Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
G wendoline was pleasantly surprised one day when Damian asked her to accompany him to a ball. Managing the servants in Greyvale had kept her occupied, but she also craved different company. Safe company.
Lord and Lady Somerset’s ballroom was the perfect balance between elegance and excess, Gwendoline noted. Greyvale was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but wish it was less gloomy.
Chandeliers glittered overhead like captured stars. They cast a golden glow over glittering gowns and tailored coats. Gwendoline couldn’t help but gape at everything. Most people believed she was mature for her nineteen years, but tonight she felt like a child again.
Damian’s hand rested firmly on hers, a welcome gesture of support and solidarity. Of course, they were also supposed to be madly in love.
They descended the grand staircase with such grace—the epitome of propriety.
Deep inside, Gwendoline felt a deep, simmering tension. Who could blame her for noticing how dashing Damian was? He was tall and handsome, with sharp features and broad shoulders. His body might be hidden by his suit, but she knew what he looked like underneath. It made her blush.
Fortunately, the reddening of her cheeks could be misconstrued as a trick of the light.
Their arrival had caused quite a stir, at least from what she observed. She swore that the murmurs had increased when they arrived. Whispered words like “Duke” and “Duchess” reached her ears. She detected intrigue and envy and wasn’t sure if she was fortunate or quite the opposite. She didn’t like being stared at. It reminded her of what had happened before Damian barged in and rescued her.
Damian did not seem to notice the attention, or perhaps he was used to it. He towered over most of the guests, with an arrogant look on his face. On the other hand, Gwendoline tried her best not to cower. She had never had a good relationship with the ton, who had always thought her less or more or not enough. She was less graceful than her peers. Curvier.
“You’re fat, Gwendoline. Fat. Let’s face it.”
Timothy’s voice echoed in her mind.
She wore an expensive gown, made to fit her well by London’s most famous seamstress. Yet, at that moment, it felt tight, like the cheap wedding dress that Timothy had bought her. Her hand instinctively clutched at her throat.
“Breathe, Gwendoline,” Damian whispered gently as he leaned closer to her. His voice was low, for her ears only. “No matter who you are and what you do, the ton will talk. It is their hobby—a bad one at that. They’re the ones who ought to be ashamed.”
“Easier said than done, Your Grace,” she choked out, though a ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
Damian replied by giving her hand a slight squeeze. He didn’t have to say anything this time. She knew that he would be there for her.
Polite conversations and swift introductions seemed easy enough on the surface. However, Damian knew that Gwendoline was struggling beneath her sweet smiles and little nods.
He tracked her every movement and every lingering glance directed at her. Damn it. Evan was right. He was getting obsessed with his wife, but he still refused to acknowledge it—to give in to it.
It wouldn’t be the blatant male admiration for his wife that Damian had to worry about, though. Sometimes, a woman’s biting tongue was a bigger threat.
“How lovely that the Duke of Greyvale has developed such, uh… how do you say it? Unconventional tastes?” Lady Edith murmured, her smile sickly sweet as she looked Gwendoline up and down. “One wonders if the appeal lies in her charm or intellect—or perhaps it’s something else.”
Her voice had dropped to a very suggestive whisper as she appraised Gwendoline openly.
“What do you mean?” Gwendoline asked.
“Your Grace,” Lady Edith replied, enunciating the two words as if they tasted sour in her mouth. “There’s been talk, you see. Lord Montrose claims that you eloped with the duke. Such scandalous behavior!”
“If anyone is to blame for the scandal, it is Montrose,” Damian asserted, his voice carrying the weight of undeniable authority. “My wife is under my protection, and I will not—never—tolerate anyone tarnishing her name. Do you understand?”
The room fell silent when the guests overheard Lady Edith’s insults. Damian stepped forward, his gray eyes narrowed into slits as he added fuel to the fire by facing the contemptible woman.
“Lady Edith,” he began in an icy tone. “I firmly believe that le bon ton are smart enough to know that being presumptuous is never a wise thing. It would seem that you are too interested in my tastes. They are not your concern. However, if you must know, I find intelligence, grace, and resilience far more appealing than poor manners and pettiness.”
Lady Edith blushed profusely but somehow managed an apology. Damian didn’t spare her another glance. Instead, he turned to his wife, who was blinking rapidly.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm. His voice was significantly gentler, and his face had softened.
Gwendoline’s lips curled into a smile that lit up her whole face. He wished he could see more of it. Then, she nodded eagerly, taking his arm.
