Page 6 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

Genevieve steps back with her eyes narrowed. “We don’t have time for polite. ”

She lifts her boot and kicks the door near the base. The frame shudders but nothing breaks.

A rasping male voice comes through from the other side. “We’re closed! Come back at dawn.”

Nora doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll come back with a constable and have your licence revoked, unless you open this door — at once.”

Another pause.

The door finally creaks open, enough for a pale, beady eye to glare out.

“We’re closed,” the shopkeeper growls. “Come back in daylight. No tinctures for slatterns after dark.”

Genevieve steps forward. “My maid is bleeding through her sheets — and we can pay double. Whatever price you desire.”

The man grumbles. “Which one of you?”

Nora, who stands behind Genevieve, rolls her eyes. Genevieve jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “The red-haired one. She’s been careless. Can’t keep her legs shut.”

Nora scoffs. “Thanks ever so much.”

I make my move and exit the carriage with a purse heavy with coin. The old man’s eyes narrow as he veers toward me — still cloaked, with my face hidden behind the veil. If he recognises me, or can see through my mask, he says nothing.

“Well?” Genevieve pushes.

The man hisses. “Harlots, the lot of yer.”

He opens the door.

Inside, it is a cave of glass and shadows. Rows of dark bottles line the shelves, each labelled in cramped, slanted handwriting. The air reeks of copper and old herbs. I study each vial as we follow the owner’s movements through the corridors. Wormwood. Feverfew. Queen’s Lace. Black Cohosh.

I collect a vial labelled ‘passionflower,’ and read the inscription. For the easing of nerves, restlessness & fits of agitation. Lifting the cork, I sniff it. It reeks of sweet fresh grass.

“I’ve got a bittering tincture,” the shopkeeper mutters. I return the vial as he shuffles toward a locked cabinet, holding an oil lantern. “Strong. It’ll stop the womb from catching. You’ll take it before the next moon. No later.”

Genevieve nods. “And something stronger? In case it’s too late?”

He pauses. “There’s risk.”

Genevieve shrugs. “There’s always risk.”

My stomach turns, but I kept my veil in place, my gloved fingers trembling as I wrap them around the edges of my cloak.

Curse you, Genevieve, but also, I love you.

The old man rattles through his keys, until finally, he draws out a vial wrapped in faded red cloth. He looks at Nora with flat judgment.

“You’ll drink it hot. With milk or wine. It’ll taste like a dog’s arse.”

Nora rolls her eyes again. “Good. I deserve it.”

∞∞ ∞

The next day comes with haste, delivered under the strict and watchful eyes of Lord and Lady Hawthorn.

I recall the weight of the ivory gown, the hurried steps from the coach to the local church, hidden from gentry and gossipers, and the intense midday sun that bleached the world of colour.

A strong touch of a hand brushes mine, followed by soft lips.

They belonged to Dorian. My first kiss, so light, it seems more a dying dream than a memory.

Looking down, the gleam of a diamond wedding ring on my left finger catches my eye.

The carriage jolts unexpectedly, and the ring slips from my line of sight.

How can it be that I am married to a beast?

With a rigid glance, I steal a glimpse of Dorian.

From the outside, he is refined—dignified, and seated across from me, he towers inside the carriage, dressed meticulously in a velvet, midnight blue tailcoat.

His jaw is clenched, eyes dark with unspoken thoughts.

More than half an hour has dissolved, and still, his silence cannot be breached.

But as our eyes meet, Dorian speaks, though I cannot be surprised by the coolness of his voice nor the brute choice of words.

He is different now than before. “The arrangements are simple. You attend the celebration ball at Ashwood Castle, and then you depart. Our union will exist in name only. You will live quite happily elsewhere — somewhere the ton won’t find you. That will be best for us.”

Best for us?

My heart sinks. I should be happy. I will be free from mortal danger. If it weren’t for the damning knowledge that my husband conceals an agenda beneath his words, perhaps I would not care as much.

“Better for me or you?” I reply. “There’s more you aren’t telling me. This is about the creature you disposed of, isn’t it?”

Dorian crosses his arms. His eyes narrow as his voice drips with deliberate arrogance.

“Do not concern yourself with delicate matters, Your Grace. It’s unbecoming for a lady, perhaps they didn’t teach you that at Sunday school.

Did you even attend Sunday school? Perhaps you attended sword-fighting lessons, instead? ”

He grunts loudly.

It is then, as I look past the mock charade of bravado, that the truth is revealed. It is fear in his eyes and tension manifesting inside those muscled arms. We are both terrified of the same thing. “The beast inside,” I whisper. “You can’t control it, can you? You’re afraid.”

Dorian unfolds his arms and opens his mouth.

I admit, it is impossible for me not to stare at his lips.

He is temptation made flesh. Despite his coldness, every part of him is chiselled and striking, but even Lucifer was an angel before he fell from grace.

