Dorothy turned in her chair to look at him. In contrast, her body became stiffer still, her frown more prominent.
“Stephen,” she murmured in greeting.
“Dorotheo.”
She sighed at his usual nickname for her and sat back in the chair again.
“So bored with your house you have to come to ours?” she asked as Stephen closed the door behind him. “You will not like it here. We are arguing again. Not that you didn’t hear, of course.”
So, she knew he had been listening in. He walked forward and placed the candle on Allan’s desk, moving to his side.
Always so astute, Dorothy. Always.
“Are you well?” Stephen asked his friend instead, choosing not to respond to her jibe.
Allan offered a rather meek nod which told Stephen everything.
He’s not well.
Stephen reached forward and took Allan’s shoulder, squeezing in that comforting way they had always done for one another. It was a silent act that spoke volumes, and he was relieved to see Allan smile more genuinely this time.
They had done this for each other when they had had to stand at their fathers’ graves, waving them off into the next life. Their strength, their friendship with one another, was the most important thing in Stephen’s life, not that he had ever put it into words to Allan. The beauty of their friendship was that he did not need to.
“What do you think, Stephen?” Dorothy called to him.
“If you are trying to include me in your argument, I will have no part in it.” Stephen released his friend’s shoulder and stood tall.
“You think I cannot induce you to argue?” She smiled, rather mischievously. “Strange, you are always so fond of arguing.”
Stephen narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. This last year, it had become increasingly obvious what a beautiful woman Dorothy had grown up to be.
Her once youthful, soft face was a little stronger these days, with her prominent cheekbones, though her eyes were just as large and soft as they had ever been, bright and as green as the brushwork on the pastoral paintings around them. Her wild brown hair, which she always struggled to get into any updo, was pinned in the oddest way now, with the curls escaping wildly around her ears.
She may have been beautiful, but this was Dorotheo.
“You have a tongue as sharp as an adder,” Stephen reminded her. “Any argument of ours inevitably ends up the same.”
“With my victory?” she quipped, with that mischievous smile still in place.
“With you licking your wounds.” He made his smile triumphant this time, and she shook her head, seeming quite infuriated. “Don’t offer jibes if you cannot see it all the way through.”
“Fine, then do not argue with me. Instead, give your opinion.” She stood from her chair and walked forward. She was quite short, but her curves had developed considerably over the last few years. Stephen, however, could not think of Dorothy as a lady of the ton. She would always be Dorotheo to him. “My dearest, sweetest, oh so caring brother—”
“Oi,” Allan muttered, sensing her sarcasm.
“Wishes me to go to Lady Webster’s retreat. You know the lady as well as either of us.” Dorothy gestured to Stephen. “Do not pretend you have a liking for her either.”
Stephen held back his wince.
“Oh, enough with the sense of propriety! Sometimes, you have the expression of a wooden post.”
“So kind, as always,” he muttered swiftly and perched on the edge of the desk, pulling the smallest of chuckles from Allan with his words. He saw a claret carafe nearby on the edge of the desk with two glasses beside it. He poured two glasses of claret and pushed one toward Allan, who took it with thanks.
“Be honest, not proper and polite,” Dorothy pleaded, stepping toward Stephen.
He halted, surprised she had come so close as he sat on the corner of the desk. This near, the perfume she wore became more pronounced.
It was much fresher than the perfumes some ladies of the ton wore. Where some were sickly sweet with rose and honey, hers was made of bergamot and pine. Stephen tried not to look like he was inhaling too deeply, taking in that scent.
