“I will not be sent anywhere, Dorian,” pronounced a very certain voice as Cassius, Duke of Ashbourne, himself came striding into the room. “I have come to call and you will see me. Good Lord, did you sleep in here like this? What possessed you? I’ve already been to Albany and was told you hadn’t come back after last night.”
“It appears I did indeed sleep here,” Dorian answered, standing and stretching out his long frame that had not appreciated its time on the cramped sofa. “God knows why. When I was walking along Chelsea Embankment at three o’clock this morning, it struck me that this house was closer than my Albany rooms, even if it was closed up. I suppose that was all.”
Putting his hand up to rub his slightly itchy jaw, Dorian felt the bristles of more than one day’s growth. He would soon have a beard if he did not see to that.
“Make us some coffee,” Cassius instructed the young manservant, “and get someone in here to build a fire and open those shutters. This place is freezing.”
“Shall I do the fire and shutters first?” the youth asked, eager to be helpful but his tongue running away with him again. “There’s only me and Mrs. Copeland here while the house is empty and she went out to the market already because His Grace was here and there’s no food in. There’s Millie too, who washes the pots, but she’s not good with fires like I am.”
“Don’t worry, Gregory,” replied Dorian with a tired laugh, now remembering the young man-of-all-work’s name from last night when he’d had to show his signet ring to prove he really was the Duke of Ravenhill. “I can build a fire and my friend here can open the shutters and curtains if he’s so keen to see the sun. I’m not sure that I am. Just bring coffee.”
The manservant dashed away on his errand and Cassius went to the windows, swearing as he pulled aside curtains, shifted bolts and then pushed back the heavy wooden panels. Crouching at the hearth, Dorian winced at the brightness of the winter sunlight suddenly streaming into the room from the cloudless blue sky.
“What the hell were you doing on Chelsea Embankment at three o’clock this morning anyway?” Cassius now asked, standing with his back to the sun and looking critically at Dorian.
“I went to see Meryton’s latest paintings over at his studio and then there was a party at Ricci’s place around the corner soI stayed for that,” Dorian said slowly, recalling the scenes for himself as much as his friend. “There was a group of musicians from Spain, and dancing. Then, I just wanted… to go home, so I walked back.”
Wanted to go home?Dorian had wanted something far more specific than that. He had wanted waves of blonde hair spread across a pillow; warm, full breasts under his palm; and the mingled scent of violets and something reminiscent of the sea as he thrust himself into Rose’s soft, wet core.
Annie had been there last night, Ricci’s statuesque golden-haired model from his Aphrodite series of paintings. Dorian remembered now how she had invited him up to her garret rooms to watch the sunrise together as they had done many times before. Had he been tempted?
Tempted enough to kiss her cheek and leave the party immediately, knowing instinctively that he would not find what he wanted in Annie’s bed. Nor did Dorian believe that he could have brought Annie much satisfaction that night, while only wishing she was someone else.
When would this agony fade and end? Over a fortnight had passed now and Dorian felt more pained and torn than ever.
“You’re lucky no one cut your throat, wandering about by yourself down on the Embankment,” Cassius remarked, shaking his head.
“The gangs down there know me by now,” Dorian shrugged with unconcern, stoking up the fire he had now successfully built in the grate. “Or at least they know I carry no valuables on my person when in Chelsea. There are richer and easier pickings around than me.”
The coffee now having arrived, Dorian took a first cup, added milk and drank it down like water.
“When did you last eat?” asked Cassius with a frown as he watched this. “I believe you’re losing weight, Dorian.”
“I can’t remember,” admitted Dorian, “but I’ve certainly drunk enough champagne to fuel me for the week. There were grapes and cheese last night, perhaps biscuits too. I definitely ate some of those.”
He remembered Annie and Ricci together, feeding him these morsels on a velvet couch as a plaintive Spanish guitar played. They too had commented on his appearance with the same concern as Cassius. Maybe Dorian was ill?
“I want you to come back with me to Ashbourne Castle today,” Cassius declared abruptly. “Josephine suggested it although I wasn’t sure. Now that I’ve seen you, I think she’s right. I’m worried, Dorian. Look at you! Living on champagne, up half the night every night and camping like a tramp in your own drawing room.”
“This is how I have always lived,” Dorian tried to insist, wanting to believe it himself, although he knew that in some way things weren’t the same.
“No, it isn’t,” the Duke of Ashbourne countered, his brow creasing in thought. “You never drank more than you could hold, and you always enjoyed a healthy amount of whatever your body required whether that was food, sleep or women. Now you are only going to extremes and it is making you ill.”
Extremes.That was what Dorian feared most. If only there was a way to balance his life again and set those extremes out of sight and mind.
“Think of Jane,” Cassius pressed. “Think of Rose. Your present state could only distress them. Come back with me to Ashbourne. Take your meals and bed there in a civilized manner, at least for a few days, and you will soon be yourself again.”
Dorian gave an ironic laugh now, finding these words very darkly funny. He wondered if he was still drunk.
“Think of Rose? Do you think I can do anything but think of Rose, Cassius? That is largely my problem. I cannot. She consumes my waking thoughts and many of my dreams.”
“Then don’t come to Ashbourne,” Cassius retorted. “Go home to your wife. Rose would care for you far better than Josephine and I.”
“But I cannot love her,” objected Dorian. “You know that. I cannot love Rose. I will not use her or deceive her. She trusts me. God, how she trusts me…”
“Your wife loves you,” said Cassius bluntly. “It is far too late for all this, Dorian. Can you really not see that?”
The Duke of Ravenhill drank down a second cup of coffee with great concentration, not willing to look at whatever Cassius was trying to point towards, never mind see it clearly.
