Chapter 7 #2
Damian had not intended to go to the library.
He had intended to sit in his study until his mind stopped circling the same problem like a hound around a scent.
He had intended to remain the man he always was—controlled, rational, unshaken.
But Elena had a way of unsettling order simply by existing in it.
He had seen her leave the drawing room earlier with her chin lifted and her shoulders too rigid.
He had watched the way she moved through his house as if it were a battlefield and she refused to surrender ground.
He understood battle and he understood pride.
He understood, with an irritation that bordered on fascination, that he did not want her to leave.
Not because of the wedding thought that also weighed on his mind.
He did now want her to leave because Elena had quickly became far too important to him.
She mattered in ways he never could have anticipated.
Because of her his thoughts bordered on irrational.
When he found her in the library, seated by the fire with a single candle and a book in her hands, something in his chest tightened.
Not desire—though that, too, was there, sharp and immediate.
Recognition settled over him like a wave of insight.
She looked like a woman who had been forced to defend herself too many times.
A woman who expected the world to take pieces of her until she had nothing left to call her own and she had chosen Shakespeare, of all things, as if she were daring fate to mock her openly.
Damian’s gaze had caught on the title when she lifted it.
The Taming of the Shrew. He had nearly smiled.
Nearly, but somehow, he had held that back.
He had instantly knew it would insult her if he had showed her that smile.
Of course she had been reading that play.
It made all too much sense. She met his attention with that brittle defiance he found both infuriating and—God help him—beautiful.
“A man who believes he may tame a woman into matrimony.” The accusation should have angered him.
It did anger him. But not because it was unfair.
Because it contained a sliver of truth he disliked.
He had been raised to believe control was virtue.
That his demands was a responsibility that should be honored.
That if he did not shape his world, his world would collapse.
He had assumed marriage was a practical matter—duty, heirs, stability.
He had assumed a wife would be an agreeable companion with adequate sense and a willingness to accept the role.
Lady Elena Chandler was not agreeable. She was not willing and she had become the only woman he could not stop thinking about.
It humiliated him.
Damian had stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him, not to trap her… He would not do that ever. He had closed the door because he did not want this conversation overheard.
The irony was not lost on him. He was controlling the environment even now. Elena spoke of fear—fear of being owned, quieted, diminished. As she spoke, Damian felt something sharp in his chest.
Not pity, but respect. Because she was right to fear it.
He had seen men who did not mean to break women do it anyway, simply by believing their authority was natural and her will was decoration.
He did not want to be that man and that realization frightened him more than he cared to admit.
When she finished, her eyes bright with anger and something tremulous beneath it, Damian exhaled slowly.
He could demand anything of her. He certainly could not insist she marry him.
He could remind her of debts and reputations and consequences.
He could win what he wanted if he were patient enough.
But he did not want to win like that. Not with her.
Never with her… He wanted her to choose him.
The thought was absurd and it was also the first thing that had felt true in days.
Damian’s voice came out quieter than he intended.
“I agreed to this match for duty.” Elena’s gaze sharpened, as if she expected manipulation.
He despised that she had reason to. “I needed a wife,” he continued, forcing honesty through his pride.
“An acceptable choice and a connection that made sense.” He paused, jaw tightening. “But then I met you.”