Page 15 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

Luncheon was served beneath the tents on the beach. Miles wondered if food tasted better in the sea air or whether Francois was a confectionary miracle maker. The meal had been absolutely splendid. Miles had eaten far more oysters than he should have, and the thick slices of hearty bread and soft cheese sat heavily in his belly. Not to mention the jam puffs.

He glanced across to Dahlia’s table in hopes that he might catch her gaze, but he was disappointed again. She appeared fully engrossed in her friends’ conversation.

The plates were cleared away, leaving the diners with cold drinks. Miles sipped a ginger beer, feeling completely content. At least, as far as his stomach was concerned.

At Ruben’s suggestion, the two of them left the table, heading down toward the water and the gaming equipment arranged there.

Miles picked up a badminton racquet, testing the tension of the strings with his fingertips while Ruben hefted the tug-of-war rope.

Benedict and Chatsworth came across the sand to join them.

“Are you inclined to play solo, Meredith?” Benedict asked, picking up a racquet of his own. “Or should we assemble teams?” He swished the racquet as if challenging Miles to a sword fight.

Miles patted his belly. “It’s much too soon after lunch,” he said. “But once my meal is digested, I’ll happily accept your challenge.”

“The ladies want to go shopping in town,” Ruben said, his frown making it clear that he did not look forward to the excursion.

“Vivian and her friends hope to see the castle,” Benedict said. He looked much happier with that idea, but that was typical. Benedict was rarely bothered by anything.

With his eyes, Miles followed the road leading up to Mont Orgueil castle, and he regretted the extra jam puff. If not for his promise to watch over Ben, he would have preferred to remain beneath the shade of a tent.

Chatsworth was looking down the beach to the rocks at the far end. “I believe the tide has left behind some pools there.” He squinted, then took the spyglass from his pocket, looking through it. “I’m nearly certain that’s a razorbill,” he muttered.

Ruben sighed. “It looks like we’re separating.”

“Come to the castle,” Miles said. “I’m certain the ladies don’t require your company in the shops.”

“They’d probably prefer to peruse the dressmakers and souvenir stands on their own,” Chatsworth said, still looking through his spyglass.

Ruben glanced toward town and then at the castle. He shook his head. “Don’t know which is worse.” In the end, he decided to join those remaining beneath the tents with their cool drinks and card games.

A quarter of an hour later, a group had gathered on the road at the top of the seawall stairs to begin their trek. There was only a small number, fewer than ten, and Miles was relieved that Dahlia was among them. He felt optimistic after seeing her chatting with Lorene and Ruben in the excursion car. Perhaps they had found a way to get past what had transpired a year ago and Miles would no longer have to divide himself, being friends with only one of them at a time and watching what he said, lest he offend one of the parties.

The group began walking, and within only a moment, the road became steep. Instead of pleasant chatter, the words spoken were only occasional as they trekked upward. They made their way back and forth along switchbacks, drawn out in a long line. Benedict and Lady Covington walked directly ahead of Miles, and he was glad their pace was not quick.

Even though he considered himself to be in better than average physical condition, Miles was huffing by the time he reached the castle gates. The group continued on and up along stairs and paths, dispersing little by little as individuals and couples broke off to explore different sections of the castle.

Seeing that Inspector Graham was staying close to Ben, Miles went in search of Dahlia. He hadn’t quite seen where she’d gone but knew the general direction, so he continued on, under arches, between narrow passages, peering into various stone chambers, and finally he climbed the steep circular stairs of a turret, coming out on top of a tower.

Dahlia was there, alone, looking over the battlement toward the beach below and the ocean beyond. She held a parasol, one hand resting on the stone wall. Hearing him, she turned.

Miles halted, not only to catch his breath but to take in the sight of her. He couldn’t help it. The lace of her parasol cast speckles of light over her face, neck, and shoulders. Her eyes were wide, one brow raised in question. The expression lasted for only an instant before she schooled her expression to its usual refined politeness. She gave a nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the view.

That glimpse, the flash of vulnerability, uncertainty, took him back to an earlier time, when Dahlia had worn no mask with him. When she’d allowed herself to be fully seen. He’d caught hints of it days before in her office when she’d asked for help, and again for a moment in the basilica’s crypt when she’d been frightened. Seeing it again froze him, made his heart flip almost painfully and his mouth go dry.

