Chapter 4
Four
The chapel at Rosebery Park sat at the edge of the lawn like a promise carved in stone.
It was small, elegant, and entirely too perfect for its purpose.
If she had wanted to marry the Earl of Rosebery, she could not have chosen a more perfect location.
Unfortunately, she still had no desire to tie herself to the earl, but she could not shake that responsibility as easily as she had hoped when she had started her journey to his home.
Elena walked beside Damian with her cloak gathered close against the wind, her boots sinking slightly into damp grass.
A storm had been threatening all afternoon, the sky was full of dark ominous clouds, and the air carried a peculiar sharpness that warned of rain before the first drop ever fell.
Damian had suggested they take a walk with the smooth inevitability of a man who always assumed the world would comply.
Elena had agreed because she had been a veritable shrew since the moment she had arrived and did not think it prudent to always be so difficult, and also because, to her irritation, she wanted to see whether the chapel looked as smug as it felt.
They reached the steps. Damian took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door with a practiced motion. as though he had done it a hundred times, as though he had stood at this threshold and pictured her beside him. That thought should not have stirred anything in Elena. It did anyway.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented with beeswax and old stone.
The windows were narrow, their glass tinted so the gray light entered softened, almost gentle as it spread throughout the chapel.
A simple altar stood at the front; wreaths of greenery had already been hung in preparation, as if the chapel itself were putting on its finest attire to temp Elena into acquiescence.
As if the chapel itself wanted the wedding to happen…
Elena paused in the aisle, letting her gaze sweep over the space. “So,” she said lightly, “this is the scene of my impending doom.”
Damian shut the door behind them. The sound echoed around them with a finality that enclosed around her. “It is the chapel,” he replied calmly. “Not an execution chamber.”
Elena turned toward him. “That depends entirely on the groom.” She didn’t know why she always had those sharp replies ready and waiting. They slipped off her tongue with ease, and perhaps she should regret them, but she did not.
His eyes held hers with maddening steadiness. “And what, pray tell, do you believe that the groom intends, Lady Elena? To chain you to the altar?”
Elena’s mouth tightened. “Do not mock me.”
“I am not mocking you.” He took a deep breath. Almost as if he needed it to hold himself steady when conversing with her. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t really help herself with what she did or said regarding him or the upcoming wedding.
“Then stop speaking as though my objections are merely theatrical.” Elena lifted her chin. “You have already announced a wedding. You have filled your estate with guests. Your staff is preparing as though my refusal is irrelevant. If that is not conquest, what is it?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but restraint. He was probably praying to some higher power to deliver him patience. “It is prepared, don’t you think?”
“What it is, my lord, is presumption on your part,” Elena snapped.
A beat of silence fell, thick enough to choke.
Outside, wind rattled the branches, and the first soft patter of rain began against the chapel windows, like tapping fingers demanding entry.
Damian’s gaze sharpened slightly. “I can hardly help what you perceive it to be,” he said quietly.
“But no matter what you think, my lady, I have no intention of forcing you to be my wife.”
Elena’s laugh was bitter. “And what else am I to believe when a man arranges a wedding and expects a woman to step into it without question?”
Damian took one slow step closer, stopping at a distance that was neither polite nor intimate—an in-between space that felt like the edge of a cliff. “Do you truly believe I would force a woman to be my wife?” he asked, voice low.
Elena’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you want a wife who will not inconvenience you.” That was the truth. It would be easier to have Elena become his countess and he could beget his heirs and move on with his life as he pleased. The vessel didn’t matter as long as he got what he needed from her.
His gaze held hers. “You inconvenience me constantly.”
Elena’s breath caught, then she scoffed. “How tragic.” She rolled her eyes. He was being dramatic now.
Damian’s eyes flashed, something sharp seethed behind the calm he portrayed. “I want a wife who I can share my life with. I do not want a meek woman that does my bidding. I want you.”
Elena blinked, the words landing in a way she had not expected. “Why?” She had not given him any reason to truly want her. What did he truly know of her and what she wanted out of life?
