“What in the devil possessed you to be here?” Dorian’s tone was so cold, he could have quelled the fires of hell.
“Dorian, it was not his fault,” she pleaded softly. “I asked him to speak to me.”
“You should leave,” Dorian ordered Benedict.
Ellie was frantic to stop him from making a larger scene. Stepping closer, she pressed her hand to his chest. “Please, Dorian, we were just having a conversation.”
“About what?” he asked tightly.
“I suspect you already know what,” Benedict muttered as he stepped out from the shadowed alcove. “What do you want from me that you haven’t already taken, Your Grace? I have already given you your pound of flesh.”
Ellie fastidiously ignored the crowd along the ballroom that were watching and murmuring behind their fans. She wanted to curl into a ball and die of embarrassment. Heat burned behind her eyes.
“Dorian,” she dropped her voice. “Please.”
“That afternoon, you damn well knew what was going on. You distracted me while your mother came in with sweet pies,” Dorian boomed with fury. “My weakness at that age.”
“No one forced you to sign that document,” Benedict huffed, waving a breezy hand.
“Your father damn well handed me the paper and convinced me it was authorization to get my father the help he needed!” Dorian shot back.
“And still you blame me for your lack of due diligence,” Benedict responded with equal vigor. “Pah. Why would you change now, I suppose, eh?”
“Leave,” a muscle in Dorian’s jaw jumped. “Now.”
She tried again, “Dorian—”
“No,” he snarled. “Traitors have no place in polite society.”
Benedict straightened and set his glass on a nearby table; he tugged down his jacket. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I will stay. My invitation is just as valid as yours. Now, if you will excuse me, I could do with some fresh air.”
As Benedict trudged away, the nattering throng parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Dorian turned his eyes to her, “We need to talk.”
Resting a hand on the small of her back, he led her through the onlookers as if they were not there. He held his head with a poise that Ellie could not fathom holding, not with the stares and whispers swirling around them.
He led her up the stairs and down a hallway, tested a few doors to the rooms, but none of them seemed to fit his needs. Finally, he flung the door open to a solarium and hauled her inside.
She didn’t get a chance to look around much—most sunrooms were well-appointed in their design and décor. This one, not so much. It had the workings of a woman who liked to plant; pots were stacked on the floor and tools in a haphazard pile on tables.
“Umph—” Her breath punched out of her chest as Dorian lifted her onto a table.
He slapped both hands on the table beside her, his gaze now hard as stone. “How many lies did he tell you?”
“He did not get a chance to tell me much of anything,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “You came in like a bull in a china shop.”
The twin flames in his gaze entranced her as much as they terrified her. She knew he would never hurt her, but that protection did not extend to others, did it?
“We spoke of this already, Evelina! The Rothwells are not to be trusted,” he ground out. “Do not let Eastbrook deceive you with his blasted lies!”
She reached out for him, hesitated before touching his cheek, but then cupped his face. “Tell me what happened then? You have only given me morsels of a story that shaped your entire childhood and the dark alleys your life took you through. How can I help heal your wounds if I don’t know what there is to heal?”
Leave it to that bloody bastard to ruin everything.
Pushing away, Dorian began to pace the room; the memory of Benedict’s unwelcome presence sent a rippling undercurrent through his blood.
He didn’t know what infuriated him more: that the man had the temerity to tell Evelina lies, or that she was leaning to believethem. Either way, Benedict Rothwell had destroyed a night of good cheer.
His mood had gone from cheerful to irascible, and he’d managed, just barely, to stop himself from planting a facer on the man.
