Persuasion (10 page)

Dorian let go, step back and bow before disappearing into the crowd.

It was a step forwards and one that although Lily would more than likely not

be able to understand, for it meant that she was closer to her ultimate goal

than she realized.

He had, horror of horrors, actually let her in.

William grinned into his punch glass and sank it back in one go.

After years of waiting, it seemed almost implausible that everything could be

coming together and so perfectly and so swiftly. Waiting for a woman as

perfect as Lily so obviously was . . . William felt truly vindicated!

With malicious glee, he stalked through the crush, and exited the townhouse

without saying farewell to his hosts. As soon as he stepped out into the night

and sucked in a breath of the dirty London air, he grinned his malevolent

pleasure.

Another missive was necessary to keep her as fearful as ever and one that

would keep her quaking in her chocolate at her next breakfast, was of the

utmost importance. He looked forward to her terror and hoped that it would

induce her to work all the harder to please him and entice Dorian.

Although, he thought that that wouldn't be too hard!

Dorian was quite obviously, already enticed. The seduction seemed

imminent and William looked forward to having the man under his control

once more.

****

and escaped from the confines of the ballroom, where he stopped and

gathered his breath. It was ridiculous that he was panting, but it was not out

of a lack of good health. It was from what had just happened. Or what

hadn't happened.

Licking his lips, Dorian raked a hand through his hair and quickly settled his

breath before rushing through the Greene's mansion and escaping into the

London night.

The air was thick of smog and enough to have the healthiest of men

choking, but Dorian didn't notice it. Couldn't notice it, for his attention was

inward and not on his surroundings. He only realized that his carriage was

following him, when his coachman coughed and the rattling sounds of his

emphysema jolted Dorian into noticing. He came to a halt, spied his

carriage, stared nonsensically at it for a moment and then jumped into it

without another word.

With his cane, he tapped the ceiling twice, silently informing his team that

he wanted to travel as fast as physically possible to his London home on

Park Lane.

Once ensconced in the dark pit of his carriage, Dorian questioned his

motives for having ventured out. When his valet had been helping him

dress, he'd felt so certain that it was time he enjoyed the Season and all its

pleasures. Pleasures he had once sought out and relished, which now

however were as entertaining as watching the grass grow! And now, after

experiencing his first ball, he damned himself for having conceded and for

returning to London, when he should never have done so. When he should

have stayed in the country and left himself to himself.

God, he needed a brandy. Not just one, the bottle.

The need burned through him like a ravenous fire that could not and would

not be quenched and Dorian knew that he needed to lose himself in its

hunger, for only then could he find the peace he needed to sleep.

But drink was not the answer. He knew that, but it was currently the only

solution he had and had been for far too many years. It seemed incredible

that Camille could still affect him and after all this time, but she did. She

affected his sleep and his ability to concentrate. Affected his quality of life

and he could still feel the grief of what he had lost . . . Dorian knew that it

was taking time for him to come to terms with it, but he felt positive that

time would indeed heal this particular wound.

He could only hope to God that this was the case, for the prospect of living

his entire life in the same manner as he had these years past was abhorrent

to him and the content young man he had once been.

Grimacing, Dorian's hand tightened about the knob on his cane and stared

ahead at the black, formed wall. He'd grown so used to staring at one wall or

another and he was slowly growing sick of them.

In fact that was one of the other reasons why he'd decided upon returning to

London and ultimately attending Lady Greene's ball . . . . He was bored of

his own company and tired of conversing with his staff!

Until that female had accosted him, Dorian had not exactly been enjoying

himself, but neither had it been too traumatic! His friends, as ever, had been

supportive if over-jocular and he'd enjoyed their banter for the duration of

the ball.

In fact, Dorian knew that he did not deserve his friends. During the times

that Dorian had felt as though he'd dropped down into the deepest pits of

hell, they'd attempted to call on him but he'd sent them, via his servants,

away and had condemned himself into isolation until finally they left him in

peace.

He'd felt abandoned and doused in self-pity, but tonight had reassured him

that he had not been abandoned. They had simply left him alone to work out

his grief and in his own way.

Considering Derricks, Hart, Lourd, Ladry and Marlbrough were all deemed to

be the veriest rakes, a fellow couldn't ask for anything more for chums.

Tonight had been almost like escaping from the womb again and the old

Dorian felt pathetic for feeling that way. Before Camille, he'd been as bad as

his friends. The veriest Corinthian, parading about the ton as though he

owned it and had the right to do anything he pleased. Now, he was like a

scared babe, one who was taking wobbling steps as he learned to live again.

Closing his eyes as shame roiled through him like bitter bile, he recalled the

vision in green. Lady Lily Mercer. He'd heard of her, of course. Her father

had died recently and his friends had declared her a diamond and to be as

cold as one too. She hadn't felt cold to him. Those eyes . . . green like his,

but not. So pure and ripe they'd been like luscious berries calling to him like

a siren, as though he were a man starved and in need of sustenance. The

auburn hair that had been like a flame atop her head, the curvy body that

would arouse even the most impotent of men . . . . She'd been a vision and

the diamond his friends had described her as and she'd frightened him.

A mere chit of a girl had frightened him into fleeing like a deer in the woods

ran from the guns of the hunter.

Gulping back the shame, he bowed his head.

Dorian wondered if it was only he, but the resemblance had been uncanny.

