Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Are house parties designed specifically to test a man's patience?
Damien stood at the foot of Amberhall Manor's grand staircase with a glass of brandy in hand.
Around him, guests drifted through the entrance hall in elegant clusters. Laughter echoed beneath the soaring ceilings. Servants moved quietly amongst the gathering crowd, carrying trays of champagne and refreshments.
Beside him stood Caspian Turner, Duke of Amberhall and, more importantly, the husband of Damien's sister.
The poor fool looked entirely content, which Damien found mildly suspicious.
Marriage is supposed to make a man tired, irritated, and perpetually inconvenienced.
Instead, Caspian appeared happier than ever. He took a sip of his brandy and glanced sideways at Damien. “I still don't understand it.”
“That is because you insist on discussing subjects beneath my interest,” Damien replied dryly, lifting his own glass.
Caspian laughed outright. “You are thirty years old.”
“A tragedy, I know,” Damien said.
“You are wealthy,” Caspian continued. “You possess a title. You should be married.”
Damien groaned and tipped his head back for a moment. “There it is.”
“There it is,” Caspian agreed with obvious satisfaction.
They stood together watching guests descend the staircase, greeting acquaintances and drifting into the ballroom beyond. Caspian swirled the remaining brandy in his glass before fixing Damien with a patient look. “You cannot avoid the topic forever.”
“I have managed quite successfully thus far.”
Caspian shook his head. “Why?”
Damien rolled the amber liquid around his glass and watched it catch the light. “Because marriage is not for me.”
The answer came easily. It always had.
Marriage complicates matters. Marriage weakens judgement. Marriage encourages foolish decisions.
His father had claimed to love his mother and still managed to make her miserable. Damien had learned early that affection and devotion were not necessarily the same thing. It was far safer to avoid both.
Caspian regarded him with the expression of a man preparing to dispense wisdom, and Damien immediately regretted remaining in the conversation.
“You know,” Caspian began.
Here it comes. The wisdom.
“Marriage can change a man.” Caspian winked.
Damien nearly rolled his eyes. “How inspiring.”
“It can,” Caspian said with a grin.
“It can also make him an idiot.”
Caspian barked a laugh. “That too.”
“Excellent.” Damien lifted his glass in mock salute. “Then my argument remains intact.”
The other Duke merely shook his head and ignored him.
“As someone who once believed much the same, I can assure you that some things are worth the risk.”
Damien took a long drink from his brandy before lowering the glass and glancing sideways at Caspian. “Marriage suits you,” he remarked dryly.
“It does,” Caspian replied without hesitation, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Damien grimaced. “You are becoming unbearably optimistic.”
A laugh escaped Caspian as he lifted his own glass. “It is a symptom of happiness.”
“Horrifying,” Damien muttered, earning another chuckle from his brother-in-law.
As the conversation drifted, his thoughts wandered despite himself, settling upon a certain dark-haired lady with an ease that had become increasingly irritating of late. He had upheld his promise to Seraphine. Three candidates had been found and thoroughly investigated.
Lord Shelding, Lord Cunningham, and Lord Everend were all respectable options.
Each possessed a title, substantial wealth, and a reputation that had thus far survived scrutiny.
They were of suitable age, maintained orderly households, and had managed to avoid producing bastards or attracting scandal.
None drank to excess, none gambled away fortunes, and none inspired fear in servants, relatives, or Society at large.
In short, they were precisely the sort of men a sensible young lady ought to consider marrying.
Damien should have been satisfied with his work. Instead, he found himself cataloguing their flaws.
Shelding spoke too much and seemed incapable of allowing silence to exist naturally. Cunningham possessed all the excitement of a well-made ledger. Everend smiled far too often, as though life had never presented him with a genuine inconvenience.
The objections were absurd. He knew they were absurd. Yet they persisted all the same.
More troubling was the realization that he would rather endure Seraphine's fury and accusations of dishonor than watch her genuinely favor any one of them. The thought lodged itself beneath his ribs like a thorn. It annoyed him deeply, not least because he could find no rational explanation for it.
Beside him, Caspian suddenly straightened and glanced toward the staircase. “Ah,” he said, a knowing smile appearing on his face. “There are the beauties.”
Damien followed his gaze and looked up.
And forgot every coherent thought in his head. Seraphine descended the staircase beside Thalia. The blue gown she wore seemed designed specifically to torment him.
The rich color transformed her eyes into warm pools of chocolate beneath the glow of the chandeliers.
Her dark hair had been swept upwards, exposing the graceful curve of her neck, except for one long curl that rested on her bosom which was exposed by the plunging neckline, the fashion of the day that he cursed at this moment.
The freckles dusting her pale skin somehow made her more beautiful rather than less.
Good God.
His breath caught, only briefly, but long enough for Caspian to notice. Beside him, his brother-in-law smirked into his brandy, and Damien pretended not to see it. The effort was entirely unsuccessful.
As Seraphine descended another step, her gaze swept across the crowded ballroom. For one fleeting moment their eyes met. A smile curved her lips. It was not meant for him, she was saying something to Thalia, but the sight of it tightened something unpleasantly vulnerable in his chest all the same.
Annoying. Very annoying.
Then he noticed Lord Whickham making a determined approach toward the staircase.
Absolutely not.
Damien moved before he had consciously decided to do so. One moment he stood beside Caspian; the next he had crossed the distance and inserted himself neatly into Whickham's path. The gentleman halted with visible surprise.
“Your Grace,” Whickham said.
Damien inclined his head with impeccable politeness. “Lord Whickham.”
Something in his expression must have conveyed the rest, because after a brief hesitation, Whickham offered a stiff smile and retreated in search of less hazardous company.
Problem solved.
