Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
If Lord Whickham speaks even despite his promise, Seraphine's reputation will be irreparably damaged. Society would forgive me with little more than a raised brow and a knowing smirk. Seraphine would not receive such mercy.
Damien stood before the hearth in the library with a glass of brandy in one hand, staring into the dancing flames without truly seeing them.
He took a slow swallow of brandy and closed his eyes.
Every time he did, he saw Seraphine standing in that cramped storage room, her lips flushed from his kisses, her breathing uneven as she looked up at him.
He had lost control. Not entirely, but enough.
A man who prided himself on strategy and restraint had allowed desire to overrule reason.
It was an unforgivable lapse, and the consequences belonged to her far more than they ever would to him.
He already knew what honor demanded. There was no escape from it. She would bear every cruel whisper alone. The thought settled heavily upon his shoulders. There was only one respectable solution left.
“Marriage…” he muttered.
The word sat in his mind like an unwanted sentence already passed.
Oddly enough, marrying Seraphine was not the part that filled him with dread.
If anything, the notion came far too easily now.
The true terror lay beyond the wedding breakfast, beyond the vows, beyond placing his name beside hers forever.
That was where his confidence abandoned him entirely.
He stared deeper into the fire as old memories surfaced unbidden.
His father had ruled Wexford Manor with impeccable discipline and absolute emotional restraint.
Nothing escaped his notice. Every account was balanced, every servant feared him, and every child obeyed without question.
Yet the house had never been warm. It had never truly been alive.
Efficiency had replaced affection until the walls themselves had seemed cold.
His mother had been the heart of the estate.
She had smiled through lonely dinners, hosted elegant soirées, soothed frightened servants, and loved children who scarcely saw their father except to receive correction.
Little by little, her laughter had faded.
The brightness in her eyes had dimmed until eventually she merely existed within the grand house rather than lived inside it.
Damien had been old enough to recognize it only after it was too late.
She had not died of illness alone. She had died of loneliness caused by my father’s indifference.
His jaw tightened. His father had offered nothing. No warmth. No tenderness. No companionship. Merely duty.
Damien swallowed another mouthful of brandy. His mother had slowly withered beneath a husband who fulfilled every obligation except the one that mattered most.
And I am like him…
"There you are," Caspian said as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
He smiled faintly before noticing the half empty decanter beside Damien. "I have been searching the entire house for you."
Damien glanced over his shoulder before taking another measured sip of brandy.
"Why?" he asked evenly, setting the glass upon the mantelpiece. "Has Amberhall collapsed without my presence?"
One corner of Caspian's mouth twitched upward. "Not quite."
Caspian wandered further into the room before folding his arms. "Lord Whickham mentioned that something happened between yourself and Lady Seraphine today.
" He watched Damien carefully as he continued.
"He would say nothing more, only that Laurent and I ought to keep an eye upon you.
" He raised a brow. "Would you care to explain? "
Damien closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
"Of course the weasel has begun talking," he muttered beneath his breath.
Caspian chuckled softly. "If it eases your mind," he replied, lifting one shoulder, "he was remarkably discreet.
" He leaned casually against the nearest bookcase.
"It was only Laurent and me who heard him.
No ladies were nearby." His expression grew more serious.
"He did not reveal anything incriminating. "
Damien nodded once. "I have the matter entirely under control," he said firmly, his tone allowing no room for further discussion. He reached for his brandy again, though somehow it no longer tasted quite so satisfying. "There is nothing requiring your intervention."
Caspian studied him for several moments before giving a slow nod. "Very well," he said quietly. "I trust your judgement."
Before either man could speak again, the library door opened once more.
"Oh, there you both are," Thalia said brightly as she entered, though her smile carried a hint of confusion. "I have been wondering where everyone disappeared to."
Damien looked at his sister, another reminder of his father.
His sister had carried that same sadness long before meeting Caspian.
Their father's impossible standards had crushed every spark of confidence she possessed.
Damien still remembered finding her crying alone in the gardens after receiving another cutting remark disguised as fatherly instruction.
She had learned to smile through disappointment just as their mother had.
Thankfully, fate had been kinder to Thalia than it had ever been to their mother.
Caspian had changed everything.
Damien rubbed a hand across his face. The women he loved had both been wounded by one man, his father, and what terrified him most was not becoming his father in title or responsibility, but becoming him in temperament: reserved, controlled, emotionally distant.
He possessed every one of those qualities already. True affection did not come naturally to him. Feelings were contained, analyzed, and locked away where they could do no damage. He had spent years believing those traits made him strong.
Now I wonder whether they merely make me dangerous.
Seraphine deserved laughter. She deserved warmth, conversation over breakfast, shared walks through gardens, children raised in a house filled with affection.
She wanted love with every fiber of her being.
It shone from her whenever she watched Rosaline with Laurent or Thalia with Caspian.
She longed for the sort of marriage his parents had never possessed.
And he… He feared he was incapable of giving it to her.
Caspian crossed to kiss his wife's forehead and poured her a glass of brandy. "Why did you search for us?" he asked gently.
Thalia sighed. "I am rather disappointed," she admitted, taking a drink.
"Lady Seraphine departed this afternoon.
" Her gaze moved between the two men. "She returned to London with Lady Kane and I cannot for the life of me understand why. She was scheduled to leave tomorrow. She didn’t even say goodbye to Rosaline. I am sick with worry over it."
Damien straightened so abruptly that the brandy glass stopped halfway to his lips.
"What?" he demanded.
Thalia blinked in surprise at the sharpness in his voice.
"Did she say why she left?" Damien asked more evenly, though tension radiated from every word.
"No," Thalia replied, shaking her head sadly. "She was in an extraordinary hurry." She frowned thoughtfully. "She scarcely answered my questions before leaving." Her voice softened. "She simply thanked me for the invitation, asked me to give Rosaline a letter, and departed."
Damien stared silently into the fire.
Blast it. Why does she always insist upon carrying every burden alone?
His jaw clenched. She was frightened, and frightened people made reckless decisions. Without another word, he placed the brandy upon the mantel and strode from the library.
"Damien?" Thalia called after him in confusion.
He did not answer.
Within minutes he had reached his bedchamber, where he pulled open wardrobes with brisk efficiency.
Shirts, coats, and traveling clothes disappeared into a valise while his valet hurried to keep pace.
Damien barely noticed the man's bewildered expression as he fastened the leather straps with decisive force.
"I know precisely what you are going to do, sweetheart," he muttered under his breath as he buckled the final strap. "And I am not allowing it."
The answer had been before him all evening.
I will marry her. Not because Society demands it. Not because scandal leaves me little choice. But because it is the only means of protecting her future.
She would become the Duchess of Wexford. She would have every comfort, every security, every privilege his title could offer. No whisper of scandal would survive such a marriage. Her name would remain untarnished.
But that would be all. He would not burden her with himself.
He would give her his name, his fortune, his protection...
and then he would keep his distance. He would never risk becoming another cold husband who slowly broke the spirit of the woman beside him.
Better she lives freely within Wexford Manor than spend years hoping for affection he feared he could never provide.
He rang the bell sharply. A footman appeared almost immediately.
"Have my carriage prepared," Damien ordered as he reached for his gloves and hat. "We leave for London at once."
The servant bowed. "Immediately, Your Grace."
Damien looked once towards the dark window before turning away.
For the first time in years, the most carefully laid plan of his life had nothing to do with estates, investments, or politics.
It had everything to do with one stubborn young lady who had already stolen far more of his heart than he dared admit.