Chapter 7
Eyes blinking awake after dawn, helpless frustration and worry warped Evelina’s insides. She wanted to despise Dorian—but she could not. He irked her to the last fraying strand of her patience, but if she looked at it objectively, he had saved her from a very horrible fate.
What I don’t know is, what will I do from here on?
She turned her head and something crinkled under her cheek. “What the—” she lifted and snagged the paper off her pillow and blinked at it, “—is this a recipe?”
The handwriting was slashing, and it had measurements and ingredients for meal preparation and cooking. At the bottom, Dorian had written, “Be a good girl and cook dinner for us. I’ll bring dessert.” She sat up. “The nerve of him!”
Jumping off the bed, she grabbed her wraps and stormed to find Dorian—only to find him gone. In the kitchen was a basket of raw ingredients, pots, pans and knives, all laid out with precision. “How thoughtful of him.”
Dorian was a contradiction in himself, he had the grace of a ton gentleman, but the gruffness of a scoundrel. He teased and taunted her like a little boy but kissed her like a seducer.
She had a quick bath and dressed quickly, then planted her feet in the kitchen and gazed at the instructions. “Mince pies,” she murmured to herself. “How hard can it be…”
I wish I were anywhere but here, hobnobbing with these toffs. A luncheon is not what I need now.
“Your Grace,” Carrington’s rough voice drew his attention from the whisky in his hand. “Do you have a moment?”
The deference in Sterling’s voice while they were in public amused Dorian, as anywhere else, the power dynamic would have shifted.
He turned to find Sterling there, with Mr. and Mrs. Langford, Evelina’s selfish and traitorous relatives.
If he had the power and the means—and he soon would—he’d give the two social climbers their just desserts.
“Carrington,” he inclined his head and then nodded to the two. “Friends of yours?”
“In a sense,” Carrington’s smile was brittle at the corners. “They are my guests. Mr. and Mrs. Langford, it is my honor to introduce His Grace, Duke of Wolfthorne, Dorian Beaumont.”
Mrs. Langford wore the most insipid pink eyesore, trimmed with miles of ribbon and lace, and with panniers suitable for Queen Elizabeth’s court. The wide skirts had the most flounces Dorian had ever seen on a single piece of clothing.
No wonder Evelina has that nightgown.
The lady curtsied deeply enough that her nose was almost a foot from the floor while her husband nearly fell over his feet bowing.
“Pleased to meet you, Your Grace,” Mr. Langford nodded, his forehead beading with sweat.
“Yes, yes, very pleased to meet you,” his wife gushed, with stars in her eyes.
“These two lovely people are the relatives of the dear Miss I was about to marry,” Carrington said, his mouth ticking down. “Unfortunately, we still have not found the girl yet, but we have hopes she will return soon. It is not easy for a gentle born girl to live out in the world on her own.”
Mrs. Langford gave a long-suffering sigh. She pressed a hand to her breast. “I am so sorry, my lord. My husband and I know we have raised our niece better than that.”
Sticking a hand into a pocket, Dorian bit back the harsh, venomous cutting words brimming on his tongue. “Did the little Miss know about the engagement prior to this?”
The two shared a look, to where the man shook his head.
“Not… exactly. But we knew she had poor options of marriage, so we chose the best for her—” the wife wrung her hands, “—she is an orphan, Your Grace, and her father was destitute by the time he passed. You know how these things go. Without a dowry, who would take her?”
“To a man thrice her age?” Dorian quirked a brow. “Isn’t that unfair to the young Miss?”
Mrs. Langford grew flustered. “We didn’t think it wise to arrange a marriage to a younger, well, poorer fellow as it would not help either of them. The dowry, you know.”
“Not like our daughter,” Mr. Langford hastened to insert while waving to someone.
“She has a very generous dowry—” a young woman joined them, and the man dropped a hand to her shoulder, “—my dear, it is my delight to introduce you to His Grace, Duke Wolfthorne. Your Grace, this is my daughter, Harriet Langford.”
The chit was dressed in a pale ivory gown, the cut of her neckline left her shoulders bare, dipping to a daring vee between her bosom—utterly inappropriate for a debutante.
What struck him was—the girl looked entirely uncomfortable in the gown, and when she did curtsy, she did all she could to minimize the dip; he felt as if she wanted to slap a hand over her bosom and run away if she could.
His gaze flickered to the two behind her; how was it that these two atrocious souls could produce a decent girl?
“Pleased to meet you, Your Grace,” she said quietly.
He dipped his head. “Miss Langford. I am sorry to hear about your cousin. How are you coping with that?”
She shook her head. “I am worried for Evelina every day. She was my constant companion as we grew up and she is such a sweet soul. I wish I had not left that room that day at the church and left her alone to get abducted.”
Cocking his head, Dorian asked, “Why do you think she was taken?”
Before she replied, Harriet shot a look at her mother, then said, “Because Ellie is much too polite to run away on her own.”
You mean, the indoctrination your mother drummed into her from day one to do as she was told—yes, I agree.
“I see,” he nodded.
“As a matter of fact, Lady Victoria Rothwell and I were just speaking about it, and she too regrets not staying with her either,” Harriet replied, her head turning to look over the hall to a lady swarmed with a semi-circle of suitors.
