Page 7 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

DUPLICITOUS THINGS

DORIAN

M y arm remains firm beneath her gloved fingers, a hand relaxed at my side, but I knew better. Her pulse throbs steadily beneath my palm, quickening as we walk together, husband and wife in the eyes of the world and nothing more.

“You shouldn’t have tried. Not like that.”

She lifts her chin, refusing to blink, refusing to flinch, brave in her ignorance. “And you shouldn’t have underestimated me.”

A laugh breaks free. “I knew you would. I almost hoped you’d succeed.”

“The rumours are true,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “You are insane.”

My wife is sharper than she lets on. I grin at the statement. “Be careful who you plot against, Katherine. The sea is more monstrous than I.”

Around us, the dock bustles with people.

As sailors lower the gangplank, and crane for a better glimpse of the newest Duchess.

Their curiosity is a living thing. It crawls over us and poisons the empty spaces between our madness.

I had kept the column announcement brief, but titles have ears, and a name like hers — a Duchess from the East, stirs the imagination.

They’ll wonder about her.

About me.

About us.

For her safety, I cannot allow her to be truly seen, not until we reach the Castle.

There, the world will forget her face. Then, I will have time to set her free the only way I can.

She will be hidden away, far from me, and far from danger.

Perhaps to the local Ashwood Countryside, in a private residence with her own staff.

There, she will have peace, for I cannot allow her to suffer more than she has already endured.

I release her arm and turn inward on the crowd all shuffling to meet at the entrance. Katherine’s profile is diminutive beside me, and despite the beauty held within those brown eyes, exhaustion creeps outward.

“You should rest once aboard,” I offer in a low voice. “The sea is unkind to those who meet it unprepared.”

“Do not concern yourself, Your Grace. I am not made of glass.”

Her words catch me off guard, but I do not falter.

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. You are now my only concern.”

Curious eyes follow us as we board. The ship’s steward is tall and beady with red whiskers. He introduces himself with a blackened tipped hat. “Your Graces,” he bows. “Mr. Silas Cutter, at your service. Your maid, Nora, and your Valet, Joshua — we have moved them to the lower servants’ quarters.”

Katherine nods but remains silent as we follow Mr. Cutter to our designated rooms. The ship creaks beneath us and as we walk, we sway alongside the waves.

Our room is not large, but it is the largest one aboard the ship.

It is fine with panelled walls, dark oak furnishings, and a bed made for two, draped in rich navy blue.

Katherine stands near the window, with her back stiff as she faces me. She hasn’t removed her gloves. Neither have I. An unchanging fact ripples between us. One way or another, she will leave me, and I will let her. I must. There’s no future for her by my side, only ruin.

“I will return shortly with your things,” Silas remarks. He departs and the door shuts behind us.

It is Katherine who breaks the silence, first. “ Where will you send me?”

I don’t hesitate. I answer her. “A private estate. Far from me, far from all of this. You’ll be safe there. It is the only mercy I have left to give.”

She rubs her arm, her eyes peering out into the clear ocean ahead.

We have officially set sail. “Do you think that will make everything better? That I’ll just forget the madness in your veins, and hide your secrets?

” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I do not require your protection, Dorian. I never did.”

Before I can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door. We both freeze. The steward’s voice drifts through the wood. “Dinner is served at the captain’s table in an hour, Your Graces. Your valises will be delivered shortly. I have informed the servants of your arrival.”

A note is then, slipped underneath the door. It is a missive. I lean down to retrieve it and read it aloud. “Lady Hawthorne has fallen ill and her travels to Ashwood Castle for the wedding celebration will be delayed by up to a week….”

Katherine will not see Genevieve again until the night of the Ball. Her shoulders fall at the news, thoroughly melancholy. Nora, Katherine’s maid, soon arrives to help her dress, and I remain seated in a tufted leather chair, watching, drinking my tinctured wine, and testing my madness.

I point to a gown made of deep plum. “That one.”

And if Nora sees those eyes turn black, well, she says nothing. She knows better than to risk death, even if I am a Demon. Not that she is aware of such a thing — not yet. The pair disappear behind the dressing curtains.

