It had everything to do with one stubborn young lady who had already stolen far more of his heart than he dared admit.
Damien watched two footmen carry the last of his trunks through the grand entrance hall towards his waiting carriage. Outside, dusk had settled over Amberhall, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the gravel drive. Every passing moment tightened the knot of impatience in his chest. Seraphine already had several hours' lead on him, and knowing her stubbornness, there was no telling what she intended to do once she reached London. The thought alone urged him to leave at once.
He descended the sweeping staircase with measured strides, one gloved hand resting briefly upon the polished banister. His face betrayed nothing, yet his mind refused to quiet itself. Every sensible calculation had already been made. He would find Seraphine, marry her, restore her reputation, and fulfil his obligation. That was the only honorable course remaining. The fact that his own heart seemed determined to complicate matters was something he resolutely ignored.
As he crossed the entrance hall, movement from the opposite corridor caught his eye.
Lord Whickham.
The man had scarcely noticed him before Damien altered course without hesitation. Several nearby servants instinctively stepped aside as the Duke advanced with the unmistakable purpose of a man who intended to settle unfinished business. Whickham looked up, his cheerful expression faltering almost immediately.
"Your Grace," Whickham began with an uneasy smile, taking half a step backwards. "I was just…"
Damien seized the front of his coat before the sentence could be completed and drove him firmly against the wall. The portrait hanging above rattled violently from the impact. Whickham's eyes widened in genuine alarm as Damien's hand fisted in his lapels.
"I thought," Damien said quietly, his voice colder than winter itself, "I warned you to keep your mouth shut."
Whickham swallowed so hard Damien saw his throat bob. His usual mischievous grin had vanished entirely, replaced by unmistakable fear. He lifted both hands in surrender, careful not to provoke the larger man any further.
"I…I did keep my word," Whickham stammered, his voice noticeably higher than usual. "Mostly."
Damien's grip tightened. "'Mostly'?"
Whickham winced as the fabric bit into his throat. "Please, Your Grace," he said hurriedly, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "It slipped out before I thought better of it."
"You thought?" Damien repeated, arching one dark brow. "That would be a refreshing development."
Whickham shut his eyes briefly, clearly recognizing the sarcasm for the danger it concealed.
"It was only Lord Laurent and the Duke of Amberhall," he blurted out quickly. "No one else heard a word. I swear it. They are honorable gentlemen and close to you in relation. They would never repeat such a thing."
Damien studied him in silence. He believed the fool. That, somehow, made the offense no less irritating.
"You possess a remarkable talent," Damien observed evenly, "for proving precisely why no one entrusts you with confidence."
"I know," Whickham admitted miserably, lowering his eyes. "It is an unfortunate failing."
"Failing?" Damien said, leaning closer until only inches separated them. "It is a catastrophe wrapped in an evening coat."
Whickham gave an awkward nod. "I apologize," he said sincerely. "I truly never intended any harm to Lady Seraphine."
At the mention of her name, Damien's expression hardened further.
"No," he replied. "You merely endangered the reputation of a lady because you could not resist amusing yourself."
Whickham flinched. "I was foolish," Whickham said at last, his voice thin with contrition as he lowered his gaze.
"You were," Damien replied, his expression unyielding as he kept his grip steady for one more beat before releasing him.
"I regret it," Whickham added quickly, rubbing at his throat where the fabric had been crushed.
"You should," Damien said coldly.
For several long moments neither man spoke. Damien considered frightening him a little longer purely for his own satisfaction. Finally, Damien released him with a sharp shove.
Whickham stumbled forward, hastily straightening his cravat and smoothing the front of his wrinkled coat. He wisely kept several feet between them this time, rubbing at his collar where Damien's grip had left it hopelessly creased.
"I shall give you one final warning," Damien said, adjusting his gloves with deliberate precision. "If I hear so much as a whisper concerning Lady Seraphine leave your mouth again, you will discover precisely how inventive I can become."
