Page 6 of The Rake's Revenge
Truth be told, he was so bloody exhausted from the constant ache—from the uneasy sensation that something was missing. He resented the fact that she’d turned him into a man he did not recognize; she had chosen to make a spectacle of the downfall of their engagement and forever tarnished Society’s perception of him. She’d made the choice to refuse to hear him out, and she’d not spoken a single word to him since that night. Would arriving at her far-flung home unannounced finally afford Dorian the opportunity to say his peace and eradicate Amelia from his soul?
“Why not?”
Brinley dropped his paper, eyeing him as if he was unsure whether he’d heard him correctly.
“Why not?” Dorian repeated. “She has hauntedmeenough.”
“You cannot be serious about this.” A small note of alarm made its way into Brinley’s voice.
“Deadly.”
“Yes, that is precisely what this situation might turn into if you go through with it.” Brinley rubbed his palms on his thighs before standing. “You plan on appearing at her house in Clara’s place? There is a resemblance there, but not nearly as much as that.”
“No. I will accompany Clara as her guardian and chaperone. She requires one if she is to travel, and who better than myself?”
“And then what?”
“And then…justice.” And closure.
Brinley crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Justice of which variety? I may not have many morals, but I draw the line at harming—”
“You know me better than that,” Dorian snapped. “I’ve never laid an untoward finger upon a woman, and I never will. Ican be far more creative.” He could say from experience that sometimes wounds on one’s heart were suffered far longer than those of the flesh. How many years had he spent trying to suture himself closed, only to realize he’d been fooling himself. There was no way to completely heal from the loss he’d suffered. He’d tried everything else except meeting with Amelia face to face, speaking with her about what her words and actions had done to him all those years ago, perhaps even ensuring she felt a fraction of what he’d experienced. “She was so bloody righteous ten years ago; she refused to hear me out, she refused to see me. She condemned me without offering me the benefit of doubt for so much as a second. So, I intend to show her how wrong she was.”
“I don’t know…”
“But I do,” Dorian said, finality ringing in his tone. “There are only a few weeks to prepare. Say nothing to Clara or else I risk her sending a warning of my accompaniment to Lady Coylton.”
“Your sister and I do not make a habit of friendly small talk, so you needn’t worry on that count.”
Dorian barely heard his friend; his mind had already moved on to making plans. It would be so very satisfying to put Amelia in her place all this time, to shatter her misgivings as she’d done to him all those years ago after she broke their engagement and spat upon every word of trust and love they’d ever shared. She’d made it blatantly clear that everything had been a lie because, if she’d loved him like she said she had, then why hadn’t she so much as given him sixty seconds to explain the truth of the situation?
No.
She’d taken the scene for face value and refused to speak another word to him. After making a public spectacle of the incident and loudly declaring the dissolution of their betrothal, she’d run from the ball and refused to see him whenever he had tried to call upon her at her home. He’d so naively hoped theremight be some reconciliation once she calmed down, but the truth had struck him like a runaway carriage when her parents had banned him from the premises, and the paperwork formally dissolving the betrothal agreement had arrived at the office of his father’s solicitor. All remnants of hope he’d possessed had withered and died that day, along with an innocent part of his soul that had believed in the potential for love that lasted a lifetime.
Amelia had crushed that part of him with her unwillingness to trust him or give him so much as a second more of her time, time he felt he’d earned throughout the course of their relationship.
Now, the time had finally come for him to get some satisfaction. Using Clara’s visit as the guise to gain entry into her home, he would show Amelia what it was like to feel the brilliant ecstasy of love…then have it all ripped away.
Amelia tugged herred-and-blue plaid shawl more closely around her shoulders. She’d spent the better part of the day balancing the estate’s accounts in the study that had once belonged to her late husband, the Earl of Coylton. In fact, the entire Scottish castle in which she resided had been passed down through several generations of his family, dating back to Culloden—a gift from the English king for support during the time of unrest. The castle was ancient, with foundations dating back centuries. James had never been particularly fond of how his family had inherited its title and the lands just over the border from Northumberland, but he’d done what he could to bolster the local economy and support the lives of his Scottish tenants. After his untimely death a little more than one year ago, Amelia had done what she could to continue those efforts.
Faye, Amelia’s enormous wire-haired deerhound, lay nearby beside the crackling hearth. The thick stone walls in this part ofthe castle held onto the winter’s cold long into spring and early summer. Fires burned in each chamber at night to ward off the chill. Though its upkeep could be costly, she loved her home and wouldn’t have it any other way.
She’d taken on the duties of the lord of the manor, despite the protests of the solicitors and stewards. However, none of them had been able to argue with the way in which her husband had prepared her for the task; none could argue that her mind and skills weren’t up to the responsibility. And so, grudgingly, they accepted her input.
Despite their skepticism, the estate had continued to run well after the death taxes had been paid off with strategic sales of unused properties, and their young son, Archie, had inherited his father’s title. As much as she loved this home and cared for all the people beneath its roof and dotting its lands, she did it all for her son and his future—so he would come of age into the best possible situation, even if he’d been cheated out of decades of tutelage beneath his father’s capable hands. She’d sworn to do her best to succeed in this and to not let him forget the Scottish half of his heritage, even if her husband had been a highly English variety of Scottish. He’d been trained in English schools with his natural inflection learned from Scottish nannies and servants, only appearing in times of great excitement, fatigue, or duress. She desired for Archie to take as much pride and appreciation in Scotland as his father had.
There was a scratch at the heavy wooden door before the butler, Grahame, entered the study. “Your guests have arrived, m’lady.”
She offered the ancient man a smile and thanked him. His tenure at Coylton Castle dated back to James’s grandfather’s days, and, despite offering him a hefty pension and cottage of his own for the past two decades, the man had always declined and insisted his place was with the Liddell family.
“I will meet them in the great hall presently.”
Amelia quickly finished her neat column of numbers so she would not forget her place, tidied up the desk, and called Faye to her side. The great old beast groaned to her feet and loped over. Her head reached above Amelia’s elbow, allowing her to easily scratch the wide space between her floppy ears, curling the wiry hairs around her fingers.
Faye had been a birthday present from James the first year of their marriage. Since she and her husband had occupied separate bedchambers, Amelia had slept with the puppy in her bed each night—it made her feel not so alone in the cavernous castle. She and Faye had been completely inseparable since.
Together, Amelia and Faye made their way to the entrance hall. There, Clara stood, taller and even lovelier than she remembered, turning in a circle to take in her surroundings as she untied her lace-trimmed bonnet. Amelia well remembered how intimidating the grandeur of the great hall was for someone experiencing it for the first time. For centuries, the wide, open room had been a gathering place for the laird and his clan. Thrushes and herbs would have been strewn across the stone floor worn smooth by feet and time. Enormous hearths flanked the room and were tall and wide enough to accommodate six strapping men standing tall in each of them.
