Chapter 6
I will admit that I had imagined this exact scenario more than once.
After all, Mr. Dorian lived in London, and it was not entirely outside the realm of possibility that our paths would cross at some point.
What I had not imagined was the very beautiful woman with silky, dark hair and warm, olive skin clutching his arm.
He stared back at me in absolute shock for a long, tense moment, and when it became clear that he would not be making introductions, I turned to his companion.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Harper,” I said with a beatific smile.
The woman cast a quick, confused glance at her silent partner before smiling back at me. “I’m Mrs. Langham. Pleasure to meet you.”
Her cordial greeting seemed to shock Mr. Dorian to attention, and he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Harper and I met on Corfu last spring,” he rasped.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh! He was just telling me about that. How he was having such a wretched time there, and then on top of that, he was forced to hire some poor local woman to type for him,” she said on a laugh.
Based on her rather theatrical manner, enviable appearance, and what I had gleaned from the gossip sheets, I wondered if Mrs. Langham was an actress—not that I was casting judgement. I supported any profession that allowed a woman to make a safe, comfortable living for herself.
My smile tightened. “Yes, that was me. The poor local woman.” Then I turned to Mr. Dorian. “Though I didn’t realize you were having such a wretched time,” I said with mock sympathy.
He narrowed his eyes in an unamused look so achingly familiar that my breath caught. “I don’t think I used the word ‘wretched,’ Mrs. Langham,” he replied while holding my gaze.
“Oh, no. Of course not,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid I tend to exaggerate for dramatic effect,” she added with a laugh before addressing me. “He did say how lovely the island was.”
I gave her a gracious nod. “Yes, it is.”
“So then,” he prompted in a brusque tone, “what has finally compelled you to return to England’s shores?”
I was obliged to turn back to him, which I did with obvious reluctance. “My daughter has enrolled in school, and I came to see her settled.”
“How old is your daughter?” Mrs. Langham asked. Though she was clearly trying to make up for her earlier faux pas, I was grateful for her interest as it allowed me to ignore Mr. Dorian.
“Fourteen.”
“A wonderful age!” Mrs. Langham exclaimed, making it clear that she had no fourteen-year-olds of her own or must not remember her own youth particularly well.
These last years with Cleo had been challenging.
An endless mixture of highs and lows, often occurring within moments of each other.
Though I missed living with her very much, my nerves were grateful for the reprieve.
As the woman continued to wax on about the glories of being fourteen, I could still see, out the corner of my eye, Mr. Dorian watching me. However, I would not engage with him any longer. When Mrs. Langham paused to take a breath, I wasted no time cutting in.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I must be going. This is a terribly late night for me,” I added with a strained laugh. My head was beginning to throb from the champagne, and I could not keep up this pretense much longer.
The woman looked genuinely sorry. “Of course.” Then she turned to Mr. Dorian. “You must let her use your carriage. You’ll never find a hansom here at this hour,” she explained to me. “And we parked just round the corner.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s not a problem,” Mr. Dorian insisted curtly.
I let out a weary sigh as I turned to him and nearly reared back at the trace of concern in his dark eyes. How dare he act as though he cared. “Fine,” I said more sharply than I intended. “Do you mind?” I asked Delia.
She had been watching this entire exchange with undisguised interest and quickly shook her head. “Not at all. Thank you, Mr. Dorian. We’re just over in Portman Square and will send the carriage right back for you.”
“No need to rush,” Mrs. Langham said cheerily. “This one never leaves a party early.”
A dry laugh escaped my lips then, which I tried to cover with a cough, but Mr. Dorian wasn’t fooled. He narrowed his eyes at me, and I lifted my chin in response.
“Come along, then,” he muttered. The three of us followed in his wake, while Mrs. Langham stayed behind.
As Charles moved to walk alongside Mr. Dorian, Delia slid her arm through mine. “You have an awful lot to explain when we get home,” she murmured.
I sighed again. “Must I?”
Delia merely shot me a look in response.
I should have felt vindicated. After all, my worst suspicions about Mr. Dorian and his character had now proved to be true.
He was a feckless womanizer. A libertine.
And yet I could not deny the heaviness that settled over my shoulders as we made our way towards the exit.
