Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What have I done?
The next morning, Damien sat alone at the breakfast table in the morning room, a cup of tea cooling untouched beside him.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows, warming the polished mahogany, yet he scarcely noticed it.
His thoughts had remained fixed upon the previous evening from the moment he had awoken.
He had told himself countless times that pleasuring Seraphine had been a mistake born of weakness.
Instead, it had become the one thought he could not drive from his mind.
He had known he should have stepped away before matters went so far.
His intention had been simple enough, reassure himself that whatever strange pull existed between them could be mastered through simply getting a taste of her, then return to being nothing more than the dutiful husband she deserved.
Instead, indulging in her had only deepened his torment.
Now every memory of her moans, every blush, returned to him with relentless clarity.
If he continued seeking her company each evening, he feared his carefully constructed restraint would crumble entirely.
“Your Grace,” Mr. James, the butler, entered.
“Yes, James,” Damien said.
“This just arrived for you.” He held a letter in his hand.
Damien nodded and took the letter. He looked at the seal and saw that it was from his steward. He tossed it onto the table.
I have no interest in such matters at the moment, when all I can think about is her.
Damien closed his eyes for a brief moment and rubbed a hand across his jaw.
This was precisely what he had feared from the beginning.
The more time he spent with Seraphine, the more impossible it became to imagine keeping the emotional distance he had promised himself.
She had somehow slipped beneath the walls he had spent a lifetime constructing.
Worse still, he had begun to care so profoundly for her that the mere thought of harm befalling her sent a cold dread through his chest unlike anything he had ever known.
His thoughts turned to Lord Pemberley. The man's veiled threat at the wedding breakfast had not been an empty one.
Damien knew too much about the circles Pemberley frequented to dismiss it as idle malice.
There were matters Damien managed that no respectable Duke ought ever to admit, arrangements conducted in shadow rather than drawing rooms, and men whose loyalty had been purchased in ways polite Society would neither understand nor forgive.
Seraphine knew nothing of that hidden world, and he intended to keep it that way, even if it meant earning her resentment.
“Mr. James, parchment and quill,” Damien requested.
“Right away, Your Grace.” Mr. James moved to a cupboard where parchment quill and ink were stored and placed it before Damien.
He quickly scribbled out a quick letter to Benedict requesting him to meet him later that afternoon at Boodle’s. Then he handed it back to Mr. James.
“Pour the drying powder and seal it. Make sure it is delivered to the Duke of Northwick hastily,” Damien said.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mr. James bowed then slipped out of the room.
Damien would be meeting Benedict to request his assistance in handling Lord Pemberley. The fact that his own actions had now put Seraphine in danger made his mood darken.
I cannot bear anything happening to her. She must stay in this house until this threat is quelled.
The breakfast-room door opened quietly, drawing him from his thoughts. Seraphine stepped inside wearing a pale blue morning gown that suited her, and the instant their eyes met, a delicate blush rose across her cheeks before she lowered her gaze. Damien felt something tighten inside him.
She remembers the previous evening just as vividly as I do.
He forced his expression back into its customary calm before she could notice the effect she had upon him.
"Good morning," Seraphine said softly as she crossed the room, smoothing her skirts before taking her seat opposite him. She offered him a tentative smile, though there was a shyness about her that had not existed only days before.
"Good morning, Duchess," Damien replied, inclining his head as though nothing whatsoever had changed between them. "I trust you slept well."
"Duchess...I am not used to hearing that," she said. "I slept reasonably well," she answered, reaching for the teapot. She poured herself a cup before glancing towards him again. "I hope that you did as well."
"I managed," he said evenly, though the lie tasted bitter. In truth, he had scarcely slept at all.
For several minutes they ate in comfortable silence, interrupted only by the quiet clink of silver against china.
Damien found himself watching her when she was not looking, noting the loose curl that had escaped beside her temple and the thoughtful way she stirred her tea.
