Chapter 14
The hint of insecurity Dorian showed her in that moment made Ellie’s heart warm; it was clear underneath his hardened facade, he still carried the hurts and diffidence of his past with him.
“The waltz is not so difficult to learn,” she said softly. “I can teach you.”
Tilting his head, Dorian’s eyes coasted over her face, the graze almost as tangible as touch. His gaze was pinning and all-encompassing, somehow seeing right through her, but seeing her as well.
“When?” he asked. “Now?”
“Whenever you want,” Ellie shrugged. “Though it is late, and I assume you would want to sleep.”
His gaze drifted to the window. “I have gone through longer nights than this. As a matter of fact, I have spent three days awake, spying on a competitor for Sterling.”
Her heart ached at the naked misery of his tone. He’d had an unfortunate past, that was true, but against all odds, he regrouped and made something of himself—he’d become a gentleman of character.
“You don’t owe me a thing, Evelina,” he murmured.
“We are married now,” she said. “It is only fair—” she turned and looked around the room, “— because I will be transforming this place into something fitting for a duchess.”
“With what?” he asked dryly. “How can you transform a library?”
“Let me worry about that,” she replied. “I assume it will take about two hundred pounds.”
He shrugged. “Done.”
Covering her tray, she smiled. “I shall see you in the morning.”
As she made to leave the room, he caught her arm and reeled her back like a fish on a line, and when his arms wrapped around her, she felt herself pressed firmly against his hard frame and the wall.
Heat radiated from his body like a steel furnace. In the low light, she could make out the sharp contours of his face, and his cologne was unmistakable. She felt warmth bloom beneath her skin, and the air in her lungs grew thicker.
His quiet words brushed hotly against her ear. “So, about this seduction you wanted—”
She pushed away and reflexively tightened her robe, “I never said I wanted that.”
“Yes,” his grip lessened. “Your words may not have said it, but your face spoke something entirely different. However, I will not lure you into my bed…” his lips brushed her cheek, “…unless you come to me first.”
For the next eight days, Dorian found himself in a revolving orbit with Evelina, brushing past each other but never truly entering her sphere. He tended to walk around in faded breeches, loose shirts, or even a robe, and almost always barefoot.
It always amused him to see her in varied stages of horrified, and knowing how she had been brought up prim and proper, his state of undress most certainly rattled her.
They were due to have a dancing lesson in an hour.
He was flicking through the ledgers, calculating the profits, when Evelina swanned into the room, the soft olive gown fluttering around her slippers. The gown hugged her upper body like a glove, and he allowed his eyes to trace over her silhouette hungrily.
He wanted to peel that bodice off her and suckle on her nipples, a color he envisioned was a shade darker than her impudent pink lips.
“These are the invitations I have winnowed out that I think will match your objectives,” she dropped a stack of invitations, the cards all sizes and shapes. “You will pick six of them, and we will attend.”
Cocking his head, Dorian stifled a grin. “You are giving me orders now?”
“Yes.” She took the seat across from his and folded her hands on her lap. “Now, tell me which ones I should respond to.”
As he sorted through the cards, Dorian asked, “By now, I thought you would be questioning why I have such a strong hold on this situation.”
“Oh, I question a lot of things; how arrogant you are, your all-encompassing need to control everything, and why you need to be so vague and indifferent. However, for the latter two, I think I have deduced a reasonable explanation.”
His eyes flickered up. “And what is that?”
“The deck was given to you by fate, but you cut the cards yourself,” Ellie replied.
Instantly, Dorian froze, and his gaze latched onto her, unmoving. A begrudging respect bloomed under his breastbone as he began to sift through the invitations.
“Lord Hanson, yes, he can be beneficial. Lady Restlake, no, that woman was hellbent on trying to wheedle me into precarious situations, and I can wager one of her many nieces will happen to be half naked in some washroom I enter.”
He sorted through more. “Earl Moortown, yes. Viscount Braxton, I am undecided on that one, but likely yes…” He paused at the next card. “…Islington, yes. Gladstone, no. Lady Tresman, yes, you might like that one. Baron Eastbrook—” He sat up rigid. “…Benedict Rothwell.”
“I know you do not like the family, but she is my friend,” Ellie pressed.
Dorian drummed his fingers on the table. “You may go, but I will not be within ten feet of that turncoat without being tempted to put a bullet between his eyes. Or a fist into his jaw.”