There was so much to their history. So much to sort through. And he felt the weight of needing to say exactly the right words lest he shatter any hope of a future together.

Her slight nod hadn’t exactly been a warm greeting. Nevertheless, Miles stepped forward to stand next to her. “You don’t happen to have a fan, do you?” he asked. “It seems I have forgotten mine.”

She loosened the strings of the reticule at her wrist and extracted a folding fan, handing it to Miles without a glance in his direction.

He opened it, gratefully waving cool air at his face. He’d hoped the recollection of their earlier practice would have softened her with its remembrance, but she remained quiet. Her mind was obviously occupied, and he wondered whether the source was new or whether the general pressure of managing the cruise was the cause.

“A splendid view, isn’t it?” he said at last. His skin still hadn’t cooled, and he wished he could loosen his necktie or at least remove his coat. How was Dahlia managing to look so refreshed? Aside from a slight flush to her cheeks, she looked entirely comfortable.

“Beautiful,” she said, though her tone did not encourage further comment.

Miles looked down toward the tents on the beach. Groups were dispersing now, some headed toward town, and a few had taken up the badminton racquets and started a match. Though he couldn’t see them, a fair number apparently remained beneath the shade, indulging in cards or conversation. Farther along the shore—in the opposite direction from Chatsworth’s rocky bird territory—a line of bathing machines had arrived, and some of the ship’s passengers were headed in that direction. He couldn’t help a bit of jealousy. A dip in the cool seawater sounded heavenly.

“Do you intend to go sea bathing?” he asked.

“I do not,” Dahlia said.

Miles opened his mouth to point out that it was the perfect day for it, but he closed it. Dahlia did not seem in the mood for small talk. There was no better time than now to broach the topic he’d hoped to discuss, but as he considered exactly what to say, he could not come up with a clever way to introduce it, so he plunged right in. “It seemed a pleasant conversation you had with Ruben and Lorene in the carriage,” he said. “I was glad to see that perhaps some bridges were mended?”

Dahlia turned toward him now, and one glance at the iciness in her gaze told him he’d chosen badly.

“I thought—I mean, it appeared things were going well.” He fumbled with his words, but by the hardening of her face, he knew he was just making the situation worse.

“How could you think that a few moments of forced proximity is all it would take to resolve life-changing damage? That there is anything at all that could be said that would repair—” Her voice caught, and she clenched her mouth so tightly that he could see the muscles of her jaws working. The anger in her expression was startling, as if it had been there all this time, hidden away, and his foolish words had exposed it.

Miles’s instincts told him to run.

“Do you not remember what happened?” She spoke every word slowly, distinctly, in a voice laced with ice and fury. But in it, Miles could also hear pain. More than he’d thought possible. “You have no idea what this year has been like, do you, Lord Meredith? No, of course you don’t.” She pushed out a jagged breath, in which he would not have been surprised to see fire. “ You have not been shunned by Society. Your life, as you knew it, did not stop.” Hurt entered her eyes, filling them with tears. Her lip trembled and her voice dropped to a whisper. “You did not lose all of your friends in one instant.” Her tears spilled over, and Dahlia turned away quickly, loosening the strings on her reticule, likely looking for a handkerchief.

Miles put one into her hand, giving it a gentle tug to turn her back around toward him. “I lost the one I cared the most about.”

As she wiped her tears, Dahlia huffed, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she did not believe that one bit.

“I tried to visit you,” he said, feeling the need to defend himself. “You wouldn’t see me. Those first weeks, I came every day. I left flowers, dinner invitations for you and your parents... but nothing. No answer, no... nothing.”

Dahlia looked away. “Those weeks were... dark,” she said. “I hardly left my room. If not for my cousin and the Blue Orchid Society women, I don’t know if I ever would have.”

“I should have been more persistent,” he said. “Tried harder. But...” He wanted to take her hand, but one held her parasol and the other his damp handkerchief. He contented himself with touching her arm.