Perhaps not in the coloring, but that face . . . he gulped again. The face had

been akin to that of his Camille.

Feeling sick, he tried to dispel the sight of her the last time he'd beheld his

beloved . . . on her deathbed, on the day she'd given birth to their stillborn

daughter.

He firmed his jaw, because Dorian had resolved that he would no longer

weep like a woman over the past. Camille would not have wanted him to

mourn her for such a long period of time. Four years . . . it had been since

he'd lost her.

Shaking his head, Dorian conjured the image of the woman with whom he'd

danced and realized that the likeness had dissipated as soon as she had

spoken. There had been a confidence about her, a confidence that he

confessed was appealing. For any lady of the ton to have the aplomb and

nerve to walk towards a crowd of men, be they gentlemen or not, and

request a dance . . . well, it required a tenacity of spirit that he admired.

His Camille had been as shy as a newborn lamb. Forever retreating rather

than pushing herself forward and greeting the world with a hesitant if

beautiful smile.

Lady Lily was a proud beauty. Not exactly haughty, but fully aware of the

reaction her presence garnered.

He was partly surprised that she had gone to him. He did not doubt that a

lot of men within the Greene's ballroom would have wanted to dance with

her, would have sold their best stallion to be able to waltz with her and yet,

she had settled upon him.

Dorian was well aware that any woman would soon grow bored of his sour

disposition and lack of talking. Not even for his family fortune and title could

they withstand that. Yet, Lily had decided upon him.

Raising a brow at the thought, for his reputation and his past were renowned

amongst the ton, Dorian wondered why she had chosen him. Why she had

not chosen a more dapper and congenial man with whom to dance?

The female mind was as always difficult to contemplate and understand, but

in this case it was all the more difficult. Dorian did not have to be told that

his face would have been grim or that his displeasure at actually attending a

function would have been very, very visible. So it seemed that this Lady Lily

was indeed rather perverse! Either that, or she had a taste for the Gothic, or

and he shuddered at the thought, she knew of his past and pitied him.

Wincing, he pursed his lips and was grateful, when the carriage came to a

halt and the thought that in mere seconds, he would be sequestered within

the private and comfortable space of his home, had him relaxing

infinitesimally. He preferred the countryside, had done ever since his

marriage, but there was a comfort here too.

He'd spent many a Season in this house, tupped many a Cyprian and

delighted in a demi-mondaine's body in the master suite. Those memories

were there and they were the most prominent, and therefore, he had

reached a level of contentment that he had not felt for years. In this house,

he did not constantly think of Camille or of what he had lost. Instead, he

thought of his misspent youth and the jocular times he'd had with his

chums, and it was most comforting, most comforting indeed.

With a sigh, he unlatched the door and jumped out. His coachman knew to

leave well alone and pack away without any prompting from Dorian himself

and he swept along the path to his home, up the six stairs that led to the

four story town house. Almost as soon as his foot hit the top step, the butler

opened the door and Dorian glided through and into his home.

“Good evening, Hague.”

“Good evening, my lord,” Hague murmured respectfully and bowed his head.

“Yes. Yes.” He held out his cane and hat and passed it to him and then

hovered in the hallway, before the round table which one of the maids filled

with a flower centerpiece. “Bring me a decanter of brandy, Hague.”

The butler ducked his head and departed, leaving Dorian to make his way to

the study cum salon, which was his favorite room.

As soon as he stepped foot inside, its welcoming warmth enveloped him and

Dorian shuddered with relief. He was in his own home again, privacy

abounded and freedom too. The tabbies were not watching and speculating

why he was in town again. The girls were not discussing him behind their

fans and eying him up as a potential suitor.

Here, he could be himself and damn the consequences.

It was a large room with a large fireplace that took up three quarters of the

floor-to-ceiling height. It flickered with an incongruently small fire that licked

the temperature in the cavernous space up a few notches.

Before it sat two leather armchairs and a small carved oak table, upon which

rested a book he was halfway through reading and a candlestick.

Behind those chairs and to the left, was his plantation desk, a few book

stands which were overfull with reading material, an armoire and myriad

other pieces of furniture, which he kept out of tradition and not for purpose.

Instinctively, he moved towards the chairs and took a seat, staring into the

flames as he did so. The room was otherwise dark but he did not feel like

reading or even working on his ledgers. No, tonight he wanted to feel the

freeing pleasure of being foxed. Of not being held to account for his actions

and losing himself in a balloon of brandy and not awakening until late in the

day tomorrow, when the whole process could start again for all he cared.

There was a knock at the door, more for a warning rather than to ask for

permission, and Hague walked in with a decanter. Hague was a good chap,

one who had stood by him through his halcyonic pre-marital days of no-good

behavior, and through the pits of hell Dorian had taken to traversing after

Camille's death. Through it all, Hague had been his usual dour self, neither

casting approval nor disapproval but always there and always, in his own

way, supportive.

It was the same with Mrs. Jerrard, his cook. He rarely saw her, but when he

did, she clucked over him like a mother hen and even though at times, it

could be irritating, he knew he was fortunate in his staff.

Hague settled the tray on the table between the chairs. As he rested the

silver salver upon the surface, he reached for the candle and walked towards

the fire. Bending down, he lit the squat taper and replaced it on the table.

“Sit down, Hague,” Dorian ordered wearily and watched as Hague perched

watchfully on the leather chair.