Page 5 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

SCANDALOUS THINGS

DORIAN

B arefoot, and hastily draped in a cloak, the dusty armchair squeaks as I adjust the fabric.

It does little to hide my nakedness nor the chill that bites my skin.

The Prince sits beside me in a matching armchair.

His jaw clenches. His Grace, Ambrose Ravencourt, Duke of Wexmoore is still out of breath as he stands in the doorway to plead for leniency, but he has arrived too late.

The Prince raises a finger and gestures for Wexmoore to come inside.

We all know what he does not say. Princess Katherine Xu.

The Princess with the heart of a warrior did not hesitate when she stabbed me in the chest .

And I have thoroughly destroyed her reputation.

Katherine left confused. To be met with no blood, body or grievous wound — they would think her as mad as I.

A memory arrives and Katherine stands before me, her dress half torn, her dark almond eyes wild with fear; a ghost cursed to repeat the actions of her past self, destined for nightmares I’ll soon inflict.

Then it will not matter why things are, only that they are.

Away from the eyes of the court, despite his reserved height, Prince George is menacing in stature. Only he dares to speak first. “If you are here, Wexmoore, then you must know why our Duke is in such a state?”

Wexmoore, who towers at six feet and two inches, steps forward, his lies concealed inside an arrant gaze.

“Your Highness, I daresay his Grace has imbibed a bit too freely.”He pauses and I know the reformed pirate is up to his usual devious tricks.

We are friends when the occasion suits him most. “That is in part, my fault — though not entirely. We were in celebration, you see—“

The Prince interrupts him sharply. “There is no pungent scent of alcohol on his breath.”

Wexmoore evades the statement with a chuckle of levity and a rakish grin. “That would be because he took an impromptu swim, Your Highness. I’ve heard it's refreshing, even in this cold season. He must have unknowingly imbibed. As for clothing, I could not say with real certainty…”

I know what The Prince is thinking. He believes the rumours are true. That I am beyond redemption. They are true, but he nor the ton must discover such a thing. If Prince George thinks me mad, it is better than being seen as a fool or worse. A demon spawn. They would never believe the truth.

“A swim….in February…during a ball?” The Prince reiterates.

Ambrose nods in earnest. “Indeed. A swim in February, Your Highness. Yes, it’s quite the exhilarating tradition we used to partake in at university.

We wagered to see who could withstand the coldest waters.

I must admit, His Grace did seem quite keen on winning.

..” His dark eyes roam over me, “to a fault, it seems.”

Awkward silence follows.

The Prince stands. “This charade ends now. His Grace shall make himself presentable forthwith.” He faces me. “I will see you in the library to settle this matter properly.”

Ambrose bows his head in silent acquiescence, but I stand. I have cursed us both, but I’ve yet to allow any Lady to fall from grace in my presence. “Let us all rest with ease. I will marry her. The reasons matter not.”

The prince offers a satisfactory nod, with his lips thinly pursed. “Then our meeting is adjourned. I expect the announcement with due formality in tomorrow’s society column. The public mustn’t be kept waiting.”

The Prince departs and a valet arrives to deliver a replacement suit. “It is one borrowed from Lord Hawthorne.”

“I should beg his thanks,” I reply, and accept the items.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the valet replies.

Even as ruined as I am, he is smart than to risk displeasing me. After I have dressed, we meet Wexmoore inside a narrow corridor behind the tower’s spire. He saunters beside me, while Hawthorne’s valet departs.

“Swimming?” I mutter under my breath, words only he can hear, “This is the best you could come up with?”

Ambrose scowls, but continues walking with refined dignity.

Just as they taught him back at the university, when he was nothing but an urchin, a scoundrel, and of the worst sort.

“You vanished without me, against all caution, to hunt the creature alone. You didn’t wait for me as I said.

We had a plan, Dorian, and your wretched soul couldn’t follow the plan. ”

“We were running out of time.”

The Duke halts in his tracks and so do I. “How will we explain Lord Sainsbury’s disappearance?” He asks gruffly. “I am fond of you, Dorian, but I’ve no desire to hang beside you at the gallows.”

“That is a concern I will deal with.”

“We are without a body. And now this impromptu marriage — and with a Princess?! Have you lost your senses? What in God’s fucking teeth?”

I hang my head. “Katherine knows. She saw Lord Sainsbury... she saw… me .”