“If you really cared about me, you would not have remained friends with them... with him ! You made your choice, Lord Meredith. And it was not me.” She wiped at her tears again.

And here they were, at the crux of it. Miles’s divided loyalties. How could he care about both Ruben and Dahlia? The fact was, he did.

“I know Ruben isn’t perfect,” he began.

Dahlia scoffed.

“Most of the time, he isn’t even likable,” he said. “But I owe him a great debt. One that goes back to when we were children.”

“A debt?” She looked skeptical, but at least she was listening.

Miles rested a hand on the wall, leaning against it. “We met at Eton, as you know.”

Dahlia nodded.

“But there is more to it.” Miles swallowed, his neck going hot. He’d planned to tell the story, but the memory of those first days was painful and humiliating. He smiled, trying to make his voice sound nonchalant. “Though you see before you a perfect specimen of manhood, such was not always the case.” His smile felt forced, so he dropped it. “I was large for my age, quite a bit bigger than any of the other first-year boys, and many of the second and third years as well. Large, clumsy, shy, and as far as schoolwork, I was... not the brightest student.” He winced. “And that is putting it lightly. Let’s just say I was different; I stood out. And in that environment, standing out is like having a target on one’s back.”

He glanced at Dahlia, seeing compassion in her gaze. His neck heated further, moving up to his ears, and he employed the folding fan.

“Boys that age—or any age, really—are like feral animals,” he said. “Like wolves. The pack discovers quickly which is the weakest and goes after it.” He swallowed again. “It did not take them long to single me out. Hours, really.” He tried to make his voice light. “Young boys could make a medieval torture chamber seem like a grandmother’s tearoom. They are geniuses at torment.”

Dahlia tucked away the handkerchief and touched his hand where it rested on the wall.

Miles nearly choked at the rush of emotion the small touch brought. He continued on. “Just as quickly, the pack singles out the alpha. The leader. There is always one. Perhaps girls are the same,” he said with a small shrug. “The alpha is not always the biggest or the smartest or the wealthiest. He is the most confident. A natural leader. The other boys recognize him immediately. It is instinct. He knows he is the leader, and they all want to please him. They would do anything for his approval.”

“That was Ruben,” Dahlia said.

Miles nodded. “Yes. That was Ruben.”

“And what happened?” she asked.

“He befriended me,” Miles said simply. “I do not know why. He was in a position to make my life miserable. He could have done it easily. The others would have joined in. It would probably have only added to his popularity. But, for some reason, he attached himself to me that first week, making it clear to everyone that I was his friend, and as such, I was off limits to teasing and torment.”

He looked up at her, seeing that she was still listening. Her head was tipped to the side, her eyes soft. And a measure of relief washed over him. At the very least, she was no longer breathing fire.

“And that was it,” he said. “After those first”—he swallowed—“horrible days, I had a friend. And I’d never had a friend like Ruben. He was always coming up with schemes. He helped me with my schoolwork, and he never treated me as if I were simpleminded or dull. It was like he saw something in me that I didn’t know was there. I loved school because of him. Our group of close friends increased, adding Ben, Chatsworth, and of course Everleigh.” He shook his head at the mention of his former companion, who was now serving a sentence in an Australian penal colony. “What had begun as the most horrific experience became the happiest time of my life. And it was because of Ruben.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Dahlia said after a moment. Her hand was still on his, and no force in nature would make Miles shift away.

“It is not something I speak of often,” he said. “Or ever, really. I don’t believe I’ve actually told the story to anyone.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Dahlia said. “It does help me understand.” She looked down toward the tents, as if she might see through them to the people inside. Her eyes tightened. “But it does not repair the hurt he caused.”

“I know,” Miles said. “And that is not something I can do. I seek only to help you understand the reason for my own loyalties. It is difficult to be torn between two friends who have become enemies.”

Dahlia continued to stare down at the tents. She took her hand away, and Miles wished he could read her thoughts. She had been hurt so badly that he didn’t know if anything he said could ease her pain.

He rallied his courage again. There was one more thing he needed to say that he truly did not wish to. But for his loyalty to Ruben and his desire for honesty before pushing forward with his own suit, he must get it all out in the open. “Ruben’s choice was forced upon him,” Miles said. “His parents required it. If he’d been allowed, he would have chosen to marry you.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “I learned afterward that he and Lorene were courting in secret. They had been for some time.”