My gaze strayed to his tall form just ahead, and my traitorous heart lurched in my chest.
The crowd had grown far more raucous in the time since we arrived, so our progress towards the exit was slow. The baron caught sight of us just as we were retrieving our coats and sauntered over.
“Leaving already?” he said to me.
“I’m afraid so. It is well past this bluestocking’s bedtime.”
He tilted his head and gave me a considering look. “But I haven’t had the chance to engage you in some frivolous debate yet.”
I laughed a little louder than I normally would have, just in case Mr. Dorian was watching. “Another time, perhaps.”
The baron smiled. “I look forward to it,” he murmured before addressing the rest of our party.
When I glanced over, I did indeed see Mr. Dorian glowering in my direction.
I raised a questioning eyebrow, and he immediately looked away.
I couldn’t help feeling a keen little sense of satisfaction, but guilt quickly followed.
For what was I trying to prove to him anyway?
That I could garner the fleeting attentions of another man for a few brief moments? That was petty, even for me.
With our good-byes said, we stepped out into the night, and the biting October air sent a shiver through me. I hugged myself and tucked my chin to my chest, but it made little difference.
“Here,” a gruff voice barked, and before I could look up, Mr. Dorian draped his dinner jacket over my shoulders. Just as his all-too-familiar scent began to envelope me, I shrugged the jacket away.
“I’m fine.”
He shot me an irritated look, but relented. “The carriage is just ahead anyway.”
I resisted the instinct to thank him for the gesture and looked ahead to where a black-lacquered coach stood waiting.
“Thanks again, Dorian,” Charles chimed in.
“It’s no trouble,” he said flatly, then moved ahead to speak with the coachman.
“How do you know him?” Delia asked Charles, while we huddled together on the pavement.
“We’ve met out in London many times. I’m a great fan of his books,” he added, then turned to me. “You must tell me all about his writing process.”
“I don’t know much about that. I only did some typing for him.”
He had come to Corfu exhausted and barely able to work properly, thanks to the endless swirl of gossip surrounding his recent divorce.
Though we got off on the wrong foot, I soon felt a kind of sympathy for him.
And then, something more. But the man I had met then bore little resemblance to the one before me now, who apparently swanned about London until all hours and in all sorts of company.
Just as Charles began to respond, Mr. Dorian called over to us: “You said you’re in Portman Square?”
“Yes,” Delia replied before giving the house number.
The coachman nodded and climbed up onto his seat, while Mr. Dorian opened the door for us.
Charles helped Delia inside, and when it was my turn, Mr. Dorian stuck his hand out.
I stared at his gloved palm for a moment, then looked up.
He was watching me closely, with a look of challenge I recognized all too well.
I narrowed my eyes and put my hand in his. “Thank you,” I said primly as he helped me inside.
“Oh, but the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Harper,” he replied in a mocking tone.
I rolled my eyes as I took the seat beside Delia. Mr. Dorian was clearly in one of his moods. Hopefully, his companion was prepared. Charles then exchanged a few words with Mr. Dorian before climbing in after me.
“Thank you again, Mr. Dorian,” Delia said a little breathlessly. “You must come and visit us very soon.”
Somehow I resisted the urge to nudge her with my elbow—not that the man would take her up on the offer, of course. But then Mr. Dorian caught my gaze as he answered her: “Yes. I think I will.” Then he shut the door just as I began to scowl.
Charles and Delia chatted away as the carriage took us back to Portman Square, but I confess I barely heard a word. I was far too distracted by my thoughts. Thoughts that, I will admit, mostly revolved around Mr. Dorian.
He couldn’t possibly mean to come visit us.
No, he had only said that to needle me, which he found endlessly amusing for some reason.
When the carriage turned onto my parents’ street, the full weight of the evening descended upon me, and my eyes grew heavy.
I really was quite tired. That had not been a lie to avoid Mr. Dorian’s company.
“Here we are,” Delia said as the carriage came to a stop. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Charlie.”
“An evening spent in your company can be nothing but lovely,” he replied with an earnest look before turning to me. “It was very nice to meet you, Minnie. I hope we can all have a night out again while you are here.”
“I am not sure I have the stamina for another late night,” I said with a smile. “But yes, I hope we will meet again soon.”