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?
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.