It was time to dance, and Damian knew that he might enjoy it more than he would ever admit. At least, not now.
The ball might have started rough, but Gwendoline’s evening progressed well after Damian confronted Lady Edith. Somehow she had always known that something unpleasant would happen if she rejoined Society.
However, something extraordinary that she hadn’t quite expected also happened. Her closest friend, Abigail, was also there. They were about the same age, and they almost shrieked with delight when they spotted each other. They did have to suppress some of their happiness since they were in the presence of the most important people of the ton.
“Gwendoline! Or should I say, Your Grace? You look radiant tonight. Marriage suits you,” Abigail gushed, her tiny hands squeezing Gwendoline’s arms gently as she held her back to look her over.
Gwendoline blushed and glanced at Damian, who stood a short distance away. He was deep in conversation with another gentleman.
Abigail might have had the wrong idea about their relationship, but Gwendoline couldn’t say anything. She was in it with Damian. They had to keep their secret.
“It’s good to see you, Abigail. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.”
The two young women were soon joined by Oliver Audley, the Duke of Westgrave, and his wife and Gwendoline’s friend, Alexandra.
Gwendoline felt like the luckiest woman on earth for seeing her friends at the same ball. Why didn’t they arrive sooner? She then wouldn’t have had to deal with the atrocious Lady Edith.
Then again, she wouldn’t have been able to see a side of Damian that made her stomach flutter. He didn’t just promise protection, but he showed it—demonstrated what he was capable of.
The orchestra began to play a lively piece from J. Lewis. Alexandra and her husband exchanged a look that Gwendoline couldn’t quite read. She shivered a little, wondering what keeping little secrets with Damian would be like. It was the natural state between husbands and wives, but her marriage was anything but natural.
“I love this tune!” Abigail exclaimed.
“I am partial to it myself,” Gwendoline murmured, still uneasy about dancing in front of everyone else.
In truth, she enjoyed J. Lewis’s pieces. The composer’s anonymity added to the thrill.
“Are you?” Alexandra asked, tilting her head to the side and watching her with wide eyes.
“Oh, I enjoy J. Lewis’s music, but I like her slower pieces, especially the ones that suddenly speed up. The emotions—oh, the emotions,” Gwendoline sighed. Then, she covered her face when she realized she had revealed too much about her feelings. “I’m sorry.”
“No, that is absolutely fine. I’m glad you like J. Lewis,” said Alexandra with a mysterious smile.
The music shifted to a slower waltz, making Gwendoline sigh in appreciation. This was the J. Lewis she loved.
Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence at her side. Damian extended a hand. There were no smiles. No heat. Nothing. And yet she knew that she would accept his offer.
“Dance with me, Duchess,” he said.
Though his tone was mild, she knew that it was nothing else but a command. It was not something that offended her. Instead, she felt compelled to place her hand in his. She wasn’t that confident about her dancing skills, but she remembered how well he had guided her with a wooden sword in her hand.
She allowed him to guide her to the dance floor at the center of the ballroom, and soon they started dancing to the first notes of the waltz. They moved as though they were one with them.
Damian’s hand rested on her waist, its heat searing her soul. His other hand cradled hers, rough but gentle at the same time.
“You’ve handled tonight with such grace,” he murmured, his lips so close to her temple that she could feel his warm breath.
If he were any other man, she would have recoiled. But with him—not only because he was her husband—she leaned in closer. For support. For comfort. For just being close.
“I’ve had some practice,” she replied shyly. She knew that he would catch her self-deprecating tone. “And I-I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”
He pulled her as close as was proper. His tight embrace made her feel safe, not suffocated.
He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered passionately, “Never disparage yourself again, Duchess. You often do that.”
It might be self-preservation because his words made her heart flutter, but she asked him, “And you? Will you ever let me see the man beneath the mask, Your Grace?”
“Perhaps,” he replied with a faint smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “When the time is right.”
His answer made her feel giddy. However, she tried to regain her composure, reminding herself that Damian couldn’t possibly be willing to tell her anything. It was only the music. The people. The excitement. When he was back home in Greyvale, he might feel differently.
That reminder made her heart sink.
She somewhat managed to brush off some of the negativity and focus on the dance. His nearness. How he made her heart dance and her cheeks pinken.
Because of that, the dance ended too soon for Gwendoline. Both of them were breathless at the end, though they were unable to ignore the crackling tension between them.