19. Defeated and Defenceless
D orian woke with a start. The remnants of his dream clung to him like cobwebs—Luna’s voice, distant and fading, slipping through his fingers like mist.
He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. He was already exhausted, and the day had barely begun. His ribs ached as he shifted beneath the blankets, a dull, throbbing reminder of his fall.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Actually, the day had begun hours ago. The sun was already high. He scrambled out of bed, murmuring about “How bloody late” it was and yelling about why no one saw fit to wake him. He banged about the bathroom and stormed out the corridor to his study.
There was too much to do, too much to think about, and not enough time .
There was never enough time.
His desk was a mess of papers, ink stains, and half-finished notes.
He hadn’t yet made sense of what he’d found in the Viscount’s chambers, and now he was behind on everything else, too.
With a grimace, he flipped through his records, scanning names, initials, anything that might give him a lead on “LD”.
Lord Darlington. Lord Dashridge. Lord Dartmoor.
Leonard Dartmoor, the lord’s younger brother.
Linus Dashwood. Linton Dacre. Could be any of them.
Could be none. The Duke had plenty of allies, plenty of men willing to sell their souls for power.
If L wasn’t for “Lord” at all, that widened the field significantly, made it all but impossible to narrow down.
And what if—
Dorian exhaled sharply, setting the papers down with a little too much force. What if it was Selene’s father?
The thought had haunted him more than he cared to admit. He had never been able to completely rule him out. There was no proof and no certainty either way. He didn’t want it to be true—not for her sake—but he couldn’t afford to dismiss the possibility.
His ribs pulsed with pain as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly.
He was tired. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
And worse, he was distracted—by her, by the way she had lingered in his room last night, by the soft touch of her hands as she pressed the compress to his side, by the way she had pulled the blanket over him as if she cared.
And she did. He knew that. She wasn’t indifferent to him. But it still wasn’t the same, still wasn’t right. This was her looking at him and seeing him and not seeing everything else and all that they were, and he couldn’t tell her. He could never tell her.
And he couldn’t stop falling for her all over again in ways he was utterly unprepared for.
Dorian exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time for her, for these feelings, for the way she had started creeping into his thoughts even when he was supposed to be doing something else.
With a frustrated noise, he pushed himself up from his chair, ignoring the stab of pain in his side.
He crossed the room to pour himself a drink, though he doubted it would help.
His fingers drummed against the glass as he stared down at the pages spread across his desk.
The Duke was planning something new. That much was clear.
But what? And how much time did they have before it all came to a head?
Dorian closed his eyes briefly before downing the drink in one go. He needed to get his head on straight. He needed to stop thinking about Selene.
It was easier said than done.
He forced himself to focus. He sifted through possible suspects, trying to remember where they had been in past cycles, to recall if he’d seen them with any of the Duke’s allies. What social occasions had they been invited to? Where could Dorian best investigate them?
Hours passed in this manner, until someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” Dorian asked, not looking up.
“It’s Selene.”
He hesitated, a pause that lasted longer than it should have. Then, exhaling, he muttered, “One moment.”
Pushing back his chair, he straightened a few papers and dragged a curtain over the evidence board pinned to the far wall. When he finally opened the door, he found her standing there with an expression that set him immediately on edge.
“Are you all right?” he asked, scanning her quickly for any signs of distress.
“This arrangement doesn’t suit me anymore,” she said.
Dorian frowned. “I’m sorry?” Did she want out of their marriage so soon? Had she found someone else? He’d given her the option, of course, but he’d hadn’t expected her to—
Who could it be?
“This deal we have, where we spend one meal together a day,” Selene went on. “It no longer works for me.”
He tensed. That was less awful than an annulment, but it still stung. “You don’t wish to eat together? ”
“On the contrary, I find myself just as spoiled and greedy as ever.” Her tone was light, but she didn’t let him interrupt. “I want more. I want you to play a game with me. Just one. Your choice. One game a day, in the evening, just the two of us.”
Dorian blinked. That was not what he’d expected.