“Do you care to tell me why?” she asked.
He did not answer her then, but when he spoke, it was mostly to himself than to her. “Something tells me I’ll want a drink for this discussion.” He felt her wary gaze follow him as he crossed the room to the liquor cabinet and filled two glasses from two different bottles.
Returning, he held one out to her. “It is American Peach Liqueur. I don’t think you have the taste for whisky.”
Taking it, she sipped the sweet, citrusy drink, and he rounded the desk and sat. He threw back half of the drink, then plopped the glass on the table. Ellie sighed, stood, and slid the coaster she had placed on his desk half an hour ago under his glass.
“Rothwell and I grew up together,” he began. “But while I considered his family like a surrogate one to mine, his parents colluded with my aunt and uncle to usurp the ducal lands from under me and my father.
“Rothwell was his father’s shadow, so I have no illusions he did not know what strings his parents were pulling behind his back—” he took a hefty swallow, “—or right before his face.”
“I see.” Ellie tucked a stray lock around her ear. “But I shall not be attending this ball without you.”
“Really?” Dorian canted his head, his loose hair flopping over an eye. “How do you figure that one?”
“Because I very much recall my part in rebuilding your reputation, or in this case, building it,” Ellie replied. “And if you stay away, it might make you look weak. No. Not might—it will make you look weak.”
Sagging back into his chair, he juggled the pros and cons, and when the truth of Ellie’s words hit him square in the chest, he gave in. “Fine, fine. I’ll attend.”
“So, is Rothwell our sixth ball?” she asked.
“No,” Dorian shook his head. “It is another exception. You may choose the next one at your leisure.”
“Oh, how giving you are,” she smiled. “My very generous husband.”
“And never forget it.” Dorian finished his glass and stood. “Now, shall I get the violinist in here for our lesson?”
Strains of a distant, beautiful melody played softly in her mind, rising in volume and vigor, and Ellie mentally counted off the beats, one, two, three… one, two, three…
Taking his hands, Ellie resisted when he drew her body close enough to his that her breasts were pushed firmly against his chest.
“Dorian,” she pulled away. “You know this is not proper.”
He gave a liberal eye-roll and then stepped away to allow them the proper space between them.
“The waltz is—”
“Clockwise around the room, I know,” he intoned. “And I start with stepping my right foot. And on the contrary, the closer you are to me, the less likely I will step on your feet when we first begin.”
Before she had time to respond, he stepped towards her and swept her into the stream, swirling clockwise about the empty ballroom. He was still rigid as a board while dancing, and Ellie needed him to stop dancing stiff-legged.
The waltz was a difficult enough dance with women who turned into pudding in a man’s arms, but Dorian’s rigid frame allowed him to maneuver her easily about the floor.
He spun her again but stumbled on his feet. Instinctively, he looked down.
“Keep your eyes on me and not your feet,” she instructed, wanting him to relax and relinquish control. “Trust me. Take the steel out of your spine and dance with the confidence I know you have. You know the steps, trust yourself.”
He rolled his neck, and she heard the soft pops of his bones. When he stepped forward again, something shifted—his limbs uncoiled, his frame loosened, and to both their astonishment, he moved with an effortless grace. Ellie’s lips curved into a secret smile, one she didn’t bother to hide.
They took another turn, this time with her eyes lodged entirely on his, while they danced the waltz gracefully. The music ended all too soon, and when he did not drop his arms, it was clear that he did not want to release her.
She slid her hand from his shoulder and placed her fingers on his arm, feeling the quiver of iron-hard muscles. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trained from birth to dance.”
“My tutors always did say I was a quick study,” Dorian’s voice came husky in her ear.
With a quiver in her blood, she dared to glance at him—and in the next second, nearly regretted her decision. The heat in his eyes almost undid her. He drew her in, half-carried, half-hauled her to his chair, yanked her onto his lap, and crushed his mouth to hers.
Now intimately acquainted with his lips, she looped her arms around his nape, opening herself to his kiss. To him. She felt raw and honest passion in his seduction, the taste of his plundering hunger. No one had ever kissed her, let alone kissed her like this, with such raw vehemence.
Dorian traced the seam of her lips with his tongue—the smoky-spicy taste of whisky on him dizzied her senses. Her fingers threaded into the rich, unruly silk of his hair, tugging him closer until their bodies aligned in perfect, breathless collision.