Chapter Fourteen
Dorian had spent the weeks since his departure from Amelia’s home at another property half a day’s ride to the East. It was far enough from Edinburgh for the privacy he craved, but close enough that civilization was not unheard of.
Brinley hadn’t questioned his desire for solitude, nor his unwillingness to face London; instead, he’d had given him directions to Holly House, a home he’d apparently inherited from a great aunt who’d once doted upon him.
Dorian wanted no audience for his grief, so he had insisted upon the very barest of staff.
Brinley denied that it would set back his journey to meet with his father and insisted upon accompanying him to see him settled.
Though it was not immediately apparent why, Dorian soon found out on their first night.
The rooms hadn’t yet been aired out, and sheets still covered much of the furniture.
Their valets had been forced to retrieve bare rations from an inn along the way so they might at least make it through until proper rations could be procured.
There was a simple, hearty meal available, but Dorian opted for more liquid fare.
Together, he and Brinley drank some good vintage brandy in silence, neither said much until the first couple of bottles were gone, their jackets had been removed, and their cravats hung loosely.
Dorian started chuckling, the crystal glass hanging precariously from his limp fingertips. Brinley eyed him, concerned despite the thick haze of inebriation clouding his judgment. Dorian began to pace none-too-steadily.
“I cannot believe what an imbecile I am,” Dorian groused.
“How could I ever believe that Amelia could forgive me—that the truth of my terrible, disgusting plan would remain forever hidden?” He released an incredulous bark of cruel laughter.
“I don’t bloody well know how it happened, but she and I were clearly never meant to be together.
” He plodded through his rant, slow and slurred but continual, bemoaning his stupidity for putting himself in such a situation, his pure idiocy for ever thinking he could be near Amelia and not want to give her everything he had and all that he was.
Brinley remained silent until Dorian stopped for another drink. “So…you really did change your intentions once you arrived in Scotland?”
“Lord knows I fought it, but yes. There is just something about her. No matter how we hurt one another, I cannot stop thinking about her. I cannot prevent myself from wanting—needing—her in my life so painfully and desperately that I am unable to think of anything else. There is no ‘working her from my system’, there is no ‘moving past’ what she meant to me so I might finally have a real future. There is no future without Amelia.” He emitted a resigned sigh.
Brinley cursed beneath his breath and set down his glass.
Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he said, “I suppose this is the only time to mention the truth—the spirits have destroyed my better judgment, and will probably dull any pain I am about to experience.” As Brinley explained that it was his fault that Amelia had discovered the plot—that he’d been disclosing the truth to Clara, of all people—Dorian remained silent and dangerously pensive.
“And…there is something else you should know…” Brinley winced in anticipation.
“For the sake of complete honesty, and knowing the risk to my own neck, I must also tell you that I kissed Clara.”
There was a sudden, violent burst of drunken energy from Dorian.
Glass shattered, and the men grappled. “You bastard!” Dorian snarled into the face of the man he’d once counted as his closest friend.
“I trusted you, and you do this? What sort of betrayal is this? What have I ever done to deserve it?”
Dorian, more drunk than his friend, ended up pinned in the middle of the sitting room floor, though he never stopped thrashing.
“I’ve stuck by your side for decades, regardless of the circumstances,” Brinley growled.
“I sincerely apologize for what happened with Amelia, but the truth would have come out eventually. If you truly desired a life with Amelia…then even you could not have started it under such pretenses. As for Clara…” Brinley trailed off for a moment before adding, “I am sorry. You do not know how bloody sorry I am.” Was Dorian drunker than he thought, or were there ghosts passing behind Brinley’s eyes?
The fight left Dorian all at once, but his friend did not release him yet.
“I’ve picked you up from some horrible scrapes over the years without fail, and I will forever do it because I consider you to be like my brother; however, you have a habit of being too absorbed in your own grief to take note of the pain in those around you.
” Brinley did not elaborate, instead, pushing away from Dorian and storming from the room with one parting shot.
“Perhaps some time alone will help you come to terms with all of this.”
Dorian never discovered where his friend slept that night, but in the morning, Brinley, his valet, and the carriage he’d arrived in were gone.
Bitter and sore, Dorian chose to nurse his headache and ignore the worsening pang of loss blooming in his chest. First, Amelia, then Clara, and now Brinley.
One by one, the people he trusted and counted on—the people he loved—were leaving him.
He knew he had no one but himself to blame, but that was the opposite of reassuring.
What sort of monster was he that he sabotaged everything?
He could set out with fair enough intentions only for his decisions to lay waste to his life.
Around midday, a few more staff arrived, and the house was better opened and prepared.
Saying almost nothing to them, Dorian hid away in the bedchamber he’d selected, neglecting any correspondence that happened to be forwarded his way and falling back into the destructive habits that had plagued him a decade prior.
It was too easy to become once more the reprobate, the drunkard, the man without aim or purpose.
Perhaps this was who he’d been meant to be all along…
When his vision doubled and he was foxed beyond rationality, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever tried at all.
One night, after he grew restless from pacing through the stale air of his bedchamber, he slipped unnoticed from the house.
He was already more than a little bit drunk as he made the walk to the nearest village whose name he did not bother learning and wound up in the first tavern he quite literally stumbled across.
He ordered whatever tasteless food was being served alongside round after round of barely palatable spirits.
When it was finally time for the public room to close, the buxom barmaid who’d been serving him pulled him out into the alley.
Her interest had been blatant the entire evening, and his reactions were far too slow to catch up with what was happening until her lips were already on his and her hands were cupping him through his breeches.
Her unfamiliar taste and the grip of her hands on his body sliced through his inebriation.
It was too reminiscent of a night one decade earlier when his life had all but ended.
Dorian pushed her off him.
“Apologies,” he’d muttered.
“Ye don’ wan’ it then?” she’d asked, obviously affronted by the rebuff.
Without another word, he handed her his entire purse and staggered off.
The walk back to Holly House was long and dark, lit only by the cold, silvery light of the full moon. He wound up falling asleep in the stables when he found the doors had all been locked.
He drifted off to sleep, comforted by the scents of clean hay, oiled tack, and horse—Amelia dancing at the edges of his imagination.
Dorian woke the next morning and eventually cleared enough sludge from his brain to decide that this life would never make him feel better, and it would likely eventually kill him.
What would Clara do if the title, money, and holdings were all passed to some distant cousin?
There was no guarantee that she’d be treated well, let alone provided for.
He was no longer a youth with the luxury to wallow; he had his responsibilities.
He needed to recover and accept the reality that he’d truly made a hash of things, and Amelia would never be his.
Never.
This would have to suffice for all the closure he would ever receive.
So, after cleaning himself up and nursing one of the worst headaches of his life, he dedicated time to setting himself back to rights until he finally felt strong enough to return to London.