Chapter 13
“ T his is what you said that you wanted, Dorian. Was it not?”
Mary asked with a smug smile as she stood on the sidelines of the grand ballroom. The place was positively transformed. A small stage with a string quartet played in the far corner, and decadent food was arranged for those who wished to graze throughout the evening. While it was only to be a small affair, allegedly, it was decorated as if it were a ball. He had been forced to listen to Mary and Cordelia’s planning and them putting their final touches on the event all afternoon. They had planned the guest list, the games, the schedule, and where everyone would sleep should they choose to stay over for the morning. An equally elaborate breakfast was supposed to be planned for tomorrow.
Mary had insisted on that part, as it was the only portion of the events Georgie would be allowed to attend. He had not gone to bed with his nanny easily. They did not host functions like this here, and he was over the moon with excitement. To be deprived of it had started the biggest pouting fit he thought he had ever seen from the boy, which was saying something.
Alas, Georgie does not realize how lucky he is…
Mary pressed a glass of wine into Dorian’s hand as she hummed happily to the music. “You wanted her to smile, and now she is. What could you possibly have to be so surly about?”
Did they have to have it here? This was supposed to be his home, a place for peace and quiet. If he had wanted those people here, he would have invited them.
“You truly are not going to interact with them at all?” Mary asked, frustration seeping into her tone. After he did not answer her, she heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook her head. Mary moved toward the group of guests and Cordelia, intent on joining in the games with the rest of them.
He glanced out over the small groupings of Cordelia’s friends and their very familiar husbands, and then there was Patrick Hislop. Those would have been enough even if his wife had not also insisted that her infuriating cousin return for the festivities as well. Something about the Viscount of Debonaire did not sit right with him. He did not care for the way that his gaze lingered on Cordelia. She did not belong to him. He had no right to even share her air, let alone look at her in the covetous way that he insisted upon.
I still cannot believe I reacted like that.
Dorian glanced down at his knuckles; the bruising nearly faded now. He should not have allowed himself to lose his temper in the way that he had. The large imported vase from the upstairs room was broken, and the hole that he had created in the wall… well, he had blocked off the room for the time being until he determined what it was that he wished to do with the space now.
Or should it have been his smug face instead?
Glancing out over the small grouping of people, Cordelia truly seemed to be in her element. It only made him feel even more guilty for keeping her locked away from people here. Not that society was being kind to her or her mother. It felt like a situation in which there truly was no winning.
Cordelia’s smile stretched from ear to ear. It was not as if he did not wish for her to be happy.
I have never managed to make her smile like that.
It felt like the gap between his life and hers was too wide to cross. There were brief moments where the chasm narrowed, but usually, they were far too opposite. He did not want this. He did not enjoy parties, or socializing when he could help it. But, was the whole point of this not to make her happy? Penance for his actions?
Quickly, he looked away and sipped at his glass of wine slowly.
There should not be any part of him that cared about Cordelia on a real level.
He refused to let himself care more, and he was nothing if not in control.
It was why he stood on the sidelines as one of the women played the piano and the other women sang along joyfully. He watched with as much patience as he could muster through the parlor games and the many bottles of wine.
Dorian watched as Patrick monopolized his sister’s time and attention. So long as he was keeping her occupied, his meddlesome sister was far less likely to come over and bother him or make insipid comments about his holding up the wall.
He did not even need to be here. It would detract nothing from the party if he would leave. The only thing stopping him was that he did not trust Lord Debonaire alone with his wife. Not for a moment. Not anymore. He could not tear his attention off of Cordelia. He wanted to be the one to make her smile.
Was he being foolish in thinking that if Cordelia truly wished for him to join her, then she would have said something? He was here physically to show her his version of… well, it was not support, per se.
But he was here, that had to mean something, right?
If only he could sort out his feelings properly and find a way to act on the desires that he kept telling himself that he was not allowed to have. He had slipped up far too many times as it was. She was… Cordelia was temptation incarnate and he could not explain it.
Dorian forced himself back center, watching and listening.
