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Authors: Bronwyn Scott
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builder would have been as gracious. His manners had been impeccable. He hadn’t importuned her with his provocative remarks.
Elise halted the brush in mid-stroke. That was when she realised it: he hadn’t kissed her. He had simply bowed and walked out the door, taking his secrets with him. She wasn’t sure she liked this version of Dorian Rowland any better than she liked the other, which surprised her very much because she should have.
Chapter Seven
A walk was precisely what he needed to clear his head. Dorian pulled at his cravat, tugging it free with a sigh of relief. He’d played the gentleman tonight in high form, clothes, manners and all. It was a role he hadn’t assumed for some time, but it was as stifling as ever, limiting what he could and could not say or do. But that was society’s way—demanding manners until it made castrati of its men and vacuous dolls of its women. He understood entirely why Elise Sutton resisted. The road propriety laid out for her was unappealing, demanding she marry or fade into the background as a respectable spinster, living with her mother or brother.
Her resistance wasn’t completely flagrant.She wasn’t protesting in the streets or walking around in men’s clothing or something equally as rebellious. She was trying to resist within acceptable confines. Dorian saw plainly what she was playing for. She was hoping society would accept her running her father’s business, that she wouldn’t have to choose, that she could live in a world of greys instead of blacks and whites. He wasn’t convinced such a world would make her happy. Greys could be just as frustrating as the black-and-white boundaries that marked who was ‘in’ and who was ‘out’. He knew, he’d tried it. Black and white suited him better and he suspected it would suit Elise better, too, if she could be made to see it.
Not
that it was his job to help her along that path. He gave himself a stern reminder that he was in this for the boat, nothing more.
Dorian crossed the road, looking carefully into the dark side streets before he did. Even Mayfair had its thugs after hours. He would catch a hackney soon for the rest of the journey back to the shipyard. Only a foolish man would tempt fate by walking through the docks at this time of night. He’d been foolish enough already tonight, sitting with Elise andletting the conversation wander afield from the business he’d come to discuss. They’d ended up in front of the fire and the next thing he knew she was asking questions about his family, about
him:
the two things he never discussed with anyone. Yet he’d discussed them, however briefly, with her.
At least he’d left before anything untoward had happened. That was one thing he’d done right, although it had been hard. Elise had looked positively beautiful, the firelight picking out the chestnut hues from the dark depths of her hair, the delicate sweep of her jaw in profile, the slender length of her neck shown to subtle perfection by a loose chignon at her nape. It would have been the work of moments to have her dark hair free and her lips plump from kisses. She’d proven on more than one occasion to be a willing participant in those kisses.
But tonight would have been about more than kissing. Fireplaces and cold evenings worked all nature of magic and the following mornings brought all nature of regrets. It wouldn’t have stopped at kissing. His thrumming body attested to it still, after several bracing minutes in the cold night air. He’dheard the loneliness in her voice as she’d spoken of her father and he’d heard the loneliness in his own bitter response. Even if she didn’t recognise it for what it was, he did. It was a deuce terrible feeling to know he’d been home for two months and no overture had been made to acknowledge his return.
Dorian hailed a hackney trolling the streets where a party was in progress, looking for a late-night fare. If he waited much longer, his options would
Elise halted the brush in mid-stroke. That was when she realised it: he hadn’t kissed her. He had simply bowed and walked out the door, taking his secrets with him. She wasn’t sure she liked this version of Dorian Rowland any better than she liked the other, which surprised her very much because she should have.
Chapter Seven
A walk was precisely what he needed to clear his head. Dorian pulled at his cravat, tugging it free with a sigh of relief. He’d played the gentleman tonight in high form, clothes, manners and all. It was a role he hadn’t assumed for some time, but it was as stifling as ever, limiting what he could and could not say or do. But that was society’s way—demanding manners until it made castrati of its men and vacuous dolls of its women. He understood entirely why Elise Sutton resisted. The road propriety laid out for her was unappealing, demanding she marry or fade into the background as a respectable spinster, living with her mother or brother.
Her resistance wasn’t completely flagrant.She wasn’t protesting in the streets or walking around in men’s clothing or something equally as rebellious. She was trying to resist within acceptable confines. Dorian saw plainly what she was playing for. She was hoping society would accept her running her father’s business, that she wouldn’t have to choose, that she could live in a world of greys instead of blacks and whites. He wasn’t convinced such a world would make her happy. Greys could be just as frustrating as the black-and-white boundaries that marked who was ‘in’ and who was ‘out’. He knew, he’d tried it. Black and white suited him better and he suspected it would suit Elise better, too, if she could be made to see it.
Not
that it was his job to help her along that path. He gave himself a stern reminder that he was in this for the boat, nothing more.
Dorian crossed the road, looking carefully into the dark side streets before he did. Even Mayfair had its thugs after hours. He would catch a hackney soon for the rest of the journey back to the shipyard. Only a foolish man would tempt fate by walking through the docks at this time of night. He’d been foolish enough already tonight, sitting with Elise andletting the conversation wander afield from the business he’d come to discuss. They’d ended up in front of the fire and the next thing he knew she was asking questions about his family, about
him:
the two things he never discussed with anyone. Yet he’d discussed them, however briefly, with her.
At least he’d left before anything untoward had happened. That was one thing he’d done right, although it had been hard. Elise had looked positively beautiful, the firelight picking out the chestnut hues from the dark depths of her hair, the delicate sweep of her jaw in profile, the slender length of her neck shown to subtle perfection by a loose chignon at her nape. It would have been the work of moments to have her dark hair free and her lips plump from kisses. She’d proven on more than one occasion to be a willing participant in those kisses.
But tonight would have been about more than kissing. Fireplaces and cold evenings worked all nature of magic and the following mornings brought all nature of regrets. It wouldn’t have stopped at kissing. His thrumming body attested to it still, after several bracing minutes in the cold night air. He’dheard the loneliness in her voice as she’d spoken of her father and he’d heard the loneliness in his own bitter response. Even if she didn’t recognise it for what it was, he did. It was a deuce terrible feeling to know he’d been home for two months and no overture had been made to acknowledge his return.
Dorian hailed a hackney trolling the streets where a party was in progress, looking for a late-night fare. If he waited much longer, his options would
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