He could not step inside without breaking into the conversation, and yet standing there, he felt as though he were watching her drift beyond his reach, into a world where he didn't belong and perhaps never would. The stallion stamped a hoof, and Rune laid a hand on its glossy flank to soothe it, speaking softly in Welsh. Barry grinned, tossing her a fond look that needed no translation. Dorian swallowed. The smell of hay and horse sweat, the creak of the brushes, the scrape of Rune's pitchfork – all of it pressed on him until his carefully maintained control felt thin as paper.
By dinnertime, Dorian was seated at the long table when Rune was called down. Heather Bailey, small, formidable, her grey hair pinned with military precision, ran the meal like a tribunal.
"So, Mr. Albury," she began, spooning potatoes onto his plate without asking. "What do you do in London? None of that 'business' nonsense."
"Private equity," he said, steady but clipped. She narrowed her eyes. "Which means?"
"I—acquire and restructure underperforming companies."
Her fork paused. "So, you buy failing businesses, sack half the people, then sell for profit?"
He didn’t rise to the bait. "That is... one way of putting it."
Gramps chuckled low in his chest, pouring himself some gravy.
Nana pressed on, relentless. "You don't look much like a farmer. And yet here you are, ruining good shoes in my yard. Why?"
Dorian shifted slightly. "Because I'm here for Rune. May I borrow a pair of Wellingtons?"
Heather stabbed a carrot. "You will disappear into a pile of cow manure without a pair. You're here for our Rune bach, are you? Funny, you didn't strike me as a country lad. Can you milk a cow?"
"No," he admitted.
"Can you muck out a stable?"
"I can learn."
"Hmm," she muttered, unimpressed. "You don't look like a learner. Didn't learn in the 5 years Rune was in London with ya. Let me tell ya, I don't like to listen to her cry into her pillow at night."
Across the table, Rune bit into her bread, not surprised that Nana knew that she couldn't sleep at night. Gramps leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling, enjoying every second of his wife's interrogation.
"Tell me this, Mr. Albury," Nana went on. "Why are you really here? Because if you think you're going to flit in, upset my granddaughter, and swan off back to London, you'll answer to me." The silence stretched. Dorian set down his fork, met her eyes, and said evenly, "Because I want to be in Rune's life. And until she kicks me out, I'm staying. Please call me Dorian."
Rune's fork stilled, her stomach flipping, though she kept her eyes on her plate. Later, Dorian offered to clear the dishes, which made Nana's eyebrows climb into her hairline. After the dishes were cleared and the house began to quiet, Rune found him waiting on the landing. She didn't speak, only pulled fresh bedding from the laundry closet and led him down the hall. She opened the green room, set the linenson the bed, and turned to leave. But Dorian moved, blocking the door. She frowned, trying to brush past. His hands caught her lightly, not rough, just enough to hold her in place. He bent his head, whispered into her hair, breathing her in. "Rune..."
Her heart beat in that familiar fast rhythm, but her voice was cool. "Don't."
"Would you stay with me?" he asked.
Her eyes shot up, sharp.
"I didn't mean-" He faltered, for once unsure. "I meant, can I talk to you?"
"Not yet," she said, stepping back.
He exhaled, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I'm sorry about your brother." Something softened in her face, however briefly. "Thanks." Then she slipped out, leaving him in the doorway.
In her own room, the one next to his, Rune lay awake long after the house stilled. The rain tapped gently at the window. She knew Dorian liked things a certain way, and she could bet he was next door, rearranging his room until it was tolerable. The thought made her heart twist strangely-half pity, half exasperation. And she wondered, not for the first time, how long she could keep him at arm's length.
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter 25
Over the next few days, he followed her around the farm, never quite at her elbow, but always within reach. His clothes made her smother a smile, and she already had a few secret pictures of Dorian in his wellies for comic relief. Wellies polished to high shine, which he wore with tailored trousers and a pressed white shirt that still carried a faint trace of starch. A cashmere overcoat completed the ensemble. Dorian, City Lord of Darkness, looking like he'd fallen into a costume drama.
"Lovely," she drawled, eyeing the coat. "Perfect for mucking out the pens."
He glanced down at himself, frowning. "What's wrong with this?"
