Chapter 23 #2
Her fingers lingered against the delicate fabric as a thousand unanswered questions filled her mind once again.
If this marriage truly was only duty...
...why did every gesture from Damien feel so heartbreakingly tender?
The polished brass plaque outside Boodle's gleamed beneath the afternoon sun as Damien climbed the familiar stone steps.
Ordinarily, entering the gentlemen's club settled his mind.
The quiet murmur of noblemen discussing Parliament, investments and horseflesh had always felt comfortably predictable.
Today it only irritated him. His thoughts remained hopelessly fixed upon a lady who would soon become his wife.
A liveried servant bowed respectfully before leading him through richly furnished rooms lined with dark oak paneling and portraits of long-forgotten aristocrats.
Gentlemen occupied leather chairs with newspapers spread before them while others lingered over cigars and brandy.
At the rear of the dining room, one man immediately caught Damien's attention.
Benedict lounged in his chair with all the elegance of a man who had never hurried anywhere in his life.
Benedict, Duke of Northwick, rose theatrically the moment Damien approached, spreading his arms as though greeting a victorious general returning from war.
His unique eyes, one green, one blue sharp, his handsome face wore its usual irrepressible grin, and several ladies across London had undoubtedly wept over that smile.
"Damien!" Benedict exclaimed, clasping his friend's forearm before dropping back into his chair. "At last. Sit down before I begin believing Amberhall has kidnapped you. How was it?"
Damien lowered himself opposite him with a weary sigh and loosened his gloves. "Do not ask me about the house party."
Benedict blinked before slowly leaning backwards in exaggerated alarm. "Good Lord," he declared. He glanced towards the nearby attendant and raised two fingers. "My good fellow, I believe this conversation requires an entire bottle of your finest brandy."
The servant inclined his head politely. "At once, Your Grace."
As the attendant departed, Benedict folded his hands beneath his chin and regarded Damien with unconcealed amusement. The silence lasted scarcely three seconds before Damien decided to redirect the conversation.
"How was your visit to Northwick?" Damien asked, reaching for the bread already resting upon the table.
Benedict groaned so loudly that two gentlemen glanced in their direction before politely pretending they had heard nothing.
"Utterly dreadful," he complained, buttering a slice of bread with unnecessary force.
"I would have preferred accompanying you to the house party, but duty called.
Estate ledgers, tenant disputes, roof repairs, and sheep. An entire week discussing sheep."
Damien raised one brow.
"I assure you," Benedict continued mournfully, "there are only so many intelligent observations a man can make regarding sheep before questioning every decision that led him to adulthood."
Despite everything weighing upon him, Damien found the corner of his mouth twitching.
Benedict pointed triumphantly with his butter knife. "There! I almost made you smile. Amberhall has not completely destroyed your soul after all." He leaned forward eagerly. "Now tell me why that house party appears to have ruffled your feathers so thoroughly."
Before Damien could answer, the servant returned balancing a silver tray. He carefully arranged a crystal bottle of aged brandy between them alongside two heavy glasses and another basket of steaming bread wrapped neatly in linen.
Benedict watched impatiently until the glasses had been filled.
The attendant remained standing. "Will Your Graces require anything further this evening?"
"Yes. We shall dine here. Bring whatever is being served," Damien said.
"Roast beef with buttered vegetables and potatoes this evening, Your Grace."
"Very good."
The servant bowed once more before disappearing towards the kitchens.
The moment he vanished, Benedict reached immediately for the decanter and refreshed both glasses though neither required refreshing.
"Now," Benedict said, lifting his drink expectantly. "Out with it."
Damien stared into the amber liquid swirling inside his glass. It suddenly seemed considerably easier to face Parliament than this conversation. Finally he drew a measured breath.
"I'm engaged."
Benedict froze halfway through taking a sip.
He lowered the glass very carefully onto the table. "I'm sorry," he said after several stunned seconds. "Would you mind repeating that? I fear the word collided rather violently with everything I have known about you."