The carriage jumps forward, and the abrupt movement rips him away from the conversation.

The carriage halts, and the door swings open.

Instinctively, I adjust my veil to ensure my hidden identity.

It is one thing to be the Duchess of Ashwood.

It is another thing entirely to be a foreigner in new lands.

The ton chatters, the people may kill.

A footman, Thomas, a lad of seven and ten, has arrived to serve our afternoon meal.

Having gone directly from our nuptials and now, to impending sea travel, it is clear my husband rushes me.

He is oblivious to upholding any mode of decorum.

I wonder if all brides are treated with such injustice, or if it is just me.

A platter is set onto the small tray between us, a luxury that even as a Princess, I’ve yet to experience. If the footman notices the tension between the Duke and me, he knows better than to speak.

“Your Graces,” he says without looking, then hastily departs.

The tray overflows with an assortment of delicacies — meats, cheeses, fresh fruits and baked breads — all things I’d acclimated to during my long voyage at sea.

As soon as the footman departs, the carriage rolls once more.

The Duke does not yet speak. No, he watches me lift the veil, his multi-coloured perusal unblinking as he retrieves the decanter and pours himself another glass of wine.

I have my suspicions about his excessive consumption of alcohol, but I choose to keep it to myself.

“Since we are married in name only,” I ask between each delicate bite of cheese, “will you take a lover — a mistress? It is not uncommon for a Prince to have many wives in China. Although, in your case, perhaps it’s safer for them if you do not.”

Dorian scowls at my question, his nostrils flaring. It seems I have offended him. “And they say we are the barbarians,” he spits coldly. “A real duchess would never ask such a thing — and if I were to take a mistress, it would be none of your concern.”

“I am not your Duchess,” I sneer. “I am a Princess of the Qing Dynasty. You dishonour me with your lies.”

Silence follows my words. It stifles my lungs until my breath becomes laboured. His glass remains untouched. It rests upon his left thigh, crimson stains trailing the rim.

I mustn’t hesitate. This might be the only chance I have.

My fingers slip beneath my skirts, brushing the concealed handle of the letter opener I’d borrowed from Hawthorne Manor.

Cold steel presses into my gloved hand. My heart beats faster, wild with terror as I lift it.

When he looks away, I will strike. He will die, and my fears will be no more.

I lean forward, feigning interest in the fruit on the tray. His perplexed gaze roams to my hand, but not quickly enough.

Now.

I lunge.

The blade catches fabric, then the flesh at his side.

But it doesn’t cut deep enough. His hand is already there, gripped around my wrist, the other, splayed over my waist. My chest smashes against his, and through the thin barrier of my chemise, hard muscle pushes back and my nipples tingle.

Heat scores downward as his fingers tighten, squeezing until my palm releases the weapon with an unceremonious thud against the carriage floor.

No!

Dorian does not flinch. His voice, when it comes, is strikingly calm. “Not here, Princess. Not yet. Not if you hope to survive after.”

The truth hangs between us.

I belong to him.

It is then, as my wrist throbs beneath his touch, with my mouth ajar, heart near bursting, that I smell it on his breath.

“Passionflower,” I whisper.

His eyes widen, shocked, as he releases me, but already, the bruises form. The carriage abruptly halts. Outside, there is a creak, followed by the distant shouts of people.

“Mind the crates, you clumsy bastard!”

“Oysters! Fresh oysters!”

“Gin for the brave! Gin for the damned!”

“You should be grateful,” Dorian says quietly. “There are worse fates than exile, Katherine.”

He uses my name without dignity.

I tilt my chin upward with bitter defiance. “Grateful? Grateful to be sold from one prison to another?”

He smiles with warmth that never reaches his eyes. “You were never meant for a cage, but you’ve always belonged to someone.”

The door opens and salted air pours in.

“Your Graces,” the footman announces, offering a hand I do not take.

My gaze drifts past him, the lined carriages, a crowd gathering on the docks, and to the vast thing anchored beyond the pier. As black as ink, a monstrous silhouette sits against the horizon.

The ship.

Waves crash against its hull, brackish tidewater withdrawing over stone and wood. Tall masts spear through grey skies, her rigging hanging limp as she awaits the zephyr. The ship glistens wet with rain and sea spray. Painted along her bow, a name emerges in looped gold letters.

The Widow.

A ship for escape, or perhaps, exile.

“We’ve arrived, Your Grace,” Dorian murmurs gently. “Shall we? ”

I restore my veil and behind me, Dorian adjusts his gloves. Gold from his wedding ring shines into my eyes as he flexes his knuckles. I say nothing, and carry nothing, but the weight of my choices. Dorian extends an arm and I hesitate before swallowing my shame. “Your Grace.”

I accept the leash, step from the carriage, and toward the mouth of the beast. We have arrived at the Port of London. There is no turning back.

I am doomed.