Wexmoore frowns. He pauses, then his voice lowers. “You are certain he was the only one?”

“Yes.”

“How certain?”

“Had there been others, we would be interring a corpse at this precise moment, rather than engaging in such discourse.”

I resume my walk through the winding corridors, but Ambrose, calls out from behind me. “The ship departs at sunset, tomorrow.”

I arch my head slightly. “Then I suggest we work quickly.”

“Blasted fool,” Wexmoore grunts. His footsteps recede, and then he is gone.

How he feels does not concern me. Inside the stone-lined passageways, I climb until I arrive at a bright corridor, painted in baby blue and decorated with chandeliers.

As fate would have it, the corridors of Hawthorne Manor enjoy their endless tirade of punishment.

There, across the hallway, seated on a lavender tufted chair, she appears.

Katherine.

For an interminable moment, time disintegrates.

There is longing in her eyes and unflinching sorrow.

Perhaps , I surmise, it is sorrow for what she cannot have and all that she has lost. A hand moves to finger the cut on her neck.

A memory swiftly arrives. Of Princess Katherine, and her smooth neck beneath my fingertips, close enough for me to smell.

To taste.

Her ghost begs in my ear. “Your Grace…please…you mustn’t…” Swallowed by her fear, her pulse races beneath me, until all I feel is the insatiable hunger of longing. I smell her as if she were made of real flesh and standing before me.

Jasmine and honeysuckle.

My heart beats faster. Excitement bleeds from my veins. My cock, thickens. Then the monster, awakens, too. And that darkness, I keep buried takes over.

“She is mine,” it whispers.

I force him deep down inside me, but I know it’s too late. I see it. It shines inside the reflective mirror of Katherine’s dressing table.

My eyes have turned black.

Princess Katherine averts her gaze and mouths something to her maid who stands beside her.

From this distance, I cannot hear their conversation.

The maid rises. With the slam of the door, she vanishes and I am left with nothing but regret and a half-raised cock. I tell the monster what I tell myself.

You cannot have her.

KATHERIN E

As the Prince’s horror impaled me to shame, I hadn’t immediately noticed.

The blood from earlier and the wound on the Duke’s chest had evaporated — dissolved into nothing.

And I was left bleeding and standing, half-dressed, without words to declare my innocence.

There is no greater scandal, except perhaps, the one where Dorian Storm is no mere mortal, but a creature from hell.

My fingers weave through each other until they grow white and my thoughts take over.

Ashwood is dangerous and cannot be trusted.

I must dispatch him while there is still time.

If we are ever truly alone again, he will finish what was started. He will destroy me.

The carriage jerks as it passes through the empty London streets.

I lower the cream veil, the one hiding my identity from the rest of the world, to glance out the window and into rain-soaked streets.

The season is changing, undoubtedly so. Autumn creeps in with each second toward midnight.

It marks the end of the London season. The ancestors granted me that clemency, at least. Nora and Genevieve ride with me.

This is no trivial matter, but the lies we gave to Lady Hawthorne sufficed.

Genevieve does not travel well by sea, an issue we must rectify if we are to travel on the morrow.

At this hour, the apothecary is closed, but it is a risk we take.

We will rip the doors off their hinges if we must.

Genevieve touches my arm. “I know it’s an impossible situation, my love, but if we don’t act now, you won’t have the choice, later. They will have something to prevent a child. I am certain of it.”

I clasp a hand over my flat stomach, terrified of a future I do not understand. Tomorrow, when the sun sits high at midday, the Duke and I will marry. I cannot risk his seed impregnating me.

I can’t be a mother to a demon spawn.

The driver pulls the carriage to a halt over wet cobblestone.

Gaslight shines down the narrow alley where the apothecary stands between other stores.

It is a crooked little shop, with its shutters latched.

It sits a good distance away from the main boulevard near Oxford Street, and away from prying eyes.

Nora is the first to exit the carriage. “Wait a moment, Your Highness.” She draws her cloak tighter, pushes open the carriage door, then drops into the rain.

Genevieve follows, clutching her ruby skirts with one hand and pulling her shawl tight with the other. She glances back at me only once. “If he’s not dead, he’s sleeping. Either way, he’ll wake.”

I watch through the misted glass as the two women descended on the apothecary. Genevieve tries the door first. It’s locked. Nora pounds on it with her fist.

Nothing.