“Dorothy, that is not what this is.”
He stood, but she turned her back to him.
“Goodnight, Allan. I am too busy obeying your last order to go to bed to even think of talking now.”
Dorothy marched away from the door and hurried down the hallway as quickly as she could. At one point, she thought she heard Allan’s footsteps racing after her, but by the time she reached the stairs, that sound had faded, and she judged it to be her imagination. She took the stairs two at a time, hitching the skirt of her gown up around her knees to aid her movement.
When she reached the top landing, she felt tears prickling the backs of her eyes, but she didn’t want to let any more tears fall. She ran to her chamber, flung the door open, and stepped inside, kicking it shut and leaning against it.
As she sank onto her haunches, that prickling feeling grew worse, but she didn’t let it defeat her. She blinked so many times that her eyes became sore, yet she won the fight and held back her tears.
“Everything changes now,” she murmured to herself.
After their argument tonight, Allan might not forgive her for her words or actions today. Stephen would certainly not come to her aid when he read their names on the scandal sheet as the news of their scandal spread around. What was more, Stephen’s and Allan’s friendship might never be mended again. It was all ruined, because of her.
Dorothy pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. “Everything has changed,” she whispered aloud, fearing what would happen when the sun came up and she would have to face her brother at breakfast again.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Well, it’s not there yet.
Stephen dropped the scandal sheet onto the table in front of him. He’d read it cover to cover, but there wasn’t a single mention of him nor Dorothy within the pages.
He looked across his table, full of food, and the few bits he’d managed to eat over breakfast. He’d arrived home in the early hours of the morning, having no wish to stay at Lady Webster’s house any longer after Dorothy and Allan had left. The staff had been quick to prepare the house for him and prepare food for breakfast after a sleepless night.
“I wonder how many days it will be,” he muttered to himself, his eyes still on the scandal sheet.
His eyes flitted upwards, and he looked across the dining room to a portrait that hung on the other side of the room. It was a portrait of his father when he had been a young man, painted just a year before he had married. That austere expression stared back at him.
“What do you want from me?” Stephen muttered as if the painting would come alive and start talking back to him. “Hmm? I can well imagine what you would say.”
“As can I.”
Stephen sat bolt forward, thinking for one minute that he was, indeed, going mad and imagining that the painting was talking to him.
“He would stride into this room, that austere curl of his nose tipping his head back so far, he would be in danger of falling over.” Allan appeared in the doorway, mimicking the late Duke’s gait, his chin held high. “He would sneer like this.” He gestured toward his own face and leaned on the back of one of the chairs around the dining table. “Then, he would demand to know why you weren’t doing a better job at protecting the dukedom. Odd man, wasn’t he?”
He glanced at the painting behind him. “I’ve always wondered why you insisted on keeping that painting of him there. It’s as if he stands on high, looking down upon you, judging you still.”
He turned back to face Stephen, who still hadn’t managed to utter a single word. He had been certain that Allan would not come to see him after what had happened. Clearly, he had been wrong.
“Lost your tongue this morning?” Allan drawled. He walked around the dining table and drew out the chair next to Stephen. “Don’t mind, do you? I left before breakfast this morning.”
Stephen watched wordlessly as Allan pulled up a free plate and piled it with toasted bread, ham, and eggs. Then, he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“You going to say anything?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and raising the cup to his lips.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Stephen whispered.
“Well, I have a headache from drinking too much brandy, and you’ve always had better coffee than I do.” Allan sipped his coffee pointedly.
“I thought you’d hate me.”
“Hate you? Hmm, tempting.” The smallest of smiles appeared on Allan’s face, enough to make Stephen jerk and sit taller in his chair. “Yet, something Dorothy said last night—actually, many things she said—have lingered in my mind since. So, this morning, I woke up with renewed vigor to sort out a few things in our lives. The first is this.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, and gestured toward Stephen with his cup. “Dorothy said you saved her from being blackmailed by Lord Chilmond. Tell me everything, Stephen, and leave nothing out.”
Slowly, Stephen sat forward and put down his own coffee cup, turning to face Allan. “When I went to fetch Dorothy to speak with her, Lady Frederica and Lady Charlotte produced a note, supposedly from me, asking for a meeting with Dorothy in the library. I did not write it. A good forgery, but it was not my handwriting.” He started slowly but picked up pace, one word following the other fast. “I went to the library and opened the door to find Dorothy and Lord Chilmond alone.”
