“Wherein a fellow’s pride hurts more than his head.”

 

Alex cursed his blasted cousin and wondered what the devil to do about the perfectly miserable young woman sitting across the carriage to him. She was trying hard not to cry, that much was obvious - and not entirely succeeding, as the occasional lift of her gloved hand to her eyes would seem to demonstrate.

He didn’t know what had passed between the two of them, but it was only too obvious that Aubrey was halfway in love with the girl already. Falmouth suppressed a sigh.

It would never do, of course, and poor Aubrey was setting himself up for a fall.

Alex had wondered from the outset if the girl was a close relation to the fellow she was hunting for, and had discovered just that afternoon that she was almost certainly the marquess’ sister. He had been about to apprise Aubrey of that fact when Celeste had come to speak to him about the missing money and all hell had broken loose.

But Miss Violette Greyston was not only a beauty, but heiress to a considerable fortune, and, whether or not her brother ever regained his senses, she was way out of Aubrey’s league. He didn’t wonder that Gabriel Greyston had kept her secreted away instead of giving her a season. Alex had a healthy suspicion of his fellow man and a cynical mind. His imagination could clearly devise the kind of nefarious plan Gabriel Greyston had no doubt been putting into action to force the girl to marry him. In the light of it, he didn’t entirely wonder at the girl’s decision to flee, ill-advised as it was. It must have seemed, at the time, to be the lesser of two evils. He wasn’t altogether sure that she wasn’t right.

He had no intimate knowledge of Gabriel Greyston, no one did, but the rumours of his insanity were legion, and there was no doubt whatsoever that he was a wicked bastard.

With a sigh of relief, Alex noted that the carriage had finally brought them home, and handed the unhappy female down with the anxious desire to place her in his wife’s capable hands. He spared a thought for Aubrey and wondered what on earth the poor devil was up to, before heading through the doors of his home.

***

Aubrey blinked in confusion, staring up a ceiling that was so unfamiliar; the surprise of it momentarily distracted him from the pounding behind his eyes.

But only momentarily.

With a groan, he clutched at his head and then looked around in despair, only to cast his eyes with relief upon a large china bowl, clearly left for the purpose he now put it to use. Retching and vomiting until he saw stars he lay back in bed, utterly exhausted, and then started in alarm as the bedroom door opened.

To his shock and dismay, he was confronted with the vast and intimidating presence of Mrs Dashton’s butler, and braced himself for his inevitable ejection from the house, no doubt from the nearest window. More startling than ever was the almost paternal expression on the brute’s face as he placed a foul looking brew on the bedside table.

“Dasher,” he began and then gave a dignified cough. “That’s to say, Mrs Dashton, hopes that you will feel better soon, Sah, but begs that you will not stir until you feels able to do so. She will be at home all day, if you have need of her. I also took the liberty of bringing you a little something of my own devising that I takes when I’m feeling a trifle malty.” This impressive speech was delivered with a mixture of a strong east end accent gilded with an attempt at something rather more refined. Aubrey found himself staring at the fellow with a mixture of incredulity and wonder at his kindness.

“Well, that’s ... that’s awfully good of you Mr ...”

“Lugger, Sah.”

“Mr Lugger,” Aubrey repeated, feeling at something of a disadvantage with a pounding hangover and laying in a stranger’s bed.

“You’re welcome, Sah,” the fellow said with a nod, before covering the rancid bowl with a cloth and carrying it discreetly away, leaving Aubrey to nurse his woes in private.

Aubrey lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes and tried to recollect the events of last night with little success. Sadly, the scene with Violette was only too sharp in his memory, but everything after that was hazy, to say the least. He remembered the gin - with a shudder - and presenting himself at the door here on King Street, but with a flush of shame he couldn’t think of a thing that happened after that. He hoped to God he hadn’t embarrassed himself. His pride really couldn’t take much more; it had been a fragile enough thing in the first place. Though how it could ever have been otherwise with his bloody father chipping away at it his whole life?

He grimaced and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, groaning at the pain. Aubrey supposed he was lucky. He knew some fellows whose fathers had beaten them black and blue. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he might have preferred that, instead of the mild contempt which his father seemed to reserve especially for him. At least they provoked a reaction, some outpouring of strong emotion. Aubrey had always felt his father didn’t consider him worth the bother.

Well, whatever had happened, he was going to have to face Dasher at some point today. The thought made him hope that dear old Lugger would bring the blasted bowl back quick-sharp. He was going to need it.

With a revolted sniff, he picked up the devilish looking mixture that the equitable butler had gifted him with and wondered if the blighter had been feeling kindly towards him after all as he gagged at the stench. Deciding he’d best take the fellow at face value, as he had little choice, he held his nose and hoped for the best.

***

It was late in the afternoon before Aubrey felt sufficiently able to muster both the courage and the ability to leave the sanctuary of the bed Mrs Dashton had kindly given him. Seeing as how she really ought to have thrown him out on his ear, it was with some trepidation that he sought her out in her study.

