Though he was far from tidy, Dorian opted for expediency over cleanliness. He requested that Archie be brought down to the great hall and that they be left alone to speak. The lad was somewhat wary when he arrived, his eyes skimming over Dorian’s unkempt state. He gestured for Archie to join him on a walk. Curious eyes followed them as they strode through the courtyard and out the main gate.
“Where are we going?” the lad finally asked. Dorian was careful to steer their path in the opposite direction from where he’d dug Faye’s grave.
“There is something I wanted to discuss in private,” he answered, deciding that where they’d stopped was as good a place as any. He crouched down so that they might speak eye-to-eye. “You might have heard that something happened today.” Archie’s eyes widened, and his face paled, the freckles on his nose standing in harsh relief. “Your mother is fine,” Dorian rushed to reassure him. “It is only…Faye. She has had a very wonderful life with you and your mother, only…she was very old.”
“What happened?” Archie croaked. His eyes began to brim with tears, telling Dorian that the lad likely already had his suspicions.
“She died today. It was peaceful. She knew her time had come, and I held her so she was not alone.”
Instantly, Archie crumbled. Had he not had the experience with his father, the boy might not have recognized how death meant no return, but fate had been cruel to him in his short life. He’d already been robbed of so much.
Archie nearly bolted blindly, but Dorian grabbed him before he could do so. He shushed the lad and held him fast when he fought back. “You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to have your feelings.” A few more seconds of flailing and then Archie collapsed against him, his tiny body quavering with his sorrow. “You may cry now, let it out, but your mother will need your strength later. Can you help be her strength?”
Lower lip trembling, Archie swiped at his snotty nose and nodded his head. Indeed, the lad took the job very seriously.
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 stoodand 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 thetonwith 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 oldfor 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 atthe 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?”
