Chapter 27 #2
Last night he had looked at her with such tenderness that she had almost believed he cared for her.
Yet this morning that same man had forbidden her from leaving the house as though she were a child incapable of making sensible decisions.
Had she mistaken his lust for affection?
Or worse, had she mistaken affection for freedom?
A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
"Well done, Seraphine," she muttered beneath her breath, shaking her head. "You managed to exchange one tyrant for another."
The words stung the instant they left her lips, for they did not sit comfortably beside the memory of Damien standing before Lord Donmere, defending her without hesitation.
That man had not resembled her father in the slightest. So why, only days later, did he suddenly insist upon controlling where she went and whom she visited?
The contradiction left her more bewildered than angry, and somehow that was infinitely worse.
Straightening her shoulders, she reached for the small silver bell on the breakfast table and rang it.
A moment later Mr. James appeared in the doorway with his customary impeccable posture.
"You rang, Your Grace?" he asked with a respectful bow.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. James," Seraphine replied, rising from her chair. "I wish to send a letter to my sister, Lady Laurent Harrington, if that may be arranged."
"Certainly, Your Grace," the butler answered with a courteous smile. "If you would be so kind as to follow me."
Curiosity replaced some of her irritation as she followed him through the quiet corridors of Wexford House. Instead of leading her towards the front hall, Mr. James stopped before an elegant walnut door and opened it with a flourish.
"Your study, Your Grace," he announced.
"My study?" Seraphine repeated, blinking in surprise.
Mr. James stepped aside, inviting her inside. "His Grace instructed the staff to prepare these rooms the very day he learned you would become the Duchess of Wexford. He expressed the hope that you would find them comfortable."
Seraphine crossed the threshold in speechless wonder.
The room was beautiful. Delicate yellow wallpaper patterned with climbing roses brightened the walls, while tall windows overlooked the formal gardens below.
A cheerful fire crackled in a white marble hearth despite the mild morning, filling the room with welcoming warmth.
Shelves crafted from polished oak lined one wall from floor to ceiling, already filled with beautifully bound books whose leather spines gleamed invitingly.
Near the window stood an elegant writing desk inlaid with satinwood, accompanied by a graceful chair upholstered in pale blue silk. Fresh flowers rested in crystal vases upon a side table, their sweet fragrance lingering gently in the air.
She slowly turned in a circle, scarcely believing the room belonged to her.
Every detail had been chosen with remarkable care, from the embroidered cushions upon the window seat to the artfully arranged stationery waiting upon the desk.
Whoever had prepared the room had anticipated every possible comfort a lady might require.
She found herself smiling despite her determination not to think kindly of Damien.
"It is... exquisite," she admitted quietly.
Mr. James's expression softened with satisfaction. "His Grace will be pleased that it meets with your approval."
That only confused her further.
"Thank you, Mr. James," she said, recovering herself. "I shall have a letter ready for you in ten minutes."
The butler inclined his head. "Very good, Your Grace."
As the door closed behind him, Seraphine sighed and looked around the room once more.
She still found it rather extraordinary that everyone now addressed her as Your Grace.
Only a fortnight ago she had been Lady Seraphine Fairchild, worrying whether she would soon be packed off to an abbey.
Now servants bowed wherever she walked, and an entire study belonged solely to her.
It felt like borrowing someone else's life.
Settling herself at the elegant desk, she selected a sheet of thick, creamy parchment and dipped the quill into the ink. After a moment's thought, she began writing to Rosaline.
Dearest Sister,
I apologize as I will not be able to call upon you this day. The reason is very perplexing. I hope that instead you will come to tea this afternoon at Wexford. There are matters of foremost importance I wish to discuss.
Yours, Seraphine
She carefully folded the finished letter, sprinkled drying powder across the fresh ink, and gently tapped away the excess before reaching for the household seal.
The heavy seal bore the magnificent crest of the Duke of Wexford. Seraphine stared at it for a long moment before pressing it into the warm wax. The impression emerged perfectly, a symbol of the life she had entered so suddenly.
She traced the edges of the seal with one fingertip, her heart twisting painfully. The uncertainty hurt far more than certainty ever could, and as she looked around at the lovely study once again, she realized that confusion could be every bit as heartbreaking as cruelty.
How could Damien deny me the freedom to visit my own sister, yet think of giving me a room so beautiful that it feels like a sanctuary? Is this his way of softening the bars of the cage? Or is there some explanation I simply cannot yet see?