So, he smiled and forced himself to adopt the enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and confident tone for which he was known: “It was marvelous, old boy. Just marvelous. Europe is where it’s at these days. I wish I could move away from dreary old England and spend my days on the cobbled streets of Madrid or Lisbon, perusing art in the hallowed halls of Milan and Rome. Or of course, meeting beautiful women in Paris.”
“So there were women?” Lucien said, raising an eyebrow disapprovingly. This was not a subject that the two friends had ever agreed upon.
“Of course there were women,” Dorian said, even as he felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach. He didn’t like to lie to his friend,but of course, he had a reputation to maintain--especially if he didn’t want to be besieged by the marriage-minded mamas of the ton.
“Well, let us move past those details and return to the art, shall we?” They had reached the end of the hallway, and Lucien pushed open the door to the library and stepped inside. The candles hadn’t been lit, and it took them several moments to adjust to the darkness.
“Blast, Henry said the candles would be lit,” Lucien said. “Wait here— I will go find a servant to light them.”
Lucien disappeared back out the door to the hallway, and Dorian heard his footsteps melt away into the distance. In the sudden stillness of the room, he found himself drawn to the French windows on the far end of the library, and pushed back the curtains to look outside.
The moon was almost full, and it cast an ethereal, silvery glow over the gardens below him. Unlocking the latch on the doors, he stepped outside and breathed in deeply of the warm, sultry night air.
The Season was almost over, and soon the ton would be heading to the country to escape the summer heat, but Dorian liked it. The warmth reminded him of several nights he’d spent along the Mediterranean in Southern France, where some of the more difficult memories he’d gone to Europe to escape had come back up.
The journey had been painful, but cathartic. And now, as he thought of the way the moon had reflected on the Mediterranean as he’d stood in the shallow waves, the tears leaking down his face, he felt a strange kind of happiness.
But speaking of tears…
Someone was crying close by. He could hear them--her, he was fairly certain--coming from just out of view, in the garden. Dorian took a step forward.
A young woman’s tears pulled on his heartstrings, whether he willed it or no. He couldn’t not respond to it. The crying was soft but consistent, and he took another step forward, then another, until he was walking down the stairs and out into the garden.
Inside, he cursed himself.This is none of your business, Dorian! Just stay out of it.But he couldn’t. Every instinct inside of him drove him toward the sound.
Dorian came around the edge of a blossoming cherry tree and saw a young woman sitting on a bench next to a pond, in profile to him. She was crying, her hands pressed to her face, her shoulders shaking. In the moonlight, she looked like the marbles he’d seen in Milan , her skin pale and milky and her shiny black hair turned momentarily silver.
Dorian paused, and for a moment, he was transfixed. With the water glimmering behind her, s he was like an apparition that had emerged from the pond--like the Lady of the Lake holding King Arthur’s sword up out of the waters for him to take.
Dorian took another step forward, and the woman looked up at the sound. At once, her eyes went wide, and she stopped crying and sprang to her feet. At the same time, Dorian’s chest tightened, and he drew in a sharp breath.
“Lady Leah?” he asked in astonishment as his eyes swept over her. “Is that really you?”
“Your Grace,” she murmured, sweeping into a low curtsy. “Please excuse me, I did not realize anyone was here.”
“Nonsense, don’t apologize,” Dorian said, stepping closer and smiling at his best friend’s little sister. Although she was not so little anymore. How old would she be now? Eighteen? Nineteen?
The last time he’d seen her, she had been a girl of sixteen, still awkward and gangly, not quite grown into herself. But now… she was a woman. And as he gazed at her, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she had become. She’d grown into her curves, and he felt his mouth grow dry with the way her gown showed them off.
Get your mind out of the gutter! She is Lucien’s sister!
Less scandalous of him to notice were her raven-black hair, which was sleek and shiny, and her sparkling green eyes, which glimmered beautifully even through her tears. And then there were her high cheekbones, her perfect button nose, and her bow mouth. Oh yes, she had become very beautiful indeed.
Not that any of that mattered right now. All that mattered was making sure she was alright--and then escorting her back to the ball. Lucien would be worried once he realized she was missing.
“Are you well?” Dorian asked.
“I am…” Lady Leah hesitated. It was clear that she wanted to do the polite thing and say she was well; but it was also clear that she would be lying. He had just caught her crying, after all.
“Here, take this,” he said, saving her from having to answer by reaching into his pocket and handing her his handkerchief. She smiled as she accepted it and dabbed at her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, handing the handkerchief back to him. She blinked, her eyes now dry, and looked up at him more curiously. “I had not heard you were returning to England. It has been a long time since we’ve seen you.”
“Yes, too long,” Dorian lamented. “And that was one of the reasons I returned quickly and without notice. It occurred to me one day, in a village in Greece, that I couldn’t go another day without my friends. There is no one to talk to in Greece.”
Lady Leah raised an eyebrow. “Because you don’t speak Greek?”
“Precisely,” he said, laughing. “And you know me: if I am not talking, I’m not happy.”