By the time Seraphine reached the bottom of the stairs, Damien was waiting for her. Before she could question his sudden appearance, he extended his hand toward her.
“Dance,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed at once as she looked from his face to his offered hand. “Is that a request?”
“It is an order,” Damien replied, keeping his expression perfectly serious.
A laugh flickered in her eyes. “How arrogant of you.”
“Come along,” he said, curling his fingers slightly in invitation.
To his satisfaction, she placed her hand in his. The warmth of her skin seeped through his glove and lingered far longer than it should have. As the orchestra struck up a waltz, he led her onto the dance floor, guiding her effortlessly into position amongst the other couples.
Then his hand settled at her waist.
This was a mistake. A tremendous mistake.
The silk beneath his palm felt far too thin, far too delicate, and Damien became painfully aware of every inch separating them, or rather, every inch that was not. Heat stirred low within him, alluring and unwelcome and, he decided, entirely her fault.
Seraphine glanced up at him as they turned through the dance. “What are you staring at?” she asked, suspicion already creeping into her voice.
Damien immediately shifted his gaze away and guided her through the next figure. “The room.”
“You were staring at me,” she said, arching a brow.
“The room behind you.”
“Liar,” she teased.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Unfortunately, the woman knew him far too well already.
They moved gracefully amongst the other couples, the orchestra carrying them through the waltz while Damien desperately searched for safer ground. Conversation seemed infinitely less dangerous than dwelling upon the warmth of her beneath his hand.
“I have fulfilled my promise,” he said at last as they moved through another turn of the waltz, forcing his attention onto safer ground than the warmth of her body beneath his hand.
Seraphine glanced up at him, immediate interest lighting her features. “Have you?” she asked, sounding far more intrigued than she had any right to be.
“I have found three candidates,” Damien replied.
“Oh dear. I am frightened,” she said with exaggerated solemnity, though amusement danced in her eyes.
“You should not be.”
Her expression suggested she disagreed entirely.
“Lord Shelding,” Damien began. “Lord Cunningham and Lord Everend.”
That at least earned a thoughtful hum as she considered the name.
“Hmm, interesting,” she said.
Damien ignored the irrational surge of annoyance that accompanied even that small indication of approval.
"They are all respectable gentlemen," he said, guiding her through another figure of the dance.
“They are also all boring gentlemen,” she countered without hesitation.
“They are stable,” he said. “They are wealthy.”
Seraphine laughed, and the sound struck him with alarming force. “Aren't husbands meant to be interesting, not boring?” she asked as she looked up at him.
“No,” Damien replied firmly.
Her brows lifted. “Why?”
“Because interesting men create problems,” he said.
Amusement sparkled in her eyes as she tilted her head. “Like you?”
“Precisely,” he said dryly, earning another laugh from her.
Unfortunately, the dance ended before he could continue arguing his entirely reasonable position. The music faded, couples began separating, and to Damien's immense frustration, Lord Everend appeared almost immediately at Seraphine's side.
The man bowed with irritating confidence, his smile polished and pleasant in a way that immediately set Damien's teeth on edge.
“Lady Seraphine, may I claim the next dance?” Lord Everend asked, extending his hand toward her.
Damien considered several responses. Most involved violence. One involved throwing the man through a nearby window. Another involved informing him that the ballroom floor had suddenly become unsafe. Instead, through an extraordinary feat of self-control, he remained silent.
Seraphine looked up at Everend and smiled. It was a genuine smile and Damien disliked it immediately.
“Thank you,” she said as she placed her hand in the gentleman's. “I would be delighted.”
The words landed with unreasonable force.
Delighted? Excellent. Wonderful. Perfect.
Damien stepped aside because he was a rational man. A sensible man. A duke. Not a jealous lunatic prepared to challenge one of his own carefully selected candidates to a duel in the middle of a ballroom.
I have no interest in her. I will never marry.
He reminded himself of these facts, turned sharply, and made for the refreshment table.
A servant appeared almost immediately with a tray, and Damien accepted a glass of brandy with more gratitude than the occasion warranted.
Taking a long swallow, he retreated toward the shadows at the edge of the ballroom where he could observe the dancers without attracting attention.
Not because he cared. Because he was evaluating. Observing. Assessing.
Entirely different than caring.
The orchestra swelled into the next movement as Everend guided Seraphine through the figures of the dance. The man smiled at her. Seraphine laughed at something he said. Damien took another drink.
The dance continued, and with every turn of the floor he became increasingly aware of how often other men touched her. A hand at her waist. Fingers brushing her gloved hand. A gentleman guiding her through a turn.
Perfectly innocent. Entirely proper. But for some reason, Damien disliked every second of it. The realization arrived slowly and then all at once.
He was not angry because another man danced with her. He was angry because he wanted to be the one dancing with her. The distinction mattered rather a lot.
His father had been possessive. Controlling.
Cruel. Damien had spent years ensuring he would never become that sort of man.
Watching Seraphine now, he understood something important.
He was becoming like his father more and more.
As he knew he would, which was why he vowed to never marry. He would never put anyone through that.
A pair of young ladies approached him, interrupting his increasingly unpleasant reflections.
“Your Grace,” one of them said with an eager smile.
Damien dragged his attention away from the dance floor long enough to acknowledge them with a brief nod.
“Good evening.”
The second lady brightened immediately. “We were wondering if…”
“No,” Damien said before she could finish.
Both ladies blinked.
“No?” the first repeated.
“No,” Damien replied, taking another sip of brandy as his gaze drifted back toward the ballroom.
The ladies exchanged confused looks before retreating almost immediately. Damien felt no guilt whatsoever.
Across the ballroom, Seraphine laughed again at something Lord Everend said. The sound carried faintly through the music. His grip tightened around his glass.
Perhaps one more brandy will improve matters.