Eleanor, the Duchess of Larson, forced Xander to sit at the piano next, her laugh tinkling through the air as she insisted, “You play, and I shall sing, my love. For me?” She smiled at him, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Xander sighed and acquiesced, his fingers brushing across the ivory keys as a soft melody began to fill the room to the backing accompaniment of the quartet.
Cordelia, standing not far from the piano, tried to join in the spirit of the evening. Dorian watched her, his jaw tightening. She had been smiling all night, her laughter light and carefree, but he could see the subtle glances she cast in his direction, each one a quiet question he did not have the strength to answer. Not now. Not while Debonaire was still hovering like a vulture in the corner, his eyes always finding her, as if she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“You must dance, Cordelia!” Eleanor chirped, the familiar tone of her teasing voice cutting through the music. “It is no fun to stand by all night.”
Cordelia smiled politely as she glanced toward Dorian for a brief moment. “I think I shall sit this one out,” she said softly, but Eleanor would have none of it.
“Your Grace, you cannot possibly deny your wife a dance, can you?” Eleanor’s voice was playful, but Dorian could feel the weight of her gaze. He stood stiffly, his grip tightening on his glass.
“I–” he began, but his words were cut short by Cordelia’s soft, disappointed look, and before he could take another step forward, Debonaire swooped in with a broad grin, bowing deeply before Cordelia.
“His Grace clearly has better things to do. I can happily take his place. Of course, if you would do me the honor?”
“Oh, I am not sure. I–”
“Come now, Cousin. Don’t be such a spoilsport. The song is almost over!”
Cordelia’s gaze lingered on Dorian for only a moment longer before she held out her hand toward Matthew.
Without hesitation, Matthew took her hand, leading her out onto the floor. Dorian watched in silence as Cordelia allowed herself to be swept away, her laughter bubbling up as they twirled together. He should have been relieved that Matthew’s jovial nature had lifted her spirits, but all he felt was a dark, simmering frustration tightening in his chest.
“Shame, really,” came a low voice from behind him. Dorian turned to find Rhysand leaning casually against the wall, his sharp eyes following Cordelia’s movements. “You had your chance. Now look at you, standing here like a man watching his ship sail away. Pathetic.”
Dorian’s throat tightened, but he said nothing. He could not tear his gaze away from the way Debonaire’s hand rested just a little too easily at the small of Cordelia’s back, how her smile came so naturally when she was with him. His hand clenched around his glass, knuckles white.
“I would not be so calm if that were my wife,” Rhysand added, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the words hit Dorian like a punch to the gut.
Anger flared within him. He was about to speak, to tell Rhysand exactly what he could do with his unsolicited advice, but instead, he downed the rest of his wine and set the glass aside. Without another glance at Rhysand or the dance floor, he turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps heavy as he made his way toward the darkened hall.
I shouldn’t care.
What was the matter with him? Of all of the insane, impulsive, reckless things that he had been inclined to do, this one might take the icing on the cake. He had truly been about to hit that man for daring to touch Cordelia. Dorian knew how that would have ended. It only would have resulted in the guests screaming, his reputation being even worse than it had been before. Cordelia would be cross with him for injuring her cousin. There were a dozen or more reasons that he could not do what he longed to do, but he would have felt better.
She deserves better than this.
The moment that bastard’s hand found her waist, he had seen red. Paired with the words from Rhysand’s mouth, he was playing with fire.
No, I cannot hurt any more of the people she cares about.
He did not stop walking until he was on the balcony leading out into the back gardens. The cool night air wrapped around him, holding him tightly and seizing his lungs. Good. That was exactly what he needed. Something to calm his temper if nothing else.
He stopped at the banister, setting his glass down on the stone and looking out over the lawns at the raised beds that Cordelia had managed to transform into something wholly stunning in such a short amount of time. From the array of colors, it appeared that she had repotted existing flower plants and spaced them for the ones that had not yet started to grow.
He sighed, letting his head hang as his fingers scraped against the stone and then curled into a tight fist. No matter what, he needed to figure out his plan, and quickly. He could not allow Cordelia to continue to affect him so strongly. He ought to make a move or let it go.