A cool, damp cloth pressed against Julian’s cheek had done its work. The angry swell of yesterday had softened, leaving only a faint bruising beneath his skin, a ghost of the humiliation. It was the kind of mark one might shrug off with a casual, “A clumsy knock, I assure you,” a manageable imperfection for a gentleman of society.
Yet, the managed bruise did little to quell the churning in his gut. A breakfast salon at Lady Dunmore’s, typically a symphony of polite chatter and clinking china, felt heavy, suffocating. Every glance seemed to carry a judgment, every hushed whisper a barb aimed at his fragile composure. He knew the reason. Duke Alistair.
Julian’s gaze swept the room, seeking out Lord Beaumont. The young viscount slipped in moments before the formal breakfast began, just as the last guests were taking their seats. Julian’s breath caught.
Beaumont’s face was a ruin. A raw, crimson gash marred his lower lip, and one eye was swollen to a dark, purple plum, barely visible through the puffiness. A sickening lurch twisted in Julian’s stomach. The brief, half-formed thought of Alistair’s hand striking Beaumont had been a casual, passing fancy. Seeing the brutal reality, a wave of profound guilt washed over him. He felt disgusted by his own detached, callous imaginings.
Beaumont paused at the entrance, his eyes darting nervously across the room. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, his gaze snagged on Julian’s. He froze, a raw grimace tightening his already battered features. A sharp inhale, a flinch, and he wrenched his head away, shuffling towards the side of the room, avoiding Julian entirely.
Julian’s jaw tightened. The strange, almost accusatory reaction left a sour taste. He instinctively scanned the room again. Across the salon, Alistair stood by the window, his profile stark against the morning light. His eyes, cold as winter ice, flicked to Julian, a silent, predatory assessment. A shiver traced Julian’s spine.
“Damn it all.”
Regret, sharp and bitter, flooded him. He should have remained sequestered at Vance House, feigned an indisposition. The veneer of polite society felt thinner than ever, ready to crack and expose him.
Through the morning’s social calls and the early afternoon promenade, Lord Beaumont actively avoided Julian. He clung to Alistair’s side like a shadow, or melted into the crowd, only to reappear with the Duke in some secluded corner of a gallery or garden. Whispers followed them like perfume, hinting at a deepening, darker intimacy, one fraught with tension Julian could only imagine.
Julian, finding himself unmoored, drifted to the periphery of the social clusters. Lord Ashworth, blessedly, appeared at his side. He offered a sly, knowing grin and a commentary on the foibles of their peers, a welcome distraction from the storm brewing within Julian.
A part of Julian yearned to confront them, to demand answers, to understand the precise nature of Alistair’s renewed cruelty. But a paralyzing fear held him back. He hated to admit it, but he was terrified of what he might uncover. Surely, Alistair wouldn’t have resorted to *physical* brutality again... would he? It was not, strictly speaking, his concern, yet the image of Beaumont’s broken face made it impossible for Julian to dismiss.
Ashworth, utterly unburdened by Julian’s internal tempest, prattled on, his tone light and irreverent.
“See? I told you Lady Dunmore’s salon felt like a mausoleum. One could practically taste the unspoken recriminations.”
“You seemed quite at ease devouring those spiced biscuits yesterday.”
“Give me some credit, Vance. I’m a master of social dissimulation. One must partake to blend.” Ashworth winked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides, the biscuits were quite exceptional.”
Julian felt a faint annoyance. He nudged Ashworth’s ankle with his foot under the table. Ashworth merely chuckled, rubbing his chin with a mock-sheepish expression. Or was it truly sheepish? Impossible. Ashworth had no shame.
***
Life possessed a peculiar way of subverting expectations. From their initial, often irritating encounters, Julian had harbored no intention of cultivating a friendship with Lord Ashworth. Indeed, Ashworth’s flippancy and candid remarks had often grated on Julian’s sensibilities. Yet, here they were, sharing confidences amidst the carefully constructed artifice of high society, Ashworth becoming an unexpected confidant.
His lighthearted cynicism, his irreverent wit, possessed a unique power to anchor Julian, to prevent him from sinking too deeply into the quagmire of his own anxieties. Once, Julian had dismissed these qualities as shallow, evidence of a frivolous mind. Now, he found himself relying on that very levity to maintain a semblance of sanity. If Alistair and he had remained close, Julian might never have recognized the quiet, invaluable solace Ashworth offered.
Following the salon, Alistair began to withdraw further from the usual social gatherings. Sometimes, he’d vanish entirely with Beaumont in tow, their absence a palpable void. Other times, a select few of Alistair’s more dissolute acquaintances would join them in private chambers or exclusive clubs. There were even instances when some gentlemen flatly refused, their faces betraying unease, a silent refusal to partake in whatever shadows Alistair now cast.