She looked up as he entered, and he started in surprise at the picture of her sitting behind a great oak desk. It perhaps ought to look odd, a beautiful woman sat in the surroundings of an obviously masculine domain. Somehow Mrs Dashton seemed perfectly at home, her right to the power that was quite obviously at her fingertips glinting in her amused eyes.

“Mrs Dashton,” he began, wishing to get his apology over with as soon as he could. Though he was still a trifle hazy on exactly what he was apologising for, which only made it all the more excruciating.

The lovely creature at the desk got to her feet, her eyes full of warmth as she held her hands out to him. “Oh, dear, Mr Russell, please, won’t you call me Dolly? I can’t help but feel we are old friends now, after all.”

Aubrey swallowed and damned himself and his blasted memory. “Dolly,” he murmured, trying to force his unwilling lips into the semblance of a smile.

“How are you feeling, Aubrey, if I may call you that?” she asked, her tone so gentle that he felt an unwelcome rise of emotion in his throat.

“Or course, and ... much better,” he lied, giving the smile another go, but still failing miserably if the look in Dolly’s eyes was anything to go on. “Mrs ... Dolly,” he amended. “I most sincerely apologise for ... for ...”

“For?” she repeated as he stumbled over his words, one elegant eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“For ... presenting myself at your door last night at such an hour and ... and in such a state and ... for whatever passed after that.”

Dolly gave him a smile full of sweetness and took his arm. “Poor Aubrey, you are blue-devilled, aren’t you?” she said, guiding him to a leather chair and sitting him down in it. To his surprise she perched herself on the arm and tilted his head up with one warm hand.

“What a handsome fellow you are,” she said, her voice soft and seductive, but sounding almost as though she was talking to herself. “Did you know that, Aubrey?”

Aubrey looked up at her and swallowed. Of course he knew he was well-made. He had heard enough comments about his hazel eyes and the extraordinary dark auburn colour of his hair after all. He noticed the women turn their heads in his direction well enough too. Little good it had done him with Violette though, not when his face was bid against Edward Greyston’s rugged features. The man was not only handsome, he was heroic and a marquess to boot. That by far trumped his hand, and he well knew it.

She gave a little sigh and shook her head. “Aubrey, if we’d made love last night as you suspect, I assure you, you would have not have forgotten it.”

Aubrey felt the flush creep up his neck as an amused smile curved over her luscious mouth. Thankfully, it was more affectionate and rueful than mocking. He wasn’t sure his dignity could have stood Dolly mocking him.

Instead she reached out and pushed a thick curl of auburn hair off his forehead. “You were very drunk, and very unhappy,” she said, her eyes full of sympathy. “I think you’ve had your heart bruised, haven’t you, my courageous knight?”

Aubrey snorted and shook his head. “My pride suffered the worst of it, I think,” he said, ignoring the ache in his chest at the foolish hopes he’d allowed to blossom. “And I’m afraid courageous is not a word to describe me,” he added, hearing the bitterness behind the words only too clearly. “A damned fool, perhaps.”

She moved then and crouched at his feet, taking his hand in hers. “You’re no fool,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “And this bout of self-pity will pass with the pain in your head,” she added with a smile. “But only you know what it is you’re afraid of.”

Aubrey scowled at her and turned away, staring at the flickering flames in the hearth. “My father thinks I’m a coward,” he said, remembering a youth full of his father bellowing instructions to him at Jackson’s. The Baron had believed if Aubrey learned to box he’d grow a backbone. But despite the years of lessons he’d never had the stomach for violence. Last year he’d finally worked up the courage to refuse to go any more. His father had been furious. Aubrey turned back to meet her eyes.

To his surprise, she didn’t offer him a comforting word, which after everything she’d said so far might have been what he’d expected.

“Is he right?” she asked, the question in her eyes merely curious and free of any judgement.

Aubrey shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She nodded, holding his gaze. “My father thought I was a foolish, weak girl. Someone who could be manipulated to his will. The first man I ever loved believed the same thing. Because of them I was thrown from my home in disgrace, without a farthing to call my own. I had nothing but my pride, Aubrey.”

Aubrey stared down at her and felt a wave of pride himself for the woman at his feet. She wasn’t there because she was weak and at his mercy. She was there because she was strong and was offering him a little of that strength, a little of that experience she had gained through adversity.

“You are a remarkable woman, Dolly,” he said, the smile he gave this time was genuine and full of sincerity.

“Yes, I am,” she replied, quite serious in her agreement. “And if you would only allow yourself - test yourself - you would discover that you are a remarkable man, Aubrey Russell.” She squeezed his hand tight, her eyes glittering with determination. “Show them who you really are, Aubrey. Stand up and spit in the eye of your father or anyone else who makes you feel weak and worthless. Show them what you’re made of!”

Aubrey hauled in a breath and stared back at her, before giving a nod.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been a spineless fool.”

“No!” she exclaimed, laughing and shaking her head. “Never that. You just needed a friend to buck you up, that’s all.”

Aubrey brought her hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. “Then I am a very lucky man, to have found such a friend as you, Dolly.”