Page 37 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

This was what he craved, what he deserved.

His fingers tightened around the tumbler clenched in his hand, the throbbing in his head keeping rhythm with the ache in his knuckles. The glass was empty, had remained as such since he’d fled the dining hall and closed himself back in his study. At present, the sight of the bottle that had become his only companion over the years made his stomach turn.

He was so pitiful, he didn’t have the nerve to drown himself in scotch and bring about a few hours of blissful reprieve. Instead, he’d chosen to wallow in the situation of his making. His sister—and his friends, when they still came around—had told him it wasn’t his fault; yet Damon knew it was his impulsive nature that had taken him and Sarah away from Falconcrest in the Ashford carriage that night. Off on one of Damon’s many larks—a late-night, winter sleigh ride through the snow to May’s Brewery for a New Year’s mead while Joy and Abram’s nurse looked after them.

The horse stepping off the hidden ledge under the snow drift and injuring his leg hadn’t been Damon’s fault.

The damaged, unmovable sleigh stranded in the increasing snowfall hadn’t been Damon’s fault.

Their inability to find shelter from the coming storm hadn’t been his fault.

Sarah and him, stranded during the frigid winter night out in the open hadn’t been his fault.

Her following sickness hadn’t been his fault.

But Damon knew it was all a lie. Everything had been his fault, especially every misfortune after Sarah’s death.

He’d retreated from life, his children, and society.

Damon had convinced himself that his children would heal faster if they did not fear losing him. At some point, their hurt and anguish had festered into something far graver, and he’d failed to notice. Instead, he’d paraded a never-ending line of governesses before them. The women each left without fail, and every time, he’d blame his children or the inept servant…when the fault lay squarely on his shoulders.

That wasn’t something he could change. It was too late.

Joy and Abram had been telling him—in the only way children knew how—that they were hurting, that they needed someone to step in and make everything right. He couldn’t even make it right with himself, so how was he to help them?

Where he’d failed, Miss Samuels had stepped in, caring for his wayward children in a way that Damon couldn’t.

Tomorrow…tomorrow he would be better. Try to be who his children needed him to be.

There had to be time to make things right for them. Sarah was gone, but they were not. If he tried, genuinely tried, he could fix his family. He loved his children—more than he could ever imagine. They could not go on without knowing they were loved, without him showing them his affection—even if he could not bring himself to speak the words.

Miss Samuels had shown him actions were sometimes more powerful than words.

For now, he needed to find his bed and pray that a few hours’ sleep would diminish the ache in his head and relax the tension in his shoulders.

His back slumped as he set the empty glass on the table beside the lounge, careful to keep his eyes away from the familiar spot. He should have the piece of furniture removed, but even with it out of sight, the memories surrounding it would not disappear.

Ignoring them only made the images more painful when they broke through.

Damon left his study, exhaustion reaching every inch of his body as he made his way to the stairs.

“Good evening, miss,” Mr. Brown’s deep voice echoed from the foyer. “Going out?”

Damon was so close to making his escape up the stairs and the solitude of his private chambers. Instead, he halted, desperate to hear the woman’s response.

“Yes, I shan’t be overlong.” The sound of rustling drew him closer until only the shadows of the darkened hall hid him from view as he watched the governess slip into her cloak, and the butler hand her a muff. She slipped her hands inside and waited for the servant to open the door. “I will let myself back in. There is no need to wait for my return.”

He’d never before wondered how she spent her evenings or her days off. Before he’d caught her at his gaming tables, at least.

“I can summon the coach for you, or perhaps send a footman to hail a hackney?” Mr. Brown offered. His tone was untroubled without any hint of concern for the governess’s well-being, as if the woman often left with little explanation. “Or is your carriage coming for you?”

Her carriage? Miss Samuels was a governess without the means for her own conveyance. She’d lost a healthy amount to the duke and slipped away without making good on the debt. How could she have a carriage? And if she did, how was he unaware of it?

“No, it is only a short walk.” She smiled at the elderly servant, bringing a new light to the man’s eyes. He imagined it was how Mr. Brown looked upon his own daughter. “I donned my wool stockings and sturdy boots”—she patted her cloak—“and I’ve brought my key. Do not fret over me.”

“It is not my place to worry over you, Miss Samuels.” With a stiff bow, the butler opened the front door. “However, my missus claims I sleep more soundly when all the household is accounted for.”

The governess slid her hand from her muff and patted the aging butler’s cheek. “I will be gone two hours, at most. Please, do not cause my absence to keep you awake, Mr. Brown.”