Page 3 of Wedded to the Deviant Duke
“You know, I really did pick that dress out just for you.” He suddenly stood, yanking Thalia to her feet as the pair moved toward the fireplace. Low flames flickered within the brick hollow, proving a modest warmth to chase away whatever chill remained of wintertime.
Realization struck her terribly, and Thalia began to shake her head, clawing at Giles’ grasp. “Don’t—Giles,” she swallowed rising panic, forcing herself to speak. “M-my lord, please.”
“The modiste made it special.” Giles spoke as if holding the conversation entirely with himself. “I’d told her all about you, and she said a green fabric would bring out the color of your eyes.”
His gaze bore directly at Thalia’s chest, and she reflexively moved to cover it with her free hand. A twinge of anger caught against his lip, and he turned back to the fireplace, the documents lifted at his side. “Beautiful, venomous eyes, you snake of a woman!”
It all happened so quickly, accompanied by a snapping crack. Whether it was from the first pages of paper being consumed by the flame, or Thalia’s wrist as she finally broke free from Giles’ grasp, she couldn’t say for certain. All she knew was one moment, her upper body practically dove into the hearth, grasping for the deeds as licks of flame seared across her skin.
Bits of ash slipped between her fingers—her gloves had long-since begun to burn away—and in an instant, cold air rushed past as someone forcefully yanked around her waist, forcing her back onto the parlor floor. Anger thrashed along her limbs, until a familiar voice cried out in desperation.
“Thalia, stop!”
She blinked, suddenly aware of Mr. Cooke’s presence. At some point, he’d entered the room and gotten behind her, currently holding her back as the fireplace crackled before her. The last bits of paper smoldered into brilliant orange flame; inhibitions dissipated in a similar manner.
“You bastard,” she spat, her attention back on Giles as he stood off to the side. “Witless, thieving rake! You’re no better than the rats that scurry beneath the floorboards, stealing whatever scraps they can manage!”
“Appropriate, that you would know the daily tasks of vermin,” Giles replied. “Do let me know how they’re getting on in Whitechapel; I’m sure your brother is thrilled to have like-minded company.”
Hot tears stung her eyes and finally fell against her ash-covered face. Only now, with the adrenaline working itself out of her body, did she realize how much her forearms throbbed, her wrist ached, and her head swam as lingering heat from the fire flushed against her cheeks.
She allowed Mr. Cooke to guide her back to the settee, never once breaking eye contact with Giles, who still stood over the fireplace, lording over his accomplishment.
“Give her a moment to come back to her senses,” Giles instructed, brushing his vest as if the entire ordeal had been but a minor inconvenience to him. “Then escort her out through the servant's entrance. I’m expecting members of the Ton’s Devils any moment now, and hardly want such esteemed gentlemen thinking I’m cavorting with some Whitechapel tramp.”
He left soon after, a heavy silence falling into the parlor room. Occasionally, it broke from the crackle of flames, and Thalia couldn’t help but shudder each time it did. Mr. Cooke simply sat with her, arms back at his side out of respect. Thalia partially wished he’d keep hold of her as the world fell to madness around her. But this wasn’t the time; there was far too much to be done. “D-Did he…mention the Devils just now?”
Mr. Cooke nodded fervently.
The gears slowly began to turn in Thalia’s head. Slowly, she managed to get back to her feet, much to the butler’s concern, and she made her way towards the writing desk. Though one hand trembled and throbbed painfully, she was entirely able to pick up a quill with the other.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Mr. Cooke asked.
Thalia exhaled sharply, dipping the tip into the inkwell before beginning to write. It was slow, and agonizing, but she managed a short missive before the pen clattered against the desk. “If you could address this to my brother in Whitechapel.”
“I’ll ensure it gets into his hands personally,” Mr. Cooke promised. He moved towards Thalia, but she stood on her own, staring down at the message with anger rising in her chest. That was the emotion to hold on to, now; to pull her out of despair and continue down the proverbial tunnel. Darkness be damned, but she would not let Giles take the light away so easily.
“If I can ask, though…”
Thalia glanced towards the butler, her expression softening as she tried not to take out her fury on him. “I’ll be out a bit later than he expects. There’s a few favors I’ve been holding off on using, but…I don’t think I have a choice, anymore. He’ll likely need supplies as well, given the work I need him to do.”
George’s brow furrowed, obviously confused. “What work would that be, my lady?”
Hesitantly, Thalia allowed herself a hopeful smile. “It would be quite difficult to forge an invitation without the proper supplies, don’t you think?”
* * *
Orion’s Hunt was not, in fact, a hunt in the traditional sense. There were no guns, no mounted stallions or bloodied individuals on the prowl for prey—not unless the participants truly involved themselves in their role. It was nothing more than a masquerade, a fanciful gathering that plucked and utilized the core of what made a hunt so exhilarating in the first place. The chase.
Orion’s Hunt took place during the start of every Season, ensuring no doe-eyed debutantes would stumble onto the metaphorical hunting grounds and ruin the fun. And, all in all, that’s what those invited expected from the private event; a bit of harmless, if not somewhat dubious, fun. Thrills set outside the typical parameters of a seasonal ball, for those willing to chase after a more forbidden pleasure.
At least, that was what Gabriel hoped to instill. And that, for the most part, was what he witnessed as he patrolled the outer perimeter of the Orion’s club estate. Members and guests alike seemed fully engrossed within the theme, a sea of fine garments and mammalian masks chatting and laughing across the lawn and below the nighttime sky.
Gabriel eyed a couple as they strolled towards the back garden; the gentleman wore a red rose in his breast pocket and a black, domino-style mask in the shape of a wolf, while his lady friend showed the visage of an ivory rabbit, its ears decorated in a crown of delicate white roses.
Prey and predator. Hunter and hunted. The delicate dance always fascinated Gabriel, and he enjoyed testing the line between proper society and animalistic tendencies. It was entirely the reason he had created the Orion’s Hunt in the first place; desire was inevitable, and caging it entirely led to an insatiable madness. But the line, though toed, was strictly upheld amongst him and his peers, and Gabriel had worked many years to ensure no one thought otherwise.
He adjusted his own wolf’s mask, distinguished from his guests by its more complex coloration. It was not merely black, but a blend of purples and blues, and dotted with tastefully placed gemstones to replicate a starry-night sky. His own rose sat tucked between his vest pocket, an eager heat thrumming in his chest.
