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But he was numb.
Perhaps, he realized, part of him wanted Patience to find out, even while most of him did not.
Stop the barmaid! his wrath roared. Shut her up!
Perhaps, he distractedly thought as he heard Christine ask for Patience’s brother’s name, she wouldn’t remember.
Perhaps, thought his heart as it shattered, his wife had met this woman by chance.
While he was in London, she had sent him a note with a footman that she was going to go to Oxford to meet Sir James Edward Smith, one of the botanists she had corresponded with. The notion of Patience in Oxford made a heavy feeling churn in his gut. Especially after she’d seen the bill for the treatment of his burns.
However, he wanted to believe her, that she was indeed going to meet Sir Smith.
Patience wouldn’t have lied to him like that, surely.
Not Patience.
It was just by chance that she passed by The Bear, and at exact that moment, Christine had walked out.
He had a strange sensation of being at the theater or an opera. That he was a spectator watching the tragedy of his life unfold. Him killing a terrible man, a man who was a rapist, a man who had no honor and had sabotaged his opponent’s pistol. And just like in a Greek or Roman tragedy, or an Italian opera, destiny punishing him by having him foolishly try to redeem himself by marrying his victim’s sister… Good Lord, he thought, feeling as though he were watching himself from a distance as he stood gaping at his wife on street in Oxford.
He was on the verge of a complete downfall, he knew. No religion in the world would leave him unpunished.
“Patience,” he said when Christine ran away.
He was caught between two versions of himself.
The first was the man he had been before his life shattered around him—the demon within, the tyrant driven by rage, who lashed out when overwhelmed by love, loss, and pain.
The second was the man he became after—the man who had learned to love, who truly knew Patience, who wanted to kneel down and bare his soul.
He stood at the very spot where it had all unraveled, where he had read the cursed letter announcing his father’s death, witnessed Mr. Rose’s assault on Christine, and challenged him to a duel. Here, the better version of himself, forged through Patience’s love, could prevail. All he needed was to vanquish the inner demon urging him to wrath and destruction.
But he was not that man.
As guilt shifted across her face, something within him was triggered. In an instant, like the snap of fingers, his darker side won. The fire within him roared to life.
“Dorian,” she said softly as she hurried towards him, and he retreated.
“You lied,” he snarled before he could stop himself.
“I—” she said, and her face betrayed everything. “I’m sorry.”
Damnation.
Why was she not denying everything?
Her apology was disarming, stripping him to the last of his defenses.
“Damn it, Patience. I had plans in the House of Lords, but silly me. I missed you. Couldn’t stand a few days without you. So I followed.”
Also, he was concerned about her visiting Oxford, learning the truth and hating him…
“Oh, Dorian…” she murmured, all guilty looking.
He showed her the book he’d been holding, Flora Londinensis by William Curtis, and she looked at it longingly. It had roses on it; he had bet she’d love them.
“Oh no…” she whispered.
