Page 84 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Blame or praise the woman?

She’d brought about a change neither his children, his sister, nor his servants could trigger, despite their years of trying.

And she’d done it swiftly, without Damon even realizing it.

Yes, she deserved praise, not blame.

In his own way, he’d tried to show her the appreciation she deserved by settling her debt with Catherton. How did she not see that he’d done it to help her, not to control or restrain her in any way?

The voices around him were made unintelligible by the pounding in his head.

He had been so bloody wrong—about everything.

He’d pushed his children away, denied them the love and affection they so desperately needed after Sarah’s death. He’d limited his own emotions to the point where he lived in a constant state of despair. He knew no other way to make it through each day.

Yet, that wasn’t wholly true.

Payton had shown him what things could have been like, had he not taken the path he’d chosen.

Anger, laughter, love…they were all possible, if he’d just give himself a chance.

Was it too late? Would Joy and Abram forever blame him for Payton’s disappearance?

He needed to go to them now; tell them the awful truth and see where they stood.

Damon glanced at the closed ballroom doors, the panels sealing off his easy escape, closing him in, keeping him from doing what he longed to do: make amends with his children, and give them what they deserved.

Days spent strolling the museum. Nights at the playhouse. Endless winters at Falconcrest. Holidays in Bath or Cornwall. Afternoons horseback riding in the meadow by his country estate or promenading in Hyde or Regent Park. Evenings by the fire, books in hand as the warmth from the hearth enveloped them. Morning meals in the salon overlooking the gardens while Abram and Joy bantered and bickered about their lessons, while he and Payton took pleasure in the children’s passion for learning.

Payton? Tension laced his shoulders, tightening the fabric of his shirt across his back.

“My lord?” Mr. Brown had materialized at his elbow.

Damon glanced at his servant out of the corner of his eye, not taking his focus off the crowd milling about the room even though his idle musings still pushed for his attention. “Yes.”

“Is all as it should be?”

“Of course,” Damon huffed. “Why would it not be?”

“My lord, may I speak frankly?” the butler whispered.

Damon turned to face the man. “I always expect you to speak as such.”

Mr. Brown’s brow pulled low, and he lowered his chin, avoiding eye contact. “You are scowling, my lord.”

Damon let loose a gruff chortle. “You cannot possibly know that. I am wearing a bloody mask.”

“Yes, however—”

“Mr. Brown,” Damon sighed, keeping his voice low to avoiding being overheard. “I have had a very difficult few days.”

“I agree, my lord.” The butler pivoted slightly to stand next to Damon, drawing far less attention from his guests than if they saw their host speaking privately in hushed tones.

“Has Catherton arrived?” Damon asked.

“No, my lord.”

“No other uninvited guests either?”