Page 91 of An Unwanted Bride for the Duke
Then his expression grew unexpectedly serious. "Do you love her?"
The knife stopped. Damien stared at his plate.
Love.
Such a simple word. His father had spoken of duty. His mother had spoken of affection. Only one of them had died smiling.
He remembered watching his mother's laughter fade year after year beneath his father's relentless discipline. He remembered Thalia slowly becoming quieter beneath that same cold household until Caspian had rescued her from becoming another victim of Harrington restraint.
Perhaps restraint itself was inherited. Perhaps he had inherited every flaw that mattered.
He finally lifted his eyes. "I admire Lady Seraphine greatly," he admitted quietly. "She possesses courage beyond reason, remarkable intelligence, stubbornness enough to challenge Parliament itself, and an infuriating inability to leave my thoughts."
Benedict listened without interruption.
"She is," Damien continued after a pause, "my equal in every conceivable respect."
"That sounds suspiciously close to admiration becoming something else."
Damien looked away again. "I do not believe," he said carefully, "that I am capable of love."
Benedict frowned. "Why?"
Damien's fingers tightened around his glass. "Because men like my father did not love and I am his son."
His voice had become almost inaudible. "And I fear," he finished quietly, "that I resemble him far more than I ever wished."
The confession lingered heavily between them. For once Benedict offered neither wit nor laughter.
Instead he reached across the table, quietly refilled Damien's glass, and raised his own.
"Well," he said softly, "for what little my opinion may be worth..." He smiled with genuine warmth. "I rather hope Lady Seraphine proves you spectacularly wrong."
Damien looked into the amber brandy without replying.
I hope so too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The morning mist still clung to the lawns of Wexford Manor when Seraphine's carriage rolled to a stop before the small stone chapel. Though modest beside the grandeur of the manor itself, the chapel possessed a quiet beauty. Ivy climbed its pale walls, roses bloomed beside the entrance, and colored glass caught the early sunlight, casting jewels of crimson and sapphire across the ancient stone floor. It was not the grand London wedding she had imagined as a little girl. It was intimate. Almost private. Somehow, that suited the strange path that had brought her here.
Maria adjusted the white silk scarf around Seraphine's shoulders before stepping back with watery eyes.
"You look beautiful, my lady," she whispered, smoothing an imaginary crease from the gown. "His Grace shall forget how to breathe."
Seraphine laughed despite herself and squeezed the maid's hands. "Let us hope he remembers long enough to say his vows," she replied softly.
Maria sniffed, laughed through her tears, and reached for a handