Page 13 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

Dorian offers me his arm once more. “Come. You must be shown to your rooms. Mrs. Grange, Mr. Everly, and young Thomas,” Dorian announces. “They shall accompany us to Ashwood Castle on the morrow.”

Each dips their head. I incline mine in return. No further words are exchanged. Tension rolls off my shoulders. I never imagined I would prefer the cold presence of my husband.

Within, warmth glows from sconces wrought in the shape of entwined serpents.

The foyer is designed in black-veined marble, with its panelling of dark, polished oak.

Comfort has no place here, there is only dominion.

It is dark within, without colour, nor warmth.

My slippers glide over the floor and the sound echoes.

I squeeze my fingers together as I follow Dorian’s imposing shadow.

This is not a home. ‘Tis is a mausoleum that has not yet learned it is dead.

“Her Grace’s rooms are prepared,” Mrs. Grange says from behind me. “Shall I show Your Grace to the principal suite?”

Dorian answers in my stead. “Yes. I shall occupy the adjoining suite.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Up a narrow crimson staircase, trimmed with gold, we travel, words unspoken, following Mrs. Grange until the air grows heavy.

Ornate oil sconces line each corridor as we pass, their flames stretching and pulling across the balustrades.

At the landing, the corridor splits. His door is to the right and mine, to the left.

We stop.

For a moment, neither of us moves. We stand across from one another, separated by no more than ten paces, but it might as well be an ocean.

Dorian studies me with a piercing gaze. I am furious with him, and perhaps he doesn’t care. But my body remembers him and the monster within. I do not waver. I do not lower my eyes, even as my body remembers those words he spoke.

“When the world looks upon you, it will see nothing but this…that you are mine…I will fuck your virgin cunt until you are dust and swollen with my s eed…”

Heat rolls off my shoulders until it gathers between my sex. A breath escapes, betraying me. My fingers find the edge of my glove, slipping the seam between thumb and forefinger.

He sees it. Of course he does.

He places a hand on the knob, turns the handle and opens it. He does not look back at me one last time. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Coward.

Left foolish by his aftermath, Mrs. Grange says nothing, only shows me to the room and departs in a hurry.

A shiver comes as I step inside my room, but I do not feel it. A memory arrives instead of cold winter mornings, when snow used to kiss my cheeks as it floated down from the peach blossoms inside the imperial gardens of Qinghua Wangfu.

The Palace of Splendour. How I miss it.

I want to go home.

The principal suite is vast, with velvet hangings in deep garnet and a canopied bed carved with grotesque winged beasts, open mouths and hollow eyes.

A fire burns in the grate. My travelling trunk has been brought in, and my gowns have already been hung.

Someone has even placed a bowl of lavender water by the looking glass .

And then, I see it.

The communicating door.

Set discreetly into the wall beside the dressing table, half-shadowed by a tall escritoire, stands a narrow panelled door with an iron latch.

Unmarked, it divides our chambers. Curious, my body moves until I arrive just outside it.

The tip of my finger grazes the wooden surface.

I rest a hand over the latch and try it.

‘Tis locked.

After three days confined together at sea (an intimacy forced by proximity), this return to polite distance feels curiously contrived. Deliberate, even. Dorian means to keep me away, even now. A knock pounds from the other side and I jump.

“Gods teeth!” I yell.

But before I can bid entry, the latch lifts from the other side and the door opens.

It’s him.

Dorian.

His multi-coloured gaze sweeps the room, then fixes on the door, then on me, standing before it, a hand still on the iron latch.

“I see,” he says.

I draw my hand to my chest, embarrassed to be caught so soon. Nora taught me well, and I should know better.

He offers no apology for the intrusion. “The solicitor has arrived.”

I blink. “Already?”

“Yes. Come.” He does not move aside, but simply waits. “We’ve business to tend to.”

I try to forget those words he spoke, and the way he felt inside me as he tore through my Maidenhead.

I am changed and he is…the same cold bastard.

How can he feel nothing after such an act?

I consider starting an argument, if only to needle him, but the moment passes. I nod, retrieve my gloves, and cross the chamber.

Why fight a demon who does not care?

I’ll be free soon enough.

I pass him and he watches. Under his perusal, my cheeks go red as heat blooms between my thighs, aching with each step.

And I see it inside the reflection of mirrors that follow us down the hallway, his eyes going black, and I know, that I am never safe. The beast that dwells behind his gaze is always there.

∞∞∞

Outside, beyond grey stone walls, a gull squawks over the harbour and my quill dips again.

Katherine Storm, Duchess of Ashwood.

The solicitor wastes no time. Another document, stamped with the crest of Ashwood is laid down.

Katherine Storm…Du chess of Ash….

My hand aches, but the piles around me only grow taller.

Evening comes and even Dorian wilts. Afterwards, Nora arrives from the servant’s quarters to help me bathe and dress for dinner.

My fingers drown inside the water, rolling over my aching muscles.

I wince at the feeling. The water is warm — unusually so, and drawn far too quickly.

Now that I think about it…

There are no chamber pots, either.

“Nora,” I ask, half-submerged in the copper bathtub. “Where are all the chamber pots?”

“According to Mrs. Grange,” Nora replies, Ashwood does not store them.”

I sink lower beneath the water, until my hair floats around my ears. “What? How can that be?”

“He’s designed a contraption. It boils water through hot coals and channels it by pump, so no maid needs to carry a bucket. The chamber pot is through that door.”

Nora points to a wall I’d ignored until now, at a small door I’d assumed was just a closet.

Through the window, a clack sounds and I pan my attention over, catching the remnants of Dorian’s hunched shoulders and the gold signet of the Ashwood carriage as it departs. The gates shudder closed, and creeping shadows devour the silhouette. Then, he is gone.

Hours later, as Nora fastens the lace at my wrists and smooths my hair, the clock strikes eight, Dorian returns.

I am already dressed for supper in a burgundy gown, made bare at the chest. Even from a distance, weariness shadows Dorian’s handsome features, but his hazel and green eyes burn with the same fire.

He has had a trying day.

A patron has arrived home with him.

Lord Gabriel.

Something has transpired, that I know.

On my way to the dining room, I pause at the bend of the hallway. Voices drift from the servants’ corridor beyond, soft, yet unmistakable. Mr. Everly’s baritone, and the high-pitched snickers of William, the footman trickles through an open door.

“Married,” The lad mutters underneath his breath, aghast. “I never thought he’d take a wife. You know I would never speak a bad word about His Grace, but this…” he lowers his voice and continues with a hiss. “This is insanity. We must do something.”

Mr. Everly grunts in response. “Nor did I, but he is the master and we must obey.”

There is a pause, the shuffle of plates being stacked onto a tray. Then Thomas asks, even lower this time. “Do you think His Grace found Lord Sainsbury?”

My ears twitch.

The staff…

Is it possible…do they know Dorian’s truth?

Avery’s voice comes quieter. “If he had, the man wouldn’t have made it off the island. Now we’re all in danger.”

My feet become rooted to the floor.

They know what happened.

“And the Duchess—“

“We must protect her at all costs.”

Footsteps echo from the stairwell and the conversation stops. My posture straightens. I smooth out my hair and step into the dining room, behaving none the wiser. There are secrets in these walls and they’re now mine to keep.

By the time I enter the dining room, both men are seated — Dorian at the head of the long oak table, and Lord Gabriel at the space to his left. They turn as I approach, both rising out of courtesy. Gabriel’s expression softens with a smile, but Dorian remains… unreadable.

He has changed into a clean suit, his face washed, hair still damp where the curls darken at his nape.

As devastating as he is, he looks no better for it.

He seems worse. The cravat is gone. The top button of his shirt is left undone, revealing the pale column of his throat where the pulse visibly hammers.

He does not offer his arm. He does not speak.

I take my seat beside him, nodding to Lord Gabriel as I do. “Lord Gabriel, how lovely to have you for dinner,”

“Your Grace,” the younger man returns the gesture. “I am afraid ‘tis not for levity’s sake. We are speaking with all members of the ton, regarding Lord Sainsbury’s disappearance. ”

Within moments, the doors open and the servants begin their procession. Silver platters, steaming dishes, decanters of dark wine, and savoury roasted meat with cloves.

As my plate is set before me, I glance sideways. Dorian hasn’t touched a thing.

His pupils are dilated, black and sharp, and his breath moves in shallow pulls beneath his open collar. A vein at his neck twitches. His hands move, lifting the wine glass, before setting it down. He folds his napkin, but there is no thought behind it. Only habit.

His mind is elsewhere.

Or perhaps, nowhere at all…

The tincture bottle is gone. It has been days.

He does not look at me, but I feel it.

That wild thing is still buried inside him.

We cannot have it loose in front of a Bow Street Runner.