Chapter 12 #2
She had left the room to the adjoint room, and after knocking on Dorian’s door, realized he was gone.
“That bounder…” she huffed.
Spinning around, she tightened the robe and headed back to her rooms, when a slip of white caught her eye. Turning, she approached the sideboard and moved the paper from the elephant figurine.
“It is a schedule…”
It clearly highlighted the priorities of her day. “I will be replying to cards today… and by midday, attempt to bribe cook’s favor if I want to make… orange cake?” She paused. “Why would I need to bribe her?”
Shelving that question to ask Agnes, she drifted back into her rooms while reading the rest of her day routine. Periods were also designated for reading, consulting with the housekeeper, and whatever leisure activities she desired.
An arrow at the bottom of the paper had her flipping it over. “Do not leave this house today, and not for a minimum of seven days. This is non-negotiable. I have my reasons.” She rested the schedule down. “I should be outraged by such impositions being placed on me… but I am not.”
Agnes came promptly at eight o’clock to assist her with her morning bath and to don a soft blue day dress, arranging her hair in a low twist over her neck, with ringlets over her cheeks.
“When did His Grace leave this morning?” she asked.
“From my knowledge, before dawn this morning, Your Grace,” Agnes said.
“I see,” Ellie replied. “Has His Grace designated a room for me to work in?”
“Oh yes, yes,” the maid bobbed her head. “He has given you a drawing room for yourself. I’ll be happy to show you there, and if you would like, I can bring you your morning meal there also.”
“I’d accept that,” she replied. “Thank you.”
Soon, Agnes was leading her to a room that was a few doors down from Dorian’s study. The room was a neutral tone with pale grey-on-grey damask on the walls, and elegant mahogany furnishings that had clean, classical lines, which she was quickly beginning to learn that Dorian preferred.
A broad escritoire was stocked with cards embossed with her initials—her married initials—and his ducal seal. She was flabbergasted, utterly shocked that Dorian had thought about all these tiny details with the little time they’d had.
“His Grace is the sort to… not live by half-measures, is he?” Ellie asked.
“No, Your Grace,” Agnes replied. “Not as far as I have seen.”
Bypassing a mullioned window that showed the sprawling gardens of Somerton Manor, she paused. Just like the cottage at St John’s Wood, there was a gazebo at the center of the main garden, and beside it was an ornamental pond.
Ducks splashed near the boundaries, while the angle of the sunlight turned the surface into faceted scattering diamonds. Sunshine burnished the tall stone wall that protected the garden and manor house from prying eyes.
“Your Grace?”
“Erm, yes?” Ellie realized she had missed a question or two.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Agnes asked.
“What in the devil are you doing here?” Drake asked as Dorian stepped into White’s. “I can think of a thousand places a newlywed should be instead of a gentlemen's club—all in the same house.”
After ordering a whisky, Dorian asked, “And where do you think I should be?”
“Well, for one,” Drake leaned against the bar, swirling his wine. “Your wife’s chambers? Frankly, I am astonished you have even left.”
Taking his drink to a shadowed corner of the bar, Dorian bypassed a half-dozen eyes peering at him, most of them likely asking the same question Drake had just levelled at him.
“I wouldn’t have, but unfortunately, this is the only night Harcourt ventures from his citadel in Winchester to have his sole glass of malt scotch and speak to a few of his investors before he vanishes again.”
Through the corner of his eyes, Dorian spotted a few men hedging closer; many men always bemoaned how women nattered on about who wore the worst gowns or whose husband was palavering around town. However, Dorian knew White’s was populated by some of the worst damned gossips in all of London.
“When did you have an interest in Harcourt?” Drake asked.
“Months now, why do you ask?”
“As I have an interest in the stud breeding business,” Drake added. “I am also sure Salem and Carrington do, too.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to beat you all to it,” Dorian shrugged.
“If he does not show, may I entice you into an evening being entangled in slick sheets with a warm female body pressed against yours?” Drake wiggled his brows.
Snorting, Dorian delayed his response by sipping his drink. Although now… he was wondering how Ellie would react to such a suggestion.
With time. It will have to be with time.
How he’d keep her thighs splayed, as he set his mouth on the most intimate place on her body. How her pants and gasps of feminine surrender would be an orchestra to his ears as he gave her the wickedest of kisses.
“See,” Drake jabbed a finger into Dorian’s arm. “That is what I mean. You should be back with your new wife, sampling her favors.”
“I will when I get home,” he replied. “But I must speak with Harcourt.”
The marquess shrugged. “I know nothing about a commitment with women, much less of a wife, but I would imagine very few of them would be happy their new groom ran off to play pow-wow with his male friends.”
“I—"
“Your Grace,” a nasal, pompous drawl from Diggory Trent, Earl Davenport, a self-proclaimed second arbiter of British men's fashion following Beau Brummel, emanated from behind him. “Color me surprised to see you here.”
“And why is that?” Dorian asked dryly.
“With all of London aflutter about your marriage and hasty disappearance to god-knows-where, there is a supposition that we would not see you until ten years’ time with a gaggle of children in tow.”
Davenport’s cronies tittered.
“I hate to disappoint you, Davenport,” Dorian replied. “But some men can focus on more than two things at a time. Marriage does not stop business, nor vice versa. And, speaking of children, how are those two bastards of yours? The ones their mamas are parading off as their husband’s?”
Davenport was livid. “I have no idea what you mean, and anyone who claims the contrary can meet me at dawn.”
“You’re a horrible shot as well,” Dorian remarked coolly. “Now, do me a favor and scuttle along. I have important business to deal with.”
Boldly turning away from the irritant, Dorian spied the door. Harcourt should have arrived by now.
Plucking out a pocket watch, he checked the time. It was after nine, half an hour after the man usually arrived. It was entirely possible the man had a delay, it happened to the best of them, even the ones that were as obsessed with a timely routine as was Harcourt.
He and Drake had found a table in the back of the club away from the crowd. “Have you heard from Carrington?”
“You mean aside from the moment he saw how you’d stolen his bride and pledged eternal damnation on anyone who tried to take her from you?” Drake’s lips twitched.
“Beyond that,” Dorian said flatly. “Have you seen him or not?”