He should have turned her down. He should have reminded her that he barely had time to sleep, let alone indulge in games. That he wasn’t here to entertain her. Even if he wanted so badly to be entertained by her…
“Why?” he asked, before he could think the better of it.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want me to play a game with you? Ariella or Rookwood would be more than happy to—”
“I don’t want them,” she said simply. “I want you.”
Something in his chest tightened. He raised an eyebrow, masking the reaction with scepticism.
Selene must have seen it, because she pressed on quickly, filling the silence. “You work too hard,” she said. “I am trying to force you to relax. You are a very good husband, and I should hate for you to expire and find myself once more thrown onto the marriage mart.”
He let out a sharp laugh. “I’m a terrible husband.”
“You could be worse.”
Dorian didn’t know what to say to that. He absolutely could be worse. He’d seen worse. He’d also seen better. He hadn’t even remembered to give her an allowance—
Selene didn’t give him the chance to linger on it. “So?” she prompted. “Will you join me?”
He sighed, but there was no real weight behind it. He had never said no to this woman in his life. He felt like they were school children again, and she was running up to him in the dance hall, waiting for him to ask her to dance and feeding him the words when his courage failed him.
“You are becoming increasingly hard to say no to.”
She clapped her hands together in triumph. “Hurrah! What would you like to start with? I shall play anything you like. I’ve not been taught much beyond simple card games—my father told me I didn’t have the head for chess—but—”
“Your father was an idiot,” Dorian said, the words sharper than he’d meant them to be. It wasn’t until Selene’s eyes widened slightly that he realised how much venom had slipped into his voice. He grimaced. “Not to be rude, but no one knows what they’re good at unless they’re allowed to try.”
Selene tilted her head, watching him in that unnervingly perceptive way of hers.
Dorian cleared his throat. “I… I have a game I think you’d like. Give me a moment to tidy up here, and I’ll bring it upstairs to your room.”
“My room?”
She said it with such obvious surprise that he almost laughed. As if she’d forgotten they were married, that it was perfectly normal for him to enter her space.
Of course… she might not want him in her space.
“Unless you wish to play somewhere else?” he added.
“No, no, that will do fine,” she said quickly. “I’ll… see you shortly.”
Dorian shut the door as soon as she left, leaning back against it with a sigh.
Gods help him. He was in trouble.
He collected one of his favourite games from the library and went upstairs to meet her, unfolding the board on the table between them.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d played it.
Time was a slippery monster for him to track at the moment, and he hadn’t wasted many evenings playing games in… how long?
He suspected it was around a decade.
The board was divided into four sections, each painted to resemble a season, with four starting spots and four spaces labelled “home”.
“It’s called Last Man Home ,” he explained, smoothing the edges of the board. “Have you ever played?”
Selene tilted her head. “It looks familiar, but I can’t remember anything about it. ”
“It’s a blend of luck and strategy,” Dorian continued. “Players have seven cards at any one time to use to get five counters around the board. You can use your cards in any way, in any order. You need the right combination of strategy and luck to get your people home.”
She examined the cards as he dealt them, eyes flicking over the neatly printed instructions. Dorian took the green counters; Selene chose blue. He offered her the first move, and the game began.
“Wine?” she suggested.
“Please.”
She poured them each a glass, and Dorian let himself relax into his chair. The tension in his shoulders eased—not entirely, but enough that he could at least pretend he wasn’t exhausted. His ribs still ached, but the warmth of the wine helped, dulling the edge of it.
He tried to ignore the tickle in his throat. He’d forgotten about the cat. At least it didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby. He’d probably be fine.
He moved a piece forward, only for Selene to immediately sweep it off the board with her next card.
“My apologies,” she said, though there was amusement in her voice.
“Ruthless,” he murmured.
“Oh!” Selene startled so suddenly that Dorian nearly knocked over his drink.
“What is it?”
“I’ve just remembered where I’ve played this before. My grandmother taught me—years ago. She used to cackle and say, ‘ Ruthless, excellent gal! ’ whenever I sent her back home.”
Dorian found himself smiling. “I think I’d rather like your grandmother.”
“It’s a shame you never got to—” She stopped abruptly, a shadow passing over her face.