A measure of tension eased from Damien's shoulders, and he exhaled through his nose before giving a curt nod. "Good," Damien said tersely. "Then send him a letter to meet us and we shall dine as we wait," Damien added, his tone brooking no argument.
Benedict blinked. "We are discussing treason and blackmail," Benedict said, rising from his chair with a shake of his head.
"We still require being fed," Damien replied, already reaching for the door.
"I appreciate a man with priorities," Benedict said dryly.
Damien opened the door and regarded the waiting footman with cool composure.
"Luncheon," he instructed calmly. "For two and bring parchment, quill and ink pot. We will be sending an urgent letter."
The servant bowed at once, hands clasped neatly before him. "At once, Your Grace."
For the first time since Lord Pemberley had uttered his veiled threat, Damien felt as though events were once again moving according to his design. Augustus had made one fatal mistake.
He has threatened my wife. And I've never been known to leave debts unpaid.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Damien returned to Wexford Manor well after sunset with frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior. The interview with Gantry had yielded little beyond patience, a commodity Damien possessed in abundance for business but precious little where Seraphine was concerned.
Gantry had promised he would find Lord Pemberley and silence him but admitted the tasks might require several days. Several days. Damien clenched his jaw as he strode through the entrance hall without removing his gloves. Every extra day left Augustus free to act.
He barely acknowledged the servants who bowed as he passed. His mind calculated possibilities with relentless precision. Uncertainty exhausted him more than hard work ever had.
As he rounded the corner into the main corridor, his stride slowed.
Seraphine stood beside one of the tall windows, the fading evening light outlining her graceful figure. Her hands were folded before her with impeccable propriety, but her mouth was set in a stern line. She had clearly been waiting for him. Damien closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He already knew precisely what was coming.
“We must have a talk,” Seraphine said firmly, lifting her chin as he approached.
“Very well,” he replied evenly. “Speak.”
She stepped towards him, determination flashing in her brown eyes. “I am not agreeing to be held inside this house like a prisoner,” she said, her voice controlled despite the hurt beneath it. “You cannot simply decide that I am forbidden to leave.”
“My decision is final,” Damien cut in quietly. His voice never rose, yet it carried the same authority that governed entire counties. “You are not leaving Wexford Manor.” He paused before adding with unmistakable finality, “At least not without me.”
She stared at him in disbelief before giving a short, incredulous laugh.
“Without you?” she repeated, spreading her hands. “Am I twelve years old?”
“No,” Damien answered flatly.
“Then is it because you believe I am unfamiliar with London?” she asked, searching his face. “Do you believe I shall become lost?”
“No.”
“Do you imagine I have forgotten how to conduct myself in Society?” she asked.
“No,” he replied with one word once more.
“Because I am now your Duchess?” she demanded, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
“No.”
Her patience finally snapped. “Then what possible reason remains?” she cried, throwing both hands into the air.
Damien looked towards the window instead of meeting her gaze. “I am not discussing it.”
