if nowhere else.”

“It was but a mere accident, with the carriage,” she said, her voice quaking. He could see the emotions pulling at her features, the color washing from her face. “Let the dead rest, Dorian.”

“Someone killed him. It was no accident,” he was sure of it.

“I will hear no more of it,” she snapped. “And you will–”

“Mother, I love you dearly. But you will not tell me to stop. I will not.”

She frowned, his words weighing on her. “How are you certain?”

“I just… I just know,” he said. It was something he couldn’t explain, a feeling that lingered in his mind. But there was no doubt in his mind that his brother’s untimely death had not been an accident. “I have heard some things from his… associates.”

He could not stand to get into the details, not concerning the company that his brother kept, and especially not with his own mother. But it had been quite clear that his brother owed a vast amount of funds to various people. Some of the names that Madam Catherine had given him had been obscure, people he did not– and probably would never know. But others, others he knew all too well.

“What… what will you do if you find the one who did it?”

Dorian hesitated. He could not even be sure that the one who had killed his brother was the same one sending the threats, but he was almost sure of it. There was simply something about the letters, the tone behind the words, it was menacing and promising.

If the threats had been made only to himself, he might have overlooked them– if the person was caught, they’d be turned to the authorities. But now, he was not so certain that he would not have blood on his hands. “I truly do not know.”

“You will have a wife soon,” his mother urged.

He frowned. “And?”

“Do not do something that would take you from her.”

Dorian frowned. “I will not put her through what you had to endure.”

Dorian was faced with a pang of guilt. He did not regret what he did when it came to his father, but he knew his mother’s own reputation had been shattered when word broke out of what had happened. She had been whispered about and shunned. Dorian realized he could not make the same mistake when it came to Eleanor.

Or at least, he would try not to.

I truly do not wish to be here…

Eleanor had not wanted to attend, but she still found herself in the home of the Earl of Amsbury. It was a beautiful home, elegant and well-kept, with bustling staff and the smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. If her mood had not turned so sour, she might have enjoyed herself.

She had not slept well the previous night, her mind a mess of thoughts of the duke. Eleanor was furious with him, and yet she still longed for his company—for anything. He had not written, sent a message, or made an appearance since she had seen him wandering the streets of London the previous night.

Doubt had crept into her mind as well, making her second-guess herself. Was the tall man she had seen truly him? Or had her thoughts of him clouded her judgment?

“You could at least pretend to enjoy yourself, sister,” Philip muttered under his breath as he leaned closer to her at the table, his voice laced with a strange threat.

Eleanor glanced around the long, mahogany table with a polite smile. Her mother had not attended with them, despite being invited, which did not seem to surprise anyone. Though she had been more sociable in the last few days, making appearances in Society was not yet on the cards.

The earl was dressed comfortably, though he still looked stylish. His clothing was relatively plain, but it was clear that it was well-made and likely expensive. His blonde hair had been styled to frame his face, making his piercing blue eyes seem more prominent.

At the earl’s side was the Marquess of Jameson, who had already downed two glasses of wine, and was thirsty for more. He looked more disheveled than the rest. His eyes seemed to dart about the table, as if he were concerned that someone was watching.

Eleanor had done well to avoid his gaze until then, when their eyes met for the most brief of moments.

A shadow crossed the marquess’s face before he turned to the earl. “A lovely vintage this is, Nicholas,” he noted, nodding to his third glass of deep, rich, red wine.

“Ah, thank you! It was imported from Spain.” Nicholas chuckled before turning his attention to Eleanor, his brow furrowed. “My lady, you have barely had a sip! Is it not to your liking? Shall I fetch something else?”

Eleanor’s smile did not quite reach her eyes. “I only wish to savor the taste, my lord. A wine such as this deserves to be tasted.”

Her slight was not lost on the marquess, whose eyes bored into her. She did not look back at him, her gaze fixed on the earl.

Nicholas seemed pleased with her answer, as he nodded in agreement. “You are right!”

The food was delicious, of course, but she could not seem to convince herself to enjoy it. Eleanor tried to compose herself, to keep thoughts of the duke out of her mind. But it seemed, each time she managed to do that, his face would flash in her mind, emerging victorious again and again.

