Chapter 5
Five
Damian Foster did not pace. Pacing was what men did when they had lost control of themselves.
Instead, he stood at the tall escritoire in his study with a sheaf of correspondence in one hand and a ledger open before him.
He snorted as he stared at the items awaiting his attention, almost as if ink and figures might restore order to a world that had begun to tilt.
His attention had started to wane in one direction, quietly, treacherously, toward one woman.
Still, this all could not be ignored. Not for her, not for anything…
so he sat and stared at the papers hoping they would somehow answer themselves and tally the numbers as if willing it made it so.
He had decided on a course. One he hoped would lead him in the direction that he desired.
One that would ensure she chose him instead of fleeing as far and as fast as possible in the opposite direction of Rosebery Park.
There was no guarantee she would choose him.
But perhaps if he gave her enough space to make her decision she would realize he was the best choice she could make.
He prayed that his restraint would also help.
Because everything inside of him told him that he should claim her before he lost her forever.
Perhaps if he showed indifference to her decision she would want to stay out of spite…
It was, he told himself, sensible to give her space to make her own decision.
It was the only tactic that left Elena her pride and the right to choose what was best for herself.
If he continued to press, she would only dig in her heels and bristle at every perceived attempt to claim he.
While the thought of not pressing—of not speaking to her or not seeking her…
. He did not like the thought of never having her near again.
The very thought of not seeing her unsettled him.
It may be perverse, but he enjoyed the sight of the brightness in her eyes when she was prepared to draw blood with mere words.
She had a wit that he admired, and it made his chest feel uncomfortably hollow when he couldn’t bear witness to her intelligence and sharp tongue.
A footman entered the study with a cautious air about him almost as though the room itself might bite or perhaps its master…
“My lord,” the man said, “the greenhouses have been secured for the storm. The gardener requests your opinion regarding the arrangements in the chapel, and Mrs. Wainwright asks whether…”
“Tell Mrs. Wainwright she will proceed as planned,” Damian said without looking up.
“And tell the gardener my opinion is not needed and I am not to be consulted about flowers.” He grinned as if an idea occurred to him.
“Tell the gardener to ask Lady Elena what flowers she prefers.” He shouldn’t do it, but he could not help himself.
He wanted to have that sharp tongue at the ready when they next met.
“Yes, my lord.” He swallowed hard and the footman hesitated. “Are you certain you wish to have Lady Elena give her opinion. She doesn’t seem to want anything to do with the wedding preparations.”
Damian lifted his gaze at last—cool, direct and determined. “Yes” Damian prompted. “It is her wedding. She should have a say even if it is a dismissal of any opinion at all. Do as I asked.”
He hesitated again…” My lord…”
“What else is there?” His patience was wearing thin.
“The guests in the drawing room are requesting your presence,” the footman said carefully. “Lady Elena is with them.”
Damian did not react. He could not afford to.
He should not care that Elena was with the guests.
She should be with them. If only he could excuse himself for the remaining events leading to the wedding.
He had no patience for some of the guests he had in attendance.
He loathed many of them, including the Duke of Montclaire.
He would never understand what his cousin, Horatia saw in the man.
But there was no helping it now. The duke was now a relation by marriage, and he had to accept that, and be civil to the man.
“Very well,” he said. “I will attend shortly. But to make sure to ask Lady Elena her opinion about the flowers now. I would hate for the gardener to have to wait much longer for that opinion he requires.” He also hoped to catch some of her reaction once he joined her with the guests.
“Yes, my lord,” he said as he turned to leave the study.
When the door shut, Damian set the papers down with controlled precision.
Lady Elena was in the drawing room. He knew, with the unpleasant clarity of instinct, that she would not sit quietly beneath this new distance he had imposed.
Elena Chandler did not accept silence as defeat.
She would test it and she would test him and because he was no fool, he knew precisely how she might do it.
He had seen that look on other women before—when they sensed a man’s interest and wanted to measure its depth by provoking it.
But Elena was not other women. Elena’s provocation would not be playful.
It would be like a carefully honed blade ready to make him bleed for his impertinence.
She would make him pay for daring to show her indifference, as if she mattered little to him.
She would be wrong in her assumption, of course, but he had to play his part carefully if he hoped to win her heart, and he did want to win it.
Damian left the study and moved through the hallways of Rosebery Park with the calm stride of a man who owned every stone beneath his feet, which he did.
Servants nodded, guests greeted him, and he returned every acknowledgment with the unhurried courtesy of a man who could not be rattled by anything.
Though he knew the truth. There was one woman that would always rattle him to his core...
The drawing room doors were open. Laughter drifted out, light and bright and threaded with the clink of teacups.
Damian stepped into the room and glanced around.
There was only one person he hoped to find there, and when he did, he stared for a brief moment.
He took in her beauty and savored it. Elena stood near the hearth in a pale gown that made her hair look like winter sunlight.
She held herself with composed ease, as if she belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
Rowan was near her, expression watchful, ready to intervene if necessary.
It was then he noticed that a gentleman stood too close to Elena.
Mr. Ashford, one of the guests who had arrived that morning seemed far too interested in her.