He immediately chastised himself. Every stolen glance only strengthened the attachment he had sworn to suppress.
At length, Seraphine folded her napkin neatly beside her plate and looked towards him. "I wished to let you know that I shall be visiting Rosaline this afternoon," she said pleasantly. "I promised I would call upon her."
Damien's hand stilled upon his cup. Every instinct within him rebelled against the idea of her carriage leaving Wexford Manor while Lord Pemberley was out there.
"No," he said bluntly.
She blinked before letting out a small laugh, believing she had misunderstood him. "I beg your pardon?"
"You will not be visiting her," he said, meeting her gaze without wavering.
Her smile disappeared. "Whatever do you mean I shall not? She is my sister."
"Then your sister may visit you here," Damien replied evenly. "You are not to leave the estate."
Seraphine stared at him for a long moment, genuine confusion replacing her amusement. She rose slowly from her chair, resting her fingertips upon the table as she searched his face. "Damien," she said carefully, "surely you are not serious."
"I am entirely serious."
She shook her head in disbelief. "You cannot simply forbid me from visiting my own family…or leaving the estate." Her voice remained impeccably polite, yet disappointment trembled beneath every word.
"It is not a matter for discussion," he answered, keeping his tone measured despite the conflict raging within him. "If Rosaline wishes to see you, she shall be welcomed here for as long as she likes along with my brother and the children."
Seraphine drew a slow breath, clearly fighting to maintain her composure.
"You cannot do this," she said quietly, clasping her hands together before her. "I spent years being managed by a father who believed every decision belonged to him. Every walk, every visit, every choice required his approval."
She swallowed before continuing, her eyes glistening despite her determined dignity. "I truly believed you were different."
Each word struck Damien with devastating force. Every instinct urged him to stand, cross the room, and explain everything, to tell her Lord Pemberley had threatened her, that dangerous men now watched from the shadows, and that leaving the house might place her directly in harm's way.
Yet revealing the truth would also reveal the secret life he had concealed for years, the trade, the bargains, the underworld connections that had allowed him to garner abundant wealth. No gentleman ever spoke of it aloud. It was in fact a crime against the crown.
What would she think if she discovered that I, the Duke of Wexford, maintained dealings with smugglers, thieves, and men whose names never appeared in Society columns? She would look at me differently. Worse still, she might fear me.
The possibility settled like lead in his stomach. Better she believed him cruel. Better she despised him. Hatred could be repaired.
A bullet, or a knife, could not. She could be put in prison for being complicit if she knew of my crimes. No, the less she knows the better. To protect her.
"My decision is final," Damien said at last, forcing every trace of emotion from his voice.
Seraphine lowered her eyes, blinking rapidly before giving a small, graceful inclination of her head. "Very well, Your Grace," she replied, the formal title sounding painfully distant. "I understand."
No…
Damien thought as he rose from his chair, his heart pounding with regret.
You do not.
Without trusting himself to say another word, he turned and walked from the breakfast room. Only once the door had closed behind him did he allow the mask to slip.
Leaning one hand against the corridor wall, he shut his eyes briefly and whispered under his breath, "Forgive me, sweetheart. One day you will understand why I cannot not let you leave."
Then, straightening his coat, he resumed the cold, unreadable expression the household expected and walked away, determined to protect her, even if it cost him her affection.
Seraphine remained seated at the breakfast table long after Damien had disappeared from the room, her hands folded neatly in her lap with all the composure expected of a duchess.
The moment the door closed behind him, however, the careful mask she had worn before him crumbled.
She stared at the untouched tea cooling in her cup, scarcely noticing it as disappointment and anger churned together inside her.
How dare he dismiss me so easily? He did not even attempt to explain himself. He simply issued an order and expected obedience, as though I were another servant beneath his roof.
She pressed her fingertips against her temples and drew a slow breath, willing herself to remain calm.
Has everything changed because I spent the previous evening in his company? Is this simply what marriage means to him?