Keeping an ear trained on the conversation at the table, she allowed herself to think more of what she had seen the previous night. Though doubt continued to rise to the surface, something deep in her gut told her that it had indeed been Dorian. There was no mistaking his height, the broadness of his shoulders, and the tell-tale signs of muscle underneath his jacket.

Her thoughts lingered on those muscles, imagining just how they would feel beneath her fingertips. Eleanor could almost feel the hard ridges, the heat from his skin, and the musky smell of his body. By the time she was drawn from her wicked thoughts, a hot flush had risen to her face.

She became all too aware of a set of eyes on her. The earl was watching her, a subtle hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. Eleanor straightened, fanning herself as she blinked away the image of the duke from her mind.

Something about the way the earl had looked at her made her stomach twist into knots, as if he had been reading her thoughts. It was a ridiculous notion, and yet she felt a shiver run down her spine.

“You must be excited, Lady Eleanor. Your wedding is approaching,” the marquess said before finishing his glass. He wore a bored look on his face, but his eyes told her he was much more interested in the topic than he let on.

She smiled. “I am, of course. It is approaching quite quickly.”

Philip tensed beside her, but he remained quiet. It was more and more evident that he did not approve of her choice, despite the fact that he had truly been the one to insist it happen. Eleanor was almost certain that if it was not for the conditions he had placed, she might not even be marrying the duke at all.

You have yourself to blame.

“I did invite the Duke of Dayton tonight,” the earl revealed.

“He has been feeling quite ill the past few days.” she smiled sympathetically, though her words did not seem convincing.

Eleanor felt herself tense as she looked at the marquess, who seemed to be holding back a smile—he knew something she did not.

The marquess and the duke did not seem overly close. She watched him, assessing his subdued expression with a curious smile. If he did know something, it seemed clear that he did not plan to disclose such information.

After dinner, the earl ushered them into the drawing room, which he admitted was not used often. The room had not been updated with the remainder of the house and thus maintained an older charm.

It was clean, without a hint of dust, but the furniture was very old—from decades before. Eleanor much liked this room, taking in the lovely scenic paintings that adorned the walls.

As the men sat near the fireplace, sipping on aged brandy and discussing politics, Eleanor moved about the room, taking in the paintings. When she spotted the signature in the bottom left corner of the first one, realization dawned on her.

She turned to the earl. “Did you paint these, Lord Amsbury?”

Nicholas glanced up. “Ah, many years ago, yes. I’m afraid I don’t have as much time for such things now, but I was quite passionate about painting back then.”

“Ah, to be young and without duties,” the marquess, notably drunk, said with a nod. He glanced over at the painting just past Eleanor, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight, before returning his attention to the fire.

She watched as the earl stood up and walked over to her gracefully. He wore a polite smile, but despite his unassuming nature, she found herself stepping back as he approached.

If Lord Amsbury noticed her discomfort, he did not show it.

“This is my favorite.” He motioned to the painting on her right.

It was a scene of a carriage rushing down a cobblestone road, with hues of off-white and gray. Set in the winter, at night, it was a lovely piece. Eleanor could not help but notice that the colors seemed more vibrant than the rest, as if he had painted it more recently.

“It is lovely.” She smiled.

The earl seemed lost in thought for a moment. “You like it, then?”

“Of course.” She nodded.

It was a beautiful painting, after all. Eleanor glanced back at it, taking in the scene once more. Though it was beautifully done, and there was no mistaking the skill behind each stroke, there was something about it that made her feel almost uneasy.

“Then I shall have it sent to Dayton Hall tonight.”

Eleanor blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled down at her. “Consider it a wedding gift, Lady Eleanor.”

“You were out again?”

The heavy oak door creaked as Dorian entered the dimly lit foyer. The air was already thick with tension, and his mother stood at the bottom of the stairs with her arms crossed. She raised her eyebrows, awaiting an answer from him, something to explain where he had been the past two nights.

