If discovered, she would be ruined. If her father were alive, she would never have dared attempt such a thing. Then again, if her father were alive, she would not be facing exile to a convent. That thought hardened her resolve.
She tightened the reins, and the mare surged forward. The night swallowed them whole. Cool wind tugged strands of dark hair loose from beneath her hood as she leaned lower over the saddle. Her brown eyes remained fixed upon the road ahead.
She knew exactly where she was going. There was only one person who might be able to help. One person with enough influence to solve a problem of this magnitude.
The Duke of Wexford.
Her best friend's brother.
The Duke was powerful, respected, and connected in ways Seraphine could scarcely comprehend.
It was nearing midnight when Damien Harrington, Duke of Wexford, sat alone in his study at Wexford Manor, reviewing estate ledgers by the light of a single lamp. Most men would have delegated such work to a steward and retired hours ago. Damien trusted very few people with his finances.
Then a sharp knock echoed, breaking the silence.
Damien frowned and leaned back in his chair. “At this hour?”
Visitors were neither expected nor welcome. He set down his pen with deliberate care and listened.
No women I entertain would dare appear at my home uninvited, as I had established that rule years ago.
Which left only a handful of possibilities worth considering. His friend Benedict, or possibly his sister Thalia.
Damien rose from his chair and moved towards the door.
“Mr. James, see who it is,” Damien instructed, folding his hands behind his back.
“At once, Your Grace,” Mr. James replied with a respectful bow before departing.
Eventually Mr. James returned, his expression unusually careful. “Your Grace,” the butler said, pausing in the doorway with evident restraint.
“Well?” Damien asked.
“It is Lady Seraphine Fairchild,” Mr. James informed him.
Damien blinked once, then twice. “Lady Seraphine?” he repeated in disbelief.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. James confirmed with a slight inclination of his head.
Of all the names Damien expected to hear, hers had not been amongst them. Not even remotely.
“What the devil is she doing here?” Damien muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. Mr. James wisely did not answer.
Damien straightened his coat. He instructed, “Take her to the parlor.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Mr. James replied.
Several moments later Damien entered the parlor Lady Seraphine stood beside the fireplace wrapped in a dark cloak, her posture flawless despite the unusual circumstances. The moment she saw him, she dipped into a curtsy. Prim, proper, and composed, she looked as though arriving alone at a duke's house near midnight were perfectly ordinary.
Damien fixed her with a dark look. “Are you trying to get me into scandal or into an early grave?” he asked coldly, crossing his arms over his chest.
She straightened immediately and met his gaze without flinching. Neither apologetic nor intimidated, she appeared remarkably calm.
Interesting.
He narrowed his gaze and continued to study her. He noticed her brown eyes and freckles across her cheeks.
“I apologize for the hour,” she said, clasping her hands neatly before her.