“Yes, that is true.” He did not offer any defense. That was not his battle to fight. “But he did love you. I know that for certain.” Miles hated saying it. But it was the truth.

Dahlia was quiet for a long time before pulling her gaze away from the top of the tents. She turned toward him. “I do not think Ruben would have been a good husband,” she said. “I have heard him speak to Lorene with such contempt.” She shook her head, her unbelief evident. “How could he do that? She is... at least, she was... such a wonderful person. He is lucky to have her.”

“I hope he realizes it one day,” Miles agreed.

“I do too,” Dahlia said. She tipped back her parasol, readjusting it on her shoulder. “To be clear, I do not pine for Ruben. My heart is not broken because he is married to someone else. I do not love him.” She squinted, turning her head to the side as if considering. “I don’t know if I ever did. Not truly. Though it was exciting to be photographed and featured in the society pages, I do not think that is really love. It is more... infatuation, I believe. And I feel as though I was a different person then. So much younger.”

“What is love, then, Miss Lancaster?” Miles asked. “Can you, in your aged wisdom, define it?”

“I believe it is simpler than I thought,” she said. “And at the same time, more complex.” She shook her head, giving a small smile at the inconsistency in her answer. “When I look at my parents, at my friends, and at those they have fallen in love with, love seems to be easy. They do not require constant grand gestures or expensive gifts or gushing adoration. Their love grows in quiet moments—sharing the best things that happened in a day, taking a walk together. Little things. They are friends. They trust. They encourage.” As Dahlia spoke, her cheeks reddened. She paused, studying Miles, and her cheeks reddened further.

Seeing it gave him hope. He took a step closer, his legs brushing the front of her skirts. “And is there anyone who fits the bill for you, Miss Lancaster? Is there someone you find yourself wanting to tell your daily triumphs to? Someone you are eager to encourage?” He kept his voice light, but his heart felt anything but. It was as if a carpenter had taken up residence inside his ribs and was hammering away.

“There might be someone,” Dahlia said. But then she looked away, staring at the water. The hand on her parasol handle tightened, her knuckles turning red. “But it is hard to know for certain.”

“Allow me to tell you something I know for certain,” Miles said. “The instant I saw the invitation for this cruise on the SS Aurora , I knew without a doubt that I must be on board. That I would do all in my power to be here. To be with you. To attempt to return our friendship to what it once was. And... if things went as I hoped, to deepen it into something more.”

Dahlia drew in a soft gasp.

“Love may be simple and complex,” he said, taking her hand. “But there is also an element of trust. A leap of faith, if you will. A moment when you give your heart to another and trust it will be held dear. With hope that they will extend theirs in return.”

Dahlia looked at their joined hands, and Miles was certain she could feel his pulse pounding. She raised her eyes, looking at him directly now, and something in her gaze made the world go still.

Miles tugged her toward him, holding her hand against his heart. He leaned forward slowly, giving her the chance to retreat and at the same time praying she wouldn’t.

He kissed her, and everything else fell away. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. The only thing was her. And her touch was everything he’d dreamed it would be. Miles pulled her closer, his arms moving around her waist and pressing her against him.

The parasol dropped. Dahlia’s arms twined around his neck, and she deepened the kiss of her own volition.

He held her tightly, feeling the elation of a fresh beginning. The creation of something new, something wonderful, something that was theirs alone. Kissing Dahlia was exactly as he’d imagined—and he had imagined it often—but at the same time, nothing could have prepared him for the depth of the emotions it unlocked inside him.

They drew apart, and Dahlia looked up at him with flushed cheeks and a shy smile. “I had not expected that.” She glanced behind her and bent to retrieve her parasol.

“It was unexpected, true,” Miles said. His lips were tingling and his head spun. “But not unwelcome, I hope.”

“No,” she said. “Not unwelcome at all.” She closed her parasol, propping it up against the wall next to her. She turned back to him, a teasing smile pulling her lips to the side. “In fact, I don’t believe I was quite finished.”