“Dorian, answer me,” she demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet like a sharp knife. With a look of determination, paired with both concern and disapproval, she walked over to him, a deep-set frown on her face. “Where have you been?”

Dorian, weary and worn from a night spent chasing shadows, brushed past her without offering a response. He was exhausted, his entire body felt heavy, and his mind was heavier still. His mother, undeterred, rushed after him.

“I can smell the liquor on you, and the smoke,” she hissed.

Dorian sighed as he slipped off his jacket. “And what of it?”

“Do not tell me you were with improper company again!”

He tossed his coat, letting it hang on the railing at the bottom of the staircase. He turned slowly to face her. He had expected as much, and though he had hoped she would not pester him, it was a foolish hope.

“I do not have time for this,” he said as he attempted to slip past her.

She grabbed him by the arm, her grip firm. “Your absence the other night was noted by everyone, including your betrothed,” she pressed, her gaze unwavering.

He stared down at her, towering over her. “I am doing this for her.”

“By disappearing into the night and returning reeking of vice?”

Dorian took a deep breath, attempting to gather his thoughts. There was a reason he had been gone. The night had been a relentless pursuit of information in the most unsavory of places. He had been hoping to identify some of his brother’s creditors, but every turn had led to a dead end.

“I have been trying to find out to whom my brother owed money.” He tried to keep his voice level, calm, but the frustration seeped into his tone. He could feel the rage building in his chest, his muscles tensing.

“What do you mean?” His mother’s grip loosened, her hand falling to her side.

Dorian ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been everywhere, asked everyone who would know about it, and I still cannot get a clear answer. But whoever it is, they have threatened Eleanor now as well. I need to find them.”

“You do not need to bear this burden alone⁠—”

And who will help me?

He felt as if he were about to blow up, about to erupt with frustration and pure, hot rage.

Dorian stepped back from his mother, turning his gaze to the stairs. “I’m going to rest a while, do not disturb me.”

With that, he headed up to his room.

The moment his head hit the pillow, he had expected to fall asleep, but sleep eluded him. He had closed the thick curtains, plunging the room into darkness as the sun crept into the sky. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts of his brother’s debts, the threat and, above all else, Eleanor.

He had not seen her in a few days, but it felt like a lifetime. Dorian rolled over, stared up at the canopy, and sighed. It seemed ridiculous that he longed for her so desperately, to see or even hear her voice. But he did, he knew he missed her, though he’d never admit it aloud.

I should not have grown so attached.

Even without the looming threats, he had not planned on feeling anything for her. Certainly, she was beautiful and desirable, but it was not just lust that drove him toward her. Not entirely. Any feelings for her should’ve been snuffed out the moment they sparked, but he had been careless.

It was meant to be a marriage of convenience, nothing else. And yet he found himself in the throes of considering the rest, of what else it could be with her. It was frustrating, but there was the faintest hint of anticipation lingering beneath the surface. Perhaps, when this was all over, he could reconsider the terms of their marriage.

Perhaps, when it was all over he’d not turn away his feelings for her.

Keeping his distance as he searched for information seemed nearly impossible, and Eleanor haunted his thoughts constantly. No matter what he did, she was there in the back of his mind, but now as he lay in bed, unable to close his eyes, he craved her.

Dorian wanted to feel her skin beneath him, to taste and savor her. His arousal pressed against the covers, needy and pleading.

He forced his eyes closed, willing her to appear in his bed with him.

He could almost feel her lips against his own, the taste of her mouth was not the only thing he wished to dine on though. Every inch of her deserved to be worshiped and would happily fall to his knees before her. He imagined the way she would writhe if his tongue were to glide against her most delicate parts.

Dorian’s pleasure had always been the priority to him, his own release, his own needs. But now he found himself wanting nothing more than to please her. To completely devour her and leave her trembling. His own pleasure came second to hers.

Dorian wanted to feel her hips move in some primal rhythm, he wanted to make her cry out.

I want her to scream my name.

He shook his head and snapped his eyes open, willing himself to stop. He was already hard and aching for her, just when he had decided that he had to keep his distance. He shouldn’t hope to claim her. For now. Even if every part of him screamed to do just that. Soon.