“Oh indeed,” Lord Whickham said cheerfully, folding his arms.
Seraphine wished for the floor to swallow her whole. Her cheeks burned, and she could feel the heat creeping all the way to her ears.
Damien, meanwhile, looked infuriatingly calm, as though being discovered in such a way was no more troubling than being caught in the rain.
“Whickham,” he said coolly, inclining his head.
“Your Grace,” Lord Whickham replied with an increasingly broad grin.
His gaze shifted from Damien to Seraphine and back again, clearly taking in every disastrous detail of the scene.
“Lady Seraphine,” he added.
“Lord Whickham,” Seraphine managed weakly, attempting something resembling dignity.
The silence stretched. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then Lord Whickham glanced towards the vase.
“Well,” he announced cheerfully, gesturing towards the prize, “I suppose we have found both the treasure and the reason nobody else could locate it.”
Hannah made a choking sound. Seraphine wanted to die immediately, preferably before Lord Whickham decided to continue speaking. Unfortunately, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes suggested he was just getting started.
Chapter Twenty
Seraphine stood frozen in the cramped storage room as every drop of color drained from her face. The precious Chinese vase rested forgotten upon the crate.
Damien seized Lord Whickham by the lapels of his coat with startling speed. The Duke's expression had turned glacial, every trace of teasing replaced by quiet menace.
“Your--Your Grace,” Whickham stuttered out.
Lady Hannah Branson gave a tiny squeak and clasped her hands together. Seraphine's pulse thundered so violently she scarcely heard herself breathe. She had never seen Damien look quite so menacing.
“You will keep what you have seen to yourself,” Damien said in a voice of deadly calm as he held Lord Whickham firmly. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?” His green eyes never left the other man's face. “Should a whisper leave your lips, I shall learn of it.”His grip tightened fractionally. “And you will find that I am not a forgiving man.”
Lord Whickham swallowed, though the familiar sparkle of mischief still lingered in his eyes. “I…I…understand.”
Lady Hannah hurried towards Seraphine, her skirts brushing the dusty floor.
“Lady Seraphine,” she whispered, taking both her hands in earnest reassurance, “I swear I shall not tell a soul.” She squeezed her fingers gently before glancing nervously towards the gentlemen. “I shall beg Lord Whickham to remain silent as well.” Her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “You have my promise.”
Seraphine managed a weak smile that failed to reach her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, gripping Lady Hannah's hands a moment longer. “You are exceedingly kind.” Her voice trembled despite every effort to steady it. “I pray your confidence is stronger than Society's appetite for gossip.”
Lady Hannah nodded vigorously. “It shall be,” she vowed, her cheeks flushed with determination.
Yet Seraphine scarcely heard another word. Panic clawed mercilessly at her chest until every breath became difficult. She knew precisely how thetonworked. One careless rumor became whispered certainty before luncheon, then undeniable fact by supper.
An unmarried lady discovered alone with a gentleman in such circumstances was always ruined beyond repair. No explanation would matter. No defense would be believed.
William would never permit her to remain at Donmere House once the scandal reached him.
The Abbey.
The dreadful notion echoed relentlessly inside her mind.
Cold stone corridors. Endless silence. A future chosen by others because she had failed to secure a husband before her allotted month expired.
She had fought so desperately to escape that fate, only to ruin herself with a single foolish moment of passion. Tears burned behind her eyes.
How could I have forgotten myself so completely? How could I have allowed Damien to unravel every sensible thought I possessed?
