"It was," Damien replied flatly, removing his gloves one finger at a time.
Benedict studied him for a heartbeat before the amusement faded from his face. "That serious?"
Damien met his eyes. "Private room."
Benedict merely nodded.
Without another word they followed the servant upstairs, passing richly paneled corridors until they reached a quiet chamber furnished with a round mahogany table, several leather chairs, and a roaring fireplace despite the mild weather. The servant closed the heavy door behind them, leaving the room wrapped in welcome silence.
Benedict waited until the latch clicked shut before folding his arms. "Now," he said more quietly, "what has happened?"
Damien remained standing for a long moment, his fingers resting upon the back of a chair. He rarely asked anyone for assistance. In truth, he despised needing it. Yet this matter no longer concerned only himself. Every decision now carried consequences for Seraphine, and that changed everything.
"I have a problem," Damien said at last, lifting his eyes to Benedict's. "And I require your assistance."
Benedict's expression softened at once. "You have only to ask," he replied, taking the opposite chair. "You know that."
Damien drew a slow breath, hating even the taste of the admission.
"I have received a threat," Damien said, his jaw tightening as he rested one hand on the back of the chair.
Benedict leaned forward, his earlier levity fading at once. "From whom?" he asked, folding his hands upon the table.
"Lord Pemberley," Damien replied, his voice clipped.
A brief silence followed as Benedict's brows lifted in disbelief. "Augustus Bowditch?" he repeated, leaning back slowly in his chair.
"The very same," Damien said, his expression darkening.
Benedict frowned thoughtfully before resting one elbow upon the table.
"And why exactly is Lord Pemberley threatening the Duke of Wexford?" he asked. "Most gentlemen possess a healthy instinct for self-preservation."
Damien's jaw tightened. "I may have punched him," Damien said, as though the admission itself offended him.
For one perfect second Benedict stared at him in silence, his brows lifting.
Then he burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, leaning back in his chair and clutching at the table for support.
"You what?" he gasped between laughs, dabbing at one eye with the heel of his hand.
Damien remained entirely unmoved, though his fingers curled once against the back of the chair.
"It was justified," he said coolly.
"Oh, I have no doubt it was," Benedict chuckled, still grinning broadly as he shook his head. "I simply wish I had witnessed it. Did he squeal?"
"He flew rather well," Damien replied, his tone dry enough to parch the room.
That only sent Benedict into another fit of laughter, one hand pressed to his stomach as if he might split in two.
"I knew I should have attended the soiree at Amberhall," Benedict declared at last, wiping at his eyes. "Instead I was trapped discussing sheep with my steward."
Damien allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch for scarcely a heartbeat before the gravity of the matter settled once more.
"It was foolish," he admitted quietly. "I should have exercised greater restraint."
Benedict's smile faded. "What happened afterwards?"