He gestured toward the stone walls, the altar, the pews—toward the very weight of the building.
“Rosebery Park is not a drawing room in Mayfair. It is a living estate. It holds tenants, responsibilities, expectations, and a legacy that does not care about anyone’s feelings.
” His voice turned harder, not cruel, but honest. “It requires a partner.”
Elena’s pulse beat too quickly. “Then hire a steward.”
Damian’s mouth tightened. “I have a steward.”
“Then what do you need a wife for? An heir?” Elena’s gaze sharpened. “A woman to produce a child and stand at your side so society will stop whispering that you are difficult?”
Damian’s nostrils flared. The first visible crack. “You think this is about my pride,” he said, voice lower.
“I think it is about your control,” Elena replied. “You speak of partnership, but everything about you reeks of demands.”
His gaze turned fierce. “Many people do depend on me,” he said in a firm tone. “Sometimes I must make demands to ensure everyone has what they need—even you, my dear Elena.”
Elena’s chin lifted. “And you would have me depend on you as well.”
“No,” he said, sharper now. “I would have you stand beside me.”
Elena’s heart thudded, and anger rose to cover the disquiet. “As what? A trophy? A countess on display to make your life look proper?” She was not making much sense, but none of it made sense. She was even more confused now that she was before.
Damian’s hands clenched behind his back. His restraint was visible now, like a muscle straining. “You have no notion,” he said tightly, “what it is like to carry the weight of this place…the responsibility it all entails.”
Elena’s glared at him. “And you have no notion what it is like to be treated as though your life may be arranged by someone else and it does not matter what you want of desire. You only must do as you are ordered and accept it without complaint.” Silence slammed into the chapel.
Then Elena said the thing that had been burning in her chest since she arrived.
“You speak as though you have chosen me because you require strength,” she said, voice low and trembling with fury.
“But I am not a beast you test for breeding stock, my lord. I am not here to prove myself worthy of your estate. I am a woman and I need more out of life than that.”
Damian’s gaze went very still. He studied her for several seconds without saying a word and it unnerved her. She wanted to demand he respond, but first she had more to say to him. “I am not here to be tested,” Elena added, each word deliberate. “Not by you. Not by your title. Not by your guests.”
Then rain struck hard against the windows, loud enough to mask the fragile sound of Damian’s breath.
His jaw tightened and for the first time since she had met him—since that maddening calm, that unyielding composure—Damian Foster lost his temper.
“You act,” he snapped, voice suddenly sharp, “as though I have dragged you here by your hair and been a brute to you every second.” The words cracked through the chapel like lightning.
Elena froze, shock flaring through her anger.
Damian’s eyes held rage in their depths, then immediately—immediately—the heat in them banked, replaced by something like horror.
He went still as if he could take the words back by sheer will.
“I…” He stopped. His shoulders lifted slightly with a controlled breath, as though forcing himself into stillness.
Then, in a voice rougher than it had been before, Damian said, “Forgive me. I did not mean to yell at you.”
Elena stared at him. He took a step back as if giving her space to strike him, to flee, to condemn him. His face was tight, expression controlled again, but his apology had cracked the mask. “I should not have spoken so,” he said, quiet and precise. “It was…ungentlemanly.”
Elena’s throat tightened. Because men like Damian did not apologize.
Not easily and certainly not sincerely. Not at all in her experience.
She had expected him to double down. To order her into silence and to accuse her of hysteria, defiance, and unreason.
Instead, he looked as though he was angry at himself and that shook her more than his temper.
The rain continued to batter the chapel.
Elena swallowed, her voice suddenly unsteady.
“Your apology does not change the fact that you arranged all of this without asking me.”
“No,” Damian said, meeting her gaze. “It does not.” A moment of silence passed, and then he added, softly, “But it may change what I do next.”
Elena’s pulse stumbled erratically. She did not know what frightened her more: Damian’s anger…
or Damian’s rare, startling willingness to admit he could be wrong.
Either way she could not think about it now.
What she needed was to escape his presence and leave the chapel.
She would not let a storm prevent her from doing both either…