Chapter Twelve #2
During the funeral ceremony held for Faye in the early afternoon, Archie held tightly to Amelia’s hand, never leaving her side.
Dorian had bathed and took up the place on her other side, each of them flanking the woman they loved in vastly different ways.
Even a large portion of the staff had gathered to pay their respects.
As Amelia cried silently, Dorian stroked her back and comforted her, not caring who witnessed it.
Afterward, he tucked Amelia into her bed, remaining with her until she slept.
Amelia’s chamber overlooked the courtyard, and he released a silent curse when he heard the clatter of an arriving carriage.
In all the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten Brinley was due to arrive.
Slipping away as quietly as possible, he went belowstairs to greet his friend.
“My, but aren’t you quite at home playing host?” Brinley drawled when he caught sight of him. “And you look like utter shite. Lady Coylton must really be dragging you through hell and back. Where is she, by the bye?”
“She is feeling poorly at the moment,” Dorian replied flatly, his heart aching at the memory of her tear-filled eyes. “We just had a funeral for a dog.” Brinley eyed him as if concerned for Dorian’s sanity. “Amelia’s dog,” Dorian clarified. “She was quite attached to Faye.”
“Ah.”
Dorian could tell that Brinley still did not quite appreciate the gravity of the situation, but he did not concern himself with attempting an explanation.
Brinley took the opportunity to detail his stay with his friends on the way from London and the trouble they’d found.
“In fact, I strongly suspect I am still half-drunk from last night.” With great appreciation, he eyed the glass Dorian had poured for him.
“These top-notch spirits seem to be helping, though. Lady Coylton has quite the set-up, does she not?” He looked back at Dorian.
“You stay in this remarkable castle, eat her food, drink her fantastic spirits, and tup her. How is the plan to work her out of your system? Worth the hassle? For the record, I still don’t condone the plan, though I am never opposed to a good tup when both parties are willing, of course. ”
Dorian set down his untouched drink with a thud. “About that—” he began through gritted teeth but was interrupted before he could explain that he’d abandoned his original motivations and desired a future with Amelia.
“Forgive the intrusion, My Lord,” the elderly butler said as he stepped into the room. “There is a caller for Lady Coylton, but I thought…given today’s circumstances…” He looked supremely uncomfortable.
“I will handle it,” Dorian said without a second thought. He stood and excused himself, promising to return shortly to finish their conversation.
Pearce Brinley stood and began wandering the room, examining pieces and artwork as he sipped his drink.
Footsteps tapped in the hallway, and Clara Poole breezed into the room already halfway through a sentence, saying, “—and I wonder if Amelia might appreciate having some food sent to her chamber, or if she would prefer to continue to rest undisturbed.” Clara froze and went silent, her dark eyes going wide as soon as she saw Brinley.
He looked her up and down, tossing back his drink and setting down the glass.
She had become painfully beautiful over the years.
Her wide, expressive eyes, the color of the richest chocolate, were framed by impossibly long, luxuriously dark lashes.
Her lips possessed the most perfect Cupid’s bow in Christendom, pillow-soft and berry-ripe.
Her body was the most excruciating torture of all, filling out in all the right ways to the most delectable proportions.
It was her rapier-sharp mind, however, that had come to drive Pearce to distraction.
She’d always been intelligent and precocious, witty and charming, but the young woman who had debuted into Society only a short time ago was a force to be reckoned with.
Pearce did not doubt that she would someday rule the ton with her ability to win over almost anyone she encountered.
Men could not help but fall in love with her, and he’d witnessed time and time again as Clara deftly used that skill to her advantage.
When it came to him, however, her instincts for self-preservation seemed to take hold, and it was Pearce’s turn to use her nature to his advantage.
He nurtured her dislike of him; he fostered it with pokes to her ego and prods to her pride.
He peppered little insults into their conversation, did what he could to push her away and keep her from getting too close to him.
It was for the best…because no matter what he felt, he was too old for her, too broken, too jaded, too bloody unworthy of a woman like her.
But, God, when his inhibitions were lowered, when his morals were dulled, he could think of nothing more than finally tasting her lips…
“Hello, little Clara.”
Clara tensed at the sound of Brinley’s voice, experienced chills at the sight of him. If ever a woman could have an archenemy, then he was hers.
Brinley had been Dori’s best friend since Eton, meaning she’d never known a world without him.
He’d teased her mercilessly and sometimes been downright cold toward her.
He had never, ever taken her seriously and, lately, he’d taken to outrightly calling her a vapid creature, treating her with such droll derision that he couldn’t have driven her further away had he covered himself in spiders and feces and lit himself aflame.
He was like a demon with the face of an angel sent to earth with the sole purpose of driving her to her wits’ end.
“Brinley,” she greeted him coolly.
He approached her slowly, asking, “Have you been enjoying your holiday?”
“Well enough.”
“And have you yet won over a new posse of admirers in Scotland since leaving your London ones behind?”
This was a particular favorite topic of his. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do not be so callous—you should not resent the attention I receive simply because people find you intolerable.”
An unpleasant smile lifted one corner of his well-shaped lips, and he began to circle her. “I’ve a list of dozens of admirers who would say otherwise.”
“Fortune-hunters willing to overlook a vile disposition for a bit of coin,” she bit out.
“And you are claiming you are any different? Any better than they are?” He scoffed. “Do not claim that you would be willing to settle for the right title, for the right amount of pin money in your purse each month.”
“I would not.”
“Somehow, I do not believe that. In fact, I have the distinct impression that you would do just about anything, so long as the man gave you his undivided attention. You always did so love being the center of the world.”
Tears of anger stung her eyes. “You are disgustingly condescending,” Clara snarled.
“And I demand you stop treating me and speaking to me as if I were a child—you and Dori are guilty of it. I am not stupid. I am not vapid. People generally consider me to be a delight. So why in the world must you treat me so poorly? Can you see that I have grown up? As such, I deserve the respect I am due.” Clara was proud that her voice did not waver even once.
Brinley’s lips tilted in a frigid smile that did nothing to defrost his eyes.
“You are correct,” he whispered harshly, raking her with his gaze.
“You are no girl at all, but a woman, grown. How foolish of me.” Suddenly, he closed the remaining space between them and captured her lips with such possessive swiftness that she was given no time to think or react.
The kiss was all lips and tongue and teeth…
and surprisingly, mind-meltingly good. She’d never been kissed like that before, with such forceful desire, such passion.
It was all she could do not to catch fire and dissolve into ash right then and there.
When he did finally wrench himself away, Clara blinked up at him a moment before she slapped the satisfied look right off his face.
“What was that?” he demanded, wincing and holding his cheek.