He does not want me anymore. He regrets marrying me.
Her fingers clenched the bedspread as another sob escaped her. He had told her he loved her. Those three impossible words had filled her heart with more happiness than she had believed she was capable of feeling. Yet scarcely a minute later, he had calmly agreed to send her away to Scotland.
If he loves me, why has he surrendered me so easily? Why has he not fought for me?
"Oh, you foolish man," she whispered into the mattress, her voice breaking. "You are not the man I thought you were."
The words tasted bitter.
She had believed Damien different from every other gentleman she had known. Beneath his stern manners and impossible rules, she had believed there was steadfast devotion. Someone who would choose her above duty. Someone who would never willingly let her leave his side.
Instead… he had practically packed her trunks for her.
A fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes. She rolled onto her back and stared blindly at the elegant canopy overhead. The room, which only yesterday had felt warm and welcoming, suddenly seemed foreign. Every beautiful piece of furniture, every polished surface, every vase of fresh flowers reminded her that she was merely a guest in another person's home. Perhaps she always had been.
Swallowing hard, she reached for the bellpull beside the bed.
A servant answered immediately.
"My maid, Maria," Seraphine managed, dabbing hastily at her cheeks. "Would you ask her to come to me, please?"
"At once, Your Grace," the servant replied with a respectful bow before quietly withdrawing.
The title still startled her.
Your Grace.
She barked a bitter laugh.
It sounded terribly grand for a woman who was being held in a prison, felt about six years old, and thoroughly miserable.
Only a few minutes later, the familiar knock came upon the door.
"Come in," Seraphine called softly.
Maria stepped inside carrying her usual calm expression, but the moment her eyes settled upon Seraphine's tear-stained face, concern replaced it entirely.
"Oh, Your Grace," Maria exclaimed, hurrying forward. "Whatever has happened?"
Without waiting for permission, Maria crossed to the sideboard, poured a small glass of ruby port, and carried it over.
"Drink this," she said gently, pressing the glass into Seraphine's hands. "It will settle your nerves a little."
Seraphine accepted it with trembling fingers. "You always know precisely what to do," she murmured, managing the faintest smile.
Maria returned the smile with quiet affection.
"That is because I have been looking after you for some time," she replied, settling into the chair beside the bed. "Now tell me who has upset you."
Seraphine stared into the dark liquid before taking a small sip.
"I wish..." Her voice faltered. She tried again. "I wish I could take back the time I went to Wexford Manor at midnight."
Maria frowned. "The night you proposed to His Grace?"
Seraphine nodded miserably. "It was foolish," she whispered. "Utterly foolish."
Maria's eyebrows lifted. "I cannot agree with you there."
