Chapter 23
“Lord Carrington awaits you, Your Grace,” Weston greeted Dorian as he stepped into The Labyrinth.
The pounding in his head made Dorian wince. In the past, when he had drunk himself into oblivion more times than he could count, he had always woken up feeling as if one of the Fates had snipped another part of his life away. This time was no different.
“What the devil is he here for?” Dorian groused bitterly. “And since when does he wake before noon?”
“I wish I could tell you, Sir,” Weston intoned.
“Send a pot of coffee,” Dorian ordered his floor manager. “Blacker than the devil’s soul and twice as hot as the abyss he lives in.”
“It shall be sent up shortly, Sir,” Weston bowed.
Striding into his office, Dorian ignored Sterling and went to pluck the shades down one by one until one window that faced away from him lit the room. The headache, already pulsing in the back of his head, threatened to explode to his temples. “What are you doing here?”
“Soused already?” Sterling leaned into his chair and steepled his fingers on his lap. “And here I thought your control was without fail.”
“I am no saint,” Dorian grunted. “What do you want, Carrington?”
“Is there trouble in paradise already?” Sterling ignored the question. “Has the golden honeymoon worn off so soon?”
Dorian was tempted to let out a litany of curses. He was already irritated and on edge, and Carrington’s needling was not helping matters. “I will give you three minutes to explain why you are here before I throw you out the east window myself.”
Weston returned with the tray of piping hot coffee before taking his leave. Dorian knew he was going to oversee the whist table, the table Carrington’s men always gravitated to when he visited.
“The stables,” Sterling began. “I am buying them.”
Dorian scoffed. “The hell you are. Harcourt and I have a gentleman’s agreement.”
“It is already broken,” the other man smirked. “Diversification. Ever heard of it? When I get that business into my fold, it will shore up my drying accounts. I will be as rich as Croesus again.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Dorian promised him in a clipped, cold tone. Ignoring the coffee, he leaned forward and placed both palms flat on the table. “I would tear that empire down, brick by brick with my bare hands before I let you get your grubby hands on it.”
Dorian knew he should have kept his head about him, kept his demeanor calm and collected as he always did when it came to dealing with Sterling. This time, with the troubles at home blistering under his breastbone and the headache pounding at the back of his skull, he’d thrown caution to the wind.
Carrington’s smarmy smile sickened Dorian. “So passionate. I am surprised you’ve allowed me to see you this way.”
Gritting his teeth, Dorian sprang across the room and snatched a bottle of whisky from the dry bar. Making his coffee, Dorian poured more whisky into his cup than cream. “I will fight you on this.”
“Of course you will,” Carrington replied. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. But I do wonder why you are so determined to buy this horse breeding business.”
Settling into his chair, Dorian gave him a flat eye, his tone mocking. “The same as you. Diversification.”
Carrington made a cup and sipped it. “And here I think it’s because you want to go above and beyond for your beloved and give her a grand wedding gift. A horse-breeding business is dirty, Beaumont, not something I think is exactly your style in financial ventures.”
“You know nothing of what I want,” Dorian spat.
Leaning in, Carrington's knowing expression made Dorian feel queasy. He looked like a man who had the king trapped on the chessboard and had one move left to make—checkmate.
“I now wonder if your pure, innocent new bride knows of your past. Your true past. The dirty, bloody past you’ve tried to hide behind your tailored clothes, private tutors, and fancy elocution lessons,” Sterling goaded him.
“Do you remember the pits, boy? Do you remember the night you bartered for your freedom?”
Dorian snapped. “Stop your bloody yammering! Yer a pox-ridden bastard and I pray for the day ye’ cock up yer toes.”
Satisfaction painted Carrington’s face. “And there it is. The real you. The boy who was raised in the streets and rubbed elbows with cutthroats. The lady is too good for the likes of you, and you know it. Behind all this proper posturing, you know deep down you are still the very same gutter-rat from those old days.”
The older man pushed the coffee aside and reached for the bottle of whisky, put the bottle to his mouth, and took two hefty gulps.
After slamming the bottle back to the table, he stood.
“This game of charades you are playing will come to an end soon, Beaumont.” Tugging his jacket down, he smirked.
“Watch your back, boy—and for that matter, watch hers too.”