Damien took a long swallow of brandy before answering. "I am engaged."
For perhaps the first time in their entire friendship, Benedict Hale found himself entirely speechless.
"You?" he finally managed. "Voluntarily?"
Damien ignored the obvious provocation. "I proposed to Lady Seraphine Fairchild."
Benedict stared. Then stared some more. Finally he blinked.
"Laurent's sister-in-law?" he asked slowly.
"Yes," Damien said.
"And one of your sister’s closest relations. I’m assuming this is the same Lady Seraphine who attended Amberhall?"
"Yes."
His friend leaned back heavily and let out a low whistle. "Well..." Benedict murmured thoughtfully. "I certainly did not anticipate that sentence when I awoke this morning."
He studied Damien for another long moment before folding his arms.
"So," Benedict said carefully, "you fell for her at the party."
Damien's jaw tightened. Images flashed unwillingly through his mind. Seraphine laughing beside the pond. Seraphine rolling her eyes at him. Seraphine in that red silk gown. Seraphine kissing him inside the storage room. His heart betrayed him with painful certainty.
He deliberately looked away.
"Let us simply say," Damien answered quietly, "that it became necessary for me to marry her."
Benedict's smile faded. "You sound remarkably like a barrister reading legal documents."
Damien ignored the observation.
"I have already obtained the special license," he continued. "Her wedding clothes have been purchased. We shall be married this week."
"So soon?" Benedict asked, genuine surprise replacing humor.
Damien merely lifted his glass. Silence became answer enough.
Benedict regarded him thoughtfully before nodding once. "Very well," he said. "Whatever the circumstances, I presume you expect me to attend."
"I do."
Benedict's familiar grin returned. "I would not miss it for all the estates in England."
Their dinner arrived moments later. Silver covers were lifted to reveal generous slices of roast beef surrounded by roasted potatoes, buttered carrots and parsnips glistening beneath fresh herbs. The rich aroma briefly replaced the weight hanging over the conversation.
For several minutes they ate in companionable silence. Damien appreciated it. Too many people filled silence with unnecessary words. Benedict, remarkably, allowed him that luxury.
Eventually, however, curiosity won. He set down his knife and regarded Damien over the rim of his glass. "May I ask you one question?"
Damien continued cutting his beef. "You shall ask regardless."
"Probably." Benedict smiled.
Then his expression grew unexpectedly serious. "Do you love her?"
The knife stopped. Damien stared at his plate.
Love.
Such a simple word. His father had spoken of duty. His mother had spoken of affection. Only one of them had died smiling.
He remembered watching his mother's laughter fade year after year beneath his father's relentless discipline. He remembered Thalia slowly becoming quieter beneath that same cold household until Caspian had rescued her from becoming another victim of Harrington restraint.
Perhaps restraint itself was inherited. Perhaps he had inherited every flaw that mattered.
He finally lifted his eyes. "I admire Lady Seraphine greatly," he admitted quietly. "She possesses courage beyond reason, remarkable intelligence, stubbornness enough to challenge Parliament itself, and an infuriating inability to leave my thoughts."
Benedict listened without interruption.
"She is," Damien continued after a pause, "my equal in every conceivable respect."
"That sounds suspiciously close to admiration becoming something else."
Damien looked away again. "I do not believe," he said carefully, "that I am capable of love."
Benedict frowned. "Why?"
Damien's fingers tightened around his glass. "Because men like my father did not love and I am his son."
His voice had become almost inaudible. "And I fear," he finished quietly, "that I resemble him far more than I ever wished."
The confession lingered heavily between them. For once Benedict offered neither wit nor laughter.
Instead he reached across the table, quietly refilled Damien's glass, and raised his own.
"Well," he said softly, "for what little my opinion may be worth..." He smiled with genuine warmth. "I rather hope Lady Seraphine proves you spectacularly wrong."
Damien looked into the amber brandy without replying.
I hope so too.