Julian encountered Lord Pembroke, a gentleman known for his sharp wit and sharper tongue, attempting to discreetly exit a card party through a side door, avoiding Lady Atherton’s watchful eye. Pembroke, sensing Julian’s subtle inquiry, offered a wry, almost uncomfortable smile. He confided, his voice lowered, that Alistair had been… exerting considerable pressure on Beaumont, making him the target of increasingly cruel jests and social slights. Even forcing others to participate. Pembroke admitted he’d been avoiding Alistair’s immediate circle precisely for that reason. He quickly added that he was merely off to a fencing match and hoped Julian wouldn’t misunderstand. With a hurried nod, he departed.
Julian remembered Pembroke. He had been a close companion of Alistair’s during their younger days, but a perceived slight had led to a cooling of their friendship. It seemed Alistair’s recent actions were widening the chasm further.
At a quiet tea house, Julian and Ashworth shared a plate of almond financiers, the sweet, delicate pastry melting on Julian’s tongue. It offered a fleeting comfort, a momentary respite. Yet, beneath the sugary relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his ground, determined not to let the turmoil show on his face.
“Is that palatable?” Ashworth, munching on his own lemon tart, eyed Julian’s financier with an almost childlike covetousness.
“Would you care for a bite?” Julian, half-teasing, brought the financier, now sticky with his own saliva, close to Ashworth’s mouth. Without hesitation, Ashworth smirked, an eyebrow lifting, and took a surprisingly large, decisive bite.
“Good heavens! Did you truly?” Julian exclaimed, feigning horror.
“You offered.” Ashworth grinned, unapologetic.
“That’s utterly uncivilized… And why such a prodigious bite?”
“It was merely one bite, Vance.” Ashworth shrugged, utterly unconcerned. It was a small, quiet moment of unexpected peace, a stark contrast to Julian’s internal chaos. Outside, the crisp autumn air was clear and calm, utterly indifferent to his plight.
Where were Alistair and Beaumont now? Julian’s mind conjured several possibilities: the exclusive gaming hells, a disreputable tavern, or perhaps Alistair’s secluded country estate. He did not go looking. Perhaps he was afraid of what he might find if he did.
He tried his best not to think of Alistair. But the harder he strove, the more vividly Alistair’s image bloomed in his mind, taking root, consuming every vacant space.
How long would it take to disentangle himself from such a complex, suffocating attachment? How much effort would it demand to extinguish this relentless, unwelcome flame? Julian did not know. It felt like being hopelessly lost in a vast, endless desert, not merely sad and stifling, but terrifying in its desolate expanse.
Sometimes, Julian retreated. Like an explorer struggling to discern faint footprints in shifting sand, he found himself stepping back, attempting to grasp the landscape of his emotions. When the emotional currents became too overwhelming, he would occasionally confide a fragmented thought, a stray anxiety, to Ashworth. And that, for now, was all he could manage.
Suddenly, he turned to Ashworth.
“Ashworth.”
“Vance?” Ashworth looked up from his empty tea cup.
“Do you… do you truly believe that flowers could ever bloom in a barren desert?” The question felt embarrassingly raw, overly sentimental. Julian scratched at his jaw, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Yet, Ashworth did not mock him.
“They can, Vance.”
Julian watched him, silent.
“They must. This damned life is bleak enough as it is.”
Hearing those uncharacteristically earnest words from Ashworth – a man Julian had never imagined capable of such sentiment – struck him with a fresh wave of despair. It underscored the profound, almost futile nature of his own desperate hope. How much longer before he could relinquish these meaningless feelings, before he could truly let go?
“Indeed,” Julian murmured, his voice hoarse. “Life is rather bleak.”
Duke Alistair. That useless, magnificent brute. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the fervent, almost desperate loyalty Julian had once offered, like a dog at his master’s heel? Alistair, who now flouted every basic decorum a gentleman should uphold, drifted through society as he pleased, a storm cloud personified. And always, by his side, was Lord Beaumont, a terrified hostage to Alistair’s whims.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the drawing rooms and ballrooms buzzed with a mix of unease and intrigue. It became clear – Alistair’s social cruelty was escalating, poisoning the very air around him. And with it, a creeping resentment toward him slowly spread throughout the ton. None of it felt good.
So, when Julian saw Alistair subtly, almost imperceptibly, drag Beaumont by the wrist towards a secluded alcove at Lady Harrington’s evening party, he stopped. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Alistair’s impassive face and Beaumont’s trembling posture, before he finally spoke, his voice low, cutting through the general hum of conversation.
“Your Grace, I believe your reputation is suffering for such… displays.”
It was neither an apology nor flattery, but a calculated thrust. A lie, of course. Alistair cared little for the transient opinions of minor peers. But Julian knew the Duke valued the *perception* of control, of unassailable power. This was the extent of Julian’s pride. He always made sure to leave himself an escape route, a subtle deniability. If Alistair countered, Julian could always argue that, at this rate, his reputation *would* indeed suffer. “If someone is to bear the brunt of your displeasure, ensure it is only you, Your Grace. What has Lord Beaumont truly done to warrant such… public instruction?”
“Move, Vance.”
The moment Julian mentioned Beaumont, Alistair’s gaze locked onto him, a venomous, chilling stare that made Julian’s chest feel as though it would burst. He hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Beaumont stood glued to Alistair’s side, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, looking at Julian as though he might shatter at any moment.
“Unless you wish to find yourself disgraced again, Vance, I suggest you remove yourself.”
“A-Alistair, please,” Beaumont stammered, his voice a terrified whisper, trying to pull Alistair back. Only then did Alistair halt, his attention shifting, his gaze fixed solely on Beaumont. Julian could only see the formidable breadth of Alistair’s back as he turned away from him.
“I-I merely meant, Your Grace, your… your good name—”
Beaumont, on the verge of tears, clung to Alistair’s arm, whispering fervent pleas, trying to halt his patron’s wrath. Watching that pitiful scene unfold, Julian felt a sharp, unbearable agony. He closed his eyes.
After a moment, Alistair looked at Beaumont, then, with a curt nod, turned and led him further into the alcove, away from the general scrutiny. For the rest of the evening, Alistair remained in the vicinity, his demeanor outwardly calmer, though an air of coiled tension still radiated from him.
***
The long-anticipated day of the Marquis of Fenwick’s autumn fete had arrived. Carriages had been arranged to convey the guests to his country estate for an afternoon of falconry and a dinner assembly. While a few older dowagers grumbled about the inconvenience of abandoning London’s comforts, most of the younger set were exhilarated by the chance to escape the city for even a single day.
There was no need for cumbersome travel trunks, as guests would return to London by nightfall. The chaperones offered only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum before releasing them to the bustling courtyard. It wasn’t as though they were inexperienced debutantes anymore. There was no giddy excitement keeping Julian awake. He thought of it as merely another social obligation – depart without a burden, return without a burden. He had no inkling that this day would be the catalyst for his bottled-up frustration to finally explode. He had anticipated it would come eventually, but not with such brutal swiftness.
As was customary, Julian had always occupied a seat near Alistair when their social circles converged, particularly for excursions like this. After all, Julian had once been considered Alistair’s closest confidant. He hadn’t even considered where Lord Ashworth might sit, as he’d rarely journeyed in the same carriage as him before.
At first, Julian had harbored a brief, unworthy apprehension that Ashworth might attempt to claim a seat closest to Alistair. Looking back now, the thought seemed pathetic. Neither Julian nor Ashworth would find themselves in that coveted position.
When Julian arrived in the bustling courtyard, he found the Marquis’s carriages already lined up. He approached the one designated for Alistair’s inner circle. The rear bench was already claimed by a group of noisy young gentlemen, including Lord Pembroke, who waved at Julian, then hesitated, his gaze drifting towards the empty seat beside Alistair.
“Vance! There’s a space here!” Pembroke called out, his voice slightly strained.
“Oh, yes.” Julian murmured, a tremor of anticipation running through him.
Of course. He had always been the one to sit beside the Duke. But today, a flicker of hesitation held him back as he approached Alistair’s carriage. He swallowed hard, then a defiant determination stiffened his spine. He saw the empty spot beside Alistair. His pride – the solitary ember he stubbornly clung to – compelled him to reclaim his place, even after the public slight, even after Beaumont’s broken face. It was his spot. His.
He nervously touched the gilded frame of the carriage door for a moment, glanced around the chaotic courtyard, and then, his voice carefully neutral, quietly asked, “Your Grace… This seat…”
“It is not for you, Vance. Seek another.”
Before Julian could finish, Alistair cut him off, his gaze fixed on the approaching figure of Lord Beaumont. Following Alistair’s cold line of sight, Julian watched as Beaumont timidly made his way towards them, his eyes downcast. Julian clenched his fists, swallowing the words that caught in his throat.
“Very well. As you wish.” He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as though it had been shredded into a thousand pieces.
He quickly backed away from the carriage and looked around the crowded courtyard. He spotted Ashworth laughing with a small group of gentlemen, a less exclusive circle, gathered around a smaller, less opulent carriage. Relief washed over him. He moved quickly, stepping inside and dropping into an empty seat.
“Ashworth,” he said, not waiting for a response, “share this carriage with me.”
There was no answer. Julian looked closer. Ashworth was already fast asleep, his head lolling precariously against the carriage window, bouncing gently with every bump of the restless horses. He always seemed to doze off in the mornings, and this occasion was no exception. Julian sighed, a strange mixture of exasperation and affection stirring within him. He carefully took his silk cravat, folded it, and placed it between Ashworth’s head and the window, offering a small, silent cushion. Then, he leaned back into the plush but unyielding seat.
Across the bustling courtyard, through the open window, Julian caught a glimpse of dark brown hair and a broad shoulder. It was Alistair’s – taller than most of their peers, making him easy to spot. Though he couldn’t see clearly, he knew Beaumont would be seated beside him, a silent trophy in the Duke’s grasp, another wound inflicted upon Julian’s fractured pride.