Following her gaze, Dorian saw the lovely Lady Victoria Rothwell flick her shimmering curtain of hair. A ripple of irritation snapped his spine straight; if she was there, her turncoat brother was somewhere nearby.
Carrington snagged a flute of champagne, then took a long sip. “Never fear, we are looking for the poor girl. I happen to think she grew afraid of the mere thought of marriage and ran. I am sure when we do find her, and I explain this is nothing to be afraid of, she will acquiesce.”
You’ll only use her and denigrate her. You and I damn well know it.
“I see,” Dorian threw back the rest of his brandy and savored the slow burn of his drink. The hot tingling was not unlike what he’d felt around Evelina—only then, the sensation evoked from thinking of her warmed more than his stomach.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Mrs. Langford began, “are you the marrying sort, Your Grace… erm, if that was not too bold of me.”
“It was bold,” Dorian replied curtly. “But I do not mind. I am deeply averse to the matrimonial bug. We rakes have such natural immunity, I suppose.”
The woman’s face turned sour, as if she’d smelled three-day-old sick on her shoes. Surely, she did not want her daughter to marry a rakehell. In a moment, the repulsion vanished and the simpering sycophantic expression engrained itself in her face again.
“Well, we cannot fault you for that, Your Grace,” she gave a strained, braying laugh. “You young men do have the world at your fingertips, after all.”
A sensation ran over the back of Dorian’s neck as a smooth voice said, “An apt statement, as His Grace has properties all over the world.”
Baron Eastbrook, Benedict Rothwell.
Dorian turned to his once-friend, noting the light dancing over the dark waves of his hair and glinting off his round spectacles. His sister was holding onto his arm, her expression placid, but Dorian did not miss how anxiously her eyes flitted between him and her brother.
“Eastbrook,” Dorian greeted him icily. “How is the scientific pursuit of turning iron into gold coming along?”
“As best as my reading my future in the stars is,” Benedict said calmly. “But the pesky planets keep moving.”
The stifling silence and tension would once have intimidated Dorian, but now he was immune. He had no problem letting others squirm and fold into themselves, especially those of this family, the ones who had helped his uncle steal from him and his father.
Benedict’s father was also on his list for retribution.
“And before you ask, as I can see the question on your faces, Eastbrook and I were colleagues once, dare I even say friends,” Dorian levelled a cold and glittering glare.
“Once,” Benedict agreed.
The air got so coarse, the hairs on the back of his arm began to stand up, until Lady Victoria calmly said, “Lord Carrington, you’ve hired investigators to find her, haven’t you?”
“I have,” Sterling nodded. “But I am sure the poor girl is simply afraid of marriage. When we find her, we’ll have a firm talk and straighten all this out.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Langford nodded emphatically, his nervousness almost palpable. “We shall absolutely do so. Erm, dear, did you mention you wanted to greet the hostess?”
“I did,” the woman replied. “Your Grace and your lordship, will you excuse us?”
Dorian gave a permissive wave and when the family went off, Rothwell and his sister excused themselves too, while Sterling stayed behind.
In a moment, Sterling’s face hardened. “When I do find that lightskirt, I will not be as merciful as I told you that I would be. She’ll be latched to my bed or on her knees. ”
Throwing back the rest of his drink, Dorian replied, “I expected nothing less from you.”
“I will not be disrespected this way,” Sterling’s hand clenched his champagne flute. “She’ll never know a day of peace in her life.”
Dorian stilled. “You want to take a gentlebred woman and make her into a servant.”
“Worse than that,” Sterling was working himself into a froth. “The girl will not see the sun for the rest of her days.”
Dorian had existed in a savage, cutthroat world for far too long, he’d stared so long into the abyss, he’d felt it staring back into him.
Now, he felt that same darkness creeping over him— Sterling was not lying.
He was going to hurt Evelina just because he could, because he was reprehensible and a deformed soul.
He could not trust the man to default on his word. Ellie would never be safe on her own, not anymore, not with Sterling still alive. Even if he managed to get her overseas, it would not help.
His plan to get what he wanted from Sterling had vaulted into a ditch.
“And here, I thought you would be a patronizing but distant husband,” Dorian shrugged. “Pity the fool that is me.”
“Distant husband,” Sterling scoffed. “Until I train her, I’ll have a whore in my bed from day one.”
“Are you staying for the luncheon?” Dorian asked while looking around at the unsuspecting lords and ladies. “Because I do not care to stay and listen to enough dribble that my brain will trickle out of my ears.”
“Is it the club?”
“The club,” he assented. “I have a party of lords coming in, newly emancipated from years of studies and drab lecture halls. I need to make sure there is enough Spanish wine they will pay through the nose for.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times,” Sterling grunted, “If you had whores in your place, you’d reap twice the blunt.”
“I do not exploit women,” Dorian replied. “It is inherently cheap to distract them by having women wriggling their buttocks beneath diaphanous cloth.”
Dorian could not wait to get away from the repugnant man. “If they decide otherwise, I’ll send them Wellington’s way. He has more than enough Cyprians to fulfill a bacchanalia. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Striding away, he felt Sterling’s gaze resting heavily on the back of his neck, but he did not care.
I need to get to Evelina. Now.