He was a well-born, unremarkable man with a pleasant smile and the sort of confident attentiveness that made him think he could charm any woman with ease.
He would disabuse the man of that notion, and soon. Elena was his.
Damian swept his gaze throughout the room once, taking in the tableau like a general assessing a battlefield.
Elena’s laughter rang again, light and musical and while it should make him happy, it did not.
Because he knew that it was not meant for him.
The realization struck with a surprising, sharp heat.
Damian’s hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture unaltered.
Only his eyes changed—just a fraction and because he knew himself, he understood what it was at once… jealousy.
He approached the small group with calm deliberation. He kept control because it was all he knew how to do. Otherwise, his reaction might be far too lethal and the guests would be appalled by his need to claim Elena.
“Mr. Ashford,” Damian said smoothly.
The gentleman turned, blinking as if he’d forgotten Damian existed. “Ah—Rosebery. We were just enjoying Lady Elena’s wit.”
Damian flicked his gaze to Elena. She met it with bright composure, her mouth curved in a smile that looked innocent.
But her eyes— Her eyes said far too much.
They taunted him and seemed to say, There…
that is what you get for pretending you do not care.
You may not want me anymore, but this man, he does.
Well, he would have to take a different tact wouldn’t he?
He needed her to realize that he did want her.
That he craved her more than a man perhaps should.
Damian felt the impulse to reach for her and remove her from the conversation by sheer force of will. Instead, he inclined his head toward Mr. Ashford. “How fortunate for you.”
Mr. Ashford laughed as though Damian had jested.
Elena’s smile did not waver. “I was telling Mr. Ashford,” she said lightly, “that I may depart at dawn.”
The room went subtly still. Rowan’s gaze snapped to Elena, warning flaring.
Mr. Ashford looked startled. “At dawn? Whatever for?” Clearly this was all new information for the man. Elena had decided to poke the beast and see what she might get for her effort.
Elena shrugged, delicate as a portrait and barely discernable in her actions. “Why not? The weather is improving. My presence is hardly essential. Especially as I have no intention of saying any vows.”
Damian’s pulse did not quicken. He did not allow it.
He kept his face calm, his tone even. “You may, of course, do as you please,” he said.
He did not want to force her. He may want to claim her as his, but he wanted it to be a choice she willingly made.
He would never make her do anything she did not wish to do.
Elena blinked once. It was a quick, almost imperceptible motion as if she were caught off guard by his lack of immediate resistance.
Damian continued, as if discussing the placement of chairs.
“I will ensure a carriage is made ready if you should choose to leave. Just let me know your intentions and I will have it prepared.”
Elena’s smile faltered—only for a breath and then her chin lifted defiantly. “How accommodating.”
Mr. Ashford shifted awkwardly, clearly sensing he had stumbled into something he did not understand. “If Lady Elena is leaving,” he said quickly, “perhaps I ought to escort her. The roads can be…”
“No,” Damian said. He would not allow that to happen.
He might not be able to claim her, but in his heart she was his to protect, and this man would not take that from him.
The word fell with such quiet certainty that it did not sound like a raised voice.
It did not sound like a command meant for display.
It was a finality that everyone, even Elena, must accept.
Mr. Ashford’s mouth opened. “I meant…”
Damian’s gaze remained on Elena. “You may leave at dawn,” he said, voice low enough that only she would truly hear the edge beneath the calm. “And you may do so with every courtesy afforded you. But you will not use my house as a stage to provoke a reaction for your entertainment.”
Elena’s breath caught. “Entertainment?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, but his tone remained controlled. “I will not beg,” he said quietly. “I will not coerce and I will not be toyed with.”
A hush gathered around them, not dramatic, but real. Even the fire seemed too quiet, as if listening.
Elena’s gaze flashed with annoyance. “You presume much.”
“I presume nothing,” Damian replied. “And I have been remarkably patient with you. This is one thing I must insist on. It is your choice Elena. What do you wish to do?” Elena’s lips parted, ready to strike.
Damian leaned slightly closer and presented himself to her, He did not touch her nor did he do anything to publicly claim her.
All he did was give her the weight of his attention.
“If you wish to leave,” he said, voice calm as frost, “then leave. But do not do it to punish me for giving you what you demanded.”
Elena’s throat worked, emotion flickering beneath her composure.
This was a new side to her. One that he wasn’t sure he liked.
There was uncertainty in her gaze. He wanted her to take what she wanted.
He wanted her to demand that he claim her.
None of that was evident in her gaze now. What a disappointment.
Damian straightened. “Mr. Ashford,” he said smoothly, “enjoy the tea. Lady Elena will not require your services.” Mr. Ashford looked as if he would rather choke. “Go find someone else to offer them to.”
Damian turned away before his restraint could crack again.
Because the truth ,the soft spot inside of him that he refused to show, was that Elena’s departure would not be a relief.
It would feel like losing and Damian had never learned how to endure defeat gracefully.
So, he prayed he would not have to do so now, and that she would choose to remain.
He did not know what he would do if she actually left Rosebery Park, but he suspected he would chase after her.
Something he might end up doing for the rest of her life.
Elena had come to mean far too much to him to allow her to exit his life so easily…