Yet at their end of the table, the mood shifted. Lord Nathanson carefully set down his fork. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin before folding it neatly beside his plate. The movement was controlled, measured, and somehow made his irritation all the more obvious.
“It is generally considered impolite for ladies to discuss money,” he said.
His tone remained courteous. His expression remained polite. But the rebuke was unmistakable. The words settled heavily between them. For a moment she genuinely wondered whether she had misheard him. Surely, she had not said anything particularly shocking. They had been discussing themanagement of a household. Staff wages were hardly a scandalous topic.
Apparently, Lord Nathanson disagreed. A dozen responses immediately sprang to mind, none of them suitable for polite company. She swallowed every one of them. Then she became aware of Damien. Not because he spoke. Not because he moved. Quite the opposite. The man had gone unnaturally still beside her.
Slowly, Seraphine turned her head. Damien appeared deeply engrossed in his wine glass. He held the stem loosely between his fingers and studied the ruby liquid as though it contained the answers to life's greatest mysteries. His expression was perfectly composed.
Almost perfectly.
A dangerous gleam danced in his green eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched. Once. Then again. He was trying not to smile. The absolute traitor.
Seraphine felt heat creep into her cheeks. Of all the moments for him to find amusement. She narrowed her eyes at him. Damien, sensing her glare without even looking up, took a slow sip of wine. His shoulders shook once, barely. The infuriating man was laughing at her. She suddenly felt a powerful urge to kick him beneath the table again, and judging by the look he was carefully hiding, he knew it.
Lord Nathanson, entirely oblivious to the silent battle occurring beside him, continued speaking. “My late wife rarely concerned herself with financial matters,” he said. “She understood that such subjects were best left to me.”
“I see,” Seraphine replied. She kept her voice pleasant, though inwardly she was no longer certain whether she wished to continue the conversation at all. Years of practice ensured that.
“She allowed me to manage everything myself.”
“How fortunate for you,” she said.
The gentleman failed to detect the dryness in her tone. Damien, unfortunately, detected it immediately. His shoulders shook once more, barely noticeable. Seraphine refused to look at him.
The third course arrived; roasted pheasant with potatoes and seasonal vegetables. Conversation shifted elsewhere. Yet Seraphine found her thoughts lingering upon the exchange.
Something inside her quietly settled.
No, Lord Nathanson will not do.
Not because he had disagreed with her, people disagreed all the time, but because of the irritation behind his response. The dismissal. The implication that her thoughts mattered less simply because she was a woman. It seemed like such a small thing, yet she knew better than most how insignificant thingscould grow and infect everything in their life together. Her father had begun with small dismissals. They rarely remained small forever.
She glanced down at her plate, turning her fork absently through the vegetables. The decision came easily after that. Lord Nathanson was no longer a candidate. Whatever good qualities he possessed, she could not imagine spending the rest of her life being told which subjects she was permitted to discuss.
A strange thought followed close behind. Damien would never have reacted that way. He would have challenged her, yes, but listened to her points and argued the pros and cons of it. The realization surprised her more than she cared to admit.
The Duke argues constantly. He teases and frequently infuriates me beyond reason. Yet he never dismisses my opinions.
Even when he disagreed, he listened first. The thought lodged itself firmly in her mind. Annoyingly.
The final course arrived in the form of desserts and sweet pastries. The atmosphere relaxed considerably as guests turned towards lighter conversation. Somewhere down the table, Rosaline laughed at something Thalia had said.
Beside her, Damien finally spoke. He set down his fork and glanced sideways at her.
“What are you thinking?” he asked in a low voice for only her to hear.
Seraphine nearly jumped and looked up from her dessert. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have been staring at your pudding for three minutes,” he said, gesturing lightly towards her untouched plate.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You counted?”
“Approximately,” he said.
“How attentive of you,” she said. His mouth twitched as he lifted his wine glass. Lord Nathanson seemed entirely oblivious to the exchange as he continued eating his dessert.
“I was merely considering the conversation,” Seraphine said.