The moment the door closed behind his back, Dorian flung the bottle of whisky into the wall, not so much as wincing when the glass shattered like a gunshot. He sank to his chair and pressed the heel of his palm to his left eye.
“Just as I think things cannot go from bad to worse…” he groaned.
Weston, as astute as he was, appeared moments later at the sound of the harsh noise, took a look at the glass on the floor and the liquid dripping from the walls, and fixed his glasses.
Dorian pulled his hand from his face, stood, crossed the room, and pulled a bag out of a cabinet. “Send for my carriage. Tell the driver I am bound for Gentleman Jack’s.”
Ellie could not feel lost any more than if she were in a paddleboat in the middle of the ocean while using a dessert spoon as an oar. She had paced her room until the walls felt as if they were closing in on her, and from there, she’d left to the sitting room.
“What can I do to fix this…” she wondered aloud. “Is there any way this can be fixed at all?”
Since Dorian would not listen to Benedict or try to open his mind and do away with his old beliefs about his betrayal, the only solution would be to find Benedict’s father and get him to admit his actions.
The only other solution would be to ambush Dorian into a room with Benedict and hold a pistol to his head.
“He’d disarm me in seconds and turn it on Benedict.” She slumped to a chair and caged her face in both hands. “I am sure no less than divine intervention will get him to see past his erroneous beliefs.”
Disheartened, she departed the drawing room for the library and found Dorian’s mother's book on the same shelf she’d left it. She paged through the book reverently and sighed. If only his mother were here.
What could she do?
A bribe would not work, a threat would make her look foolish, and there was nothing to blackmail him with. Not that she would do something like that at all though.
She snapped the book shut and dropped her head over the lip of the chair as her mind kept whirling with options—but they all ran into roadblocks.
Maybe she could somehow coax him?
The clock struck ten when she left the library and slipped from her bedchamber into his. Peeling his covers down, she slid her robe away and got between the sheets. Pillowing her head on the soft cushions, she drifted off to sleep.
When she woke in the early hours of the morning, the bed was still empty, and she stifled a sigh. Dorian was not home.
Turning to her other side, however, she saw a figure slumped in a chair near the window.
Dorian?
His silhouette, half illuminated by the light, outlined his lean, imposing figure.
His strong jaw and slightly hawkish features were tilted away from her.
His long dark hair was unbound this evening, falling around his shoulders in glistening waves while his left leg was extended.
One arm dangled over the armrest of the chair, holding a glass.
When had he come in?
Had he slept?
Was he drunk?
“I know you’re awake, Evelina,” he murmured, lifting the glass. “And I know what you are thinking. But it is only water.”
She pushed up and raked her fingers through her hair.
“Dorian, when you took me… the terms of your agreement now feel… redundant. You are very well adapted to the ton, in your own way. Beyond that, you have made no effort to move on from your past, nor tame the gossips either. Why did you truly need me?”
He craned his head. “The terms were clear.”
“No,” she slid her feet from under the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. “The terms were as full of holes as Swiss cheese. You could have chosen any lady of the ton to help you, but you chose a woman with no dowry who had no ties to the ton.
“Should I start to believe you plucked me out of Carrington’s clutches because of the goodness of your heart?” she asked. Pushing off the bed, she padded to him and stepped between his parted legs. “What are you not telling me, Dorian?”
He lifted his head and gave her a blank stare.
Unphased, she placed a hand on his shoulder and carefully rested her knee over his left leg. Gently doing the same on the other side, she straddled him. “Tell me the truth, Dorian.”
Once again, he did not utter a word; instead, he cupped the back of her head and kissed her. Her entire being shivered at the hot demand of his kiss. His lips were warm and passionate, his tongue sweeping into her mouth domineeringly.
She sucked eagerly on his questing tongue, and a low growl rumbled out from his chest while his tongue thrust in deeper. A needy pulse started at her core, spreading to the taut tips of her breasts and the aching place between her thighs.
He broke the kiss all too soon and softly bit her bottom lip. Pulling away, he whispered, “We should get ready for Wellington’s regatta.”
Her posture wilted at his non-reply. Dropping her forehead to his shoulder, Ellie craned her face to his neck. “Will you promise to tell me one day?”
Dorian’s hand surged up her back. “Maybe one day, when all this is done.”