“I’ve picked you up from some horrible scrapes over the years without fail, and I will forever do it because I consider you to be like my brother; however, you have a habit of being too absorbed in your own grief to take note of the pain in those around you.” Brinley did not elaborate, instead, pushing away from Dorian and storming from the room with one parting shot. “Perhaps some time alone will help you come to terms with all of this.”
Dorian never discovered where his friend slept that night, but in the morning, Brinley, his valet, and the carriage he’d arrived in were gone. Bitter and sore, Dorian chose to nurse his headache and ignore the worsening pang of loss blooming in his chest. First, Amelia, then Clara, and now Brinley. One by one, the people he trusted and counted on—the people he loved—were leaving him. He knew he had no one but himself to blame, but that was the opposite of reassuring. What sort of monster was he that he sabotaged everything? He could set out with fair enough intentions only for his decisions to lay waste to his life.
Around midday, a few more staff arrived, and the house was better opened and prepared. Saying almost nothing to them, Dorian hid away in the bedchamber he’d selected, neglecting any correspondence that happened to be forwarded his way and falling back into the destructive habits that had plagued him a decade prior. It was too easy to become once more the reprobate, the drunkard, the man without aim or purpose. Perhaps this was who he’d been meant to be all along… When his vision doubled and he was foxed beyond rationality, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever tried at all.
One night, after he grew restless from pacing through the stale air of his bedchamber, he slipped unnoticed from the house. He was already more than a little bit drunk as he made the walk to the nearest village whose name he did not bother learning and wound up in the first tavern he quite literally stumbled across. He ordered whatever tasteless food was being served alongside round after round of barely palatable spirits.
When it was finally time for the public room to close, the buxom barmaid who’d been serving him pulled him out into the alley. Her interest had been blatant the entire evening, and his reactions were far too slow to catch up with what was happening until her lips were already on his and her hands were cupping him through his breeches. Her unfamiliar taste and the grip of her hands on his body sliced through his inebriation. It was too reminiscent of a night one decade earlier when his life had all but ended.
Dorian pushed her off him.
“Apologies,” he’d muttered.
“Ye don’ wan’ it then?” she’d asked, obviously affronted by the rebuff.
Without another word, he handed her his entire purse and staggered off.
The walk back to Holly House was long and dark, lit only by the cold, silvery light of the full moon. He wound up falling asleep in the stables when he found the doors had all been locked.
He drifted off to sleep, comforted by the scents of clean hay, oiled tack, and horse—Amelia dancing at the edges of his imagination.
Dorian woke the next morning and eventually cleared enough sludge from his brain to decide that this life would never make him feel better, and it would likely eventually kill him. What would Clara do if the title, money, and holdings were all passed to some distant cousin? There was no guarantee that she’d be treated well, let alone provided for. He was no longer a youth with the luxury to wallow; he had his responsibilities. He needed to recover and accept the reality that he’d truly made a hash of things, and Amelia would never be his.
Never.
This would have to suffice for all the closure he would ever receive.
So, after cleaning himself up and nursing one of the worst headaches of his life, he dedicated time to setting himself back to rights until he finally felt strong enough to return to London.
Chapter Fifteen
Amelia had justcome from the kitchens after discussing the week’s menu with Cook when she heard the creak of the heavy main door off the great hall. Curious, she made the detour through the large, open room and heard a male voice with an English inflection speaking to Grahame.
“Please, at least tell her that I’ve come. Let Lady Coylton decide for herself whether she will see me.”
Grahame sniffed disdainfully. “Seeing as how the last time your visit ended rather abruptly under uncomfortable circumstances, I do not feel that would be wise.”
“Lord Brinley?” Amelia frowned and peered around her butler to find the man looking harried and exhausted, but sober and well-dressed. The tall man deflated a little in relief at seeing her.
“You have quite the formidable butler here,” he remarked, attempting some levity. Amelia made him stew in the unknown for another minute before she told Grahame to allow him to enter.
“We may speak in my study,” she said, turning on her heel even before Brinley had finished crossing the threshold. Even before that, she’d already decided not to inform Clara that Brinley had arrived—she was unsure if Clara should be subjected to him just yet when her emotions remained quite frazzled and confused. Given their conversations, Amelia suspected the girlhad quite liked the kiss, but wasn’t sure if he should have. Ah, to have the difficulties of youth.
“I never had the opportunity to tell you what a grand home you had the last time I was here,” Brinley commented politely. Though his tone was light, Amelia could tell he was very uncertain about his reception.
“Did Kempton send you on his behalf?” she asked flatly.
“He does not know I am here; I have not seen him in several weeks now.”
“Then why have you come?”
“You are blunter than I remember,” he chuckled. When she did not smile, he cleared his throat and moved on. “I am here to apologize for the situation and how I’d revealed Kempton’s intentions in such a callous fashion; however, you must believe that his intentions had evolved. I was unaware of that fact when I was speaking to Lady Clara.”
Amelia stiffened. “How am I supposed to trust what you are saying?”
“I may be an irreverent rake, a bit of a scoundrel, debauched by most people’s standards, but I am no rogue. I do havesomehonor. Vengeful seduction is not in my repertoire.”
“So, you have come here to disparage Kempton?”