“How many days until we reach Ashwood?” Katherine asks as Nora tightens the corset.

I raise the tumbler, filled to the brim with passionfruit tincture and whisky, and down the entire cup. It burns as it goes down.

“Three,” I mutter through the taste, “perhaps four if the conditions stay well.”

A knock arrives, just as Katherine places her feet into the matching slippers.

Nora opens it. It’s Mr. Silas Cutter.

“Dinner is served at the captain’s table.”

Katherine turns and faces me, just as I shove the flask inside the interior pocket of my coat. We do not speak, for she knows the truth. It is redundant to hide such a thing. We both know that I must imbibe if I am to survive the impending dinner.

Katherine takes my outstretched arm, with her lips turned downward. She is unhappy, the new Duchess, but that will be remedied in due course.

KATHERINE

Dorian stands beside me, with my hand resting against the crook of his arm.

The veil is gone, removed for this event.

There is no protection, only naked observation.

Inside the chattering sea of lace, silk, expensive perfume, and soft candlelight that dances along the polished wood, and across the long table, the Captain’s dining room brims with finely dressed strangers, all of whom are members of the ton.

Their faces carry polite smiles, enough to conceal shock as introductions are made.

A Chinese Duchess.

The pages of the society columns will soon rustle beyond my control.

One by one, as they bow, they school their features into something more acceptable.

They have no choice. My title commands it.

Their stares burn longer than courtesy allows, yet I accept their respect, and say hello to more guests, Lord Edward Carrington and his Countess, Lady Isabella.

They are a young couple, only recently married in the last twelve months.

Lord Edward is familiar with the Duke, having attended Oxford University together.

While they engage in casual conversation, my gaze drifts away. It is then, that a voice, rough, deep, and lined with an Irish brogue sounds across from me.

“Your Grace. How lovely to have you on board with us.”

The captain is a robust man with a greying beard and a proud posture. Dressed in a black waistcoat, finished with gold trim, his lips meet my gloved hand — chaste, by all appearances. The pressure of his mouth soaks my glove, and the weight of his stare sinks beneath my skin. My belly churns.

I do not like this man.

The moment his lips leave my hand, I pull it back, and shove it by my side. Yet, the noxious odours of tobacco clings to him. Summoned by my discomfort, Mr. Cutter appears to pull back my chair. I settle into it with a nod. “Thank you.”

The first course soon arrives.

“Turtle soup,” the Captain announces, and lifts his glass to toast his own generosity. “A delicacy. Nothing but the finest will do.”

“Hear, hear!” The guests reply in chorus.

The broth is served with crusty bread, pickled cabbage, onions, and carrots.

I eat a few bites and then, toy with the spoon, watching the conversation swell around me, when a snuffling draws my attention downward.

A large brown mastiff noses against the hem of my skirts.

Lady Carrington, who sits to my right gasps in horror, hisses at the creature, and pulls it back by its leash.

“Mind your manners and stay away from the Duchess!”

But the poor, hungry beast seems to be the only living thing here I do not detest. I gently pet his head.

“Please,” I offer Lady Carrington a smile. “He seems gentle enough. He may stay. ”

She smiles back, not unkind, but grateful. “His name is Reginald.”

“Hello, Reginald.” My fingers gently scratch behind its ear. “‘Tis nice to meet you.”

It is then, the steward circles the table again, to pour the wine himself.

He leans in too close, and I prickle at the closeness.

Dorian notices, and with his breath warm against my ear, whispers to me.

“Don’t let it unsettle you. He’s only making nice.

The Captain wants his next port contract signed.

Ashwood diamonds are worth the flattery. ”

I cannot deny the shiver that runs down my spine.

“Diamonds?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “One of England's largest exports comes from our mines.”

I nod and allow his voice to soothe my worry. Perhaps I am being too cautious. I lift the glass, sip the wine, and let the burn slide down my throat.

The first course is sweet and delicious but a strange aftertaste follows.

I surmise the meat has turned and do not finish it.

The second course arrives in the form of cured beef which glistens under thick sauce, potted lobster, stewed peas, mashed turnips, and potatoes.

Everything is prepared with precision, every dish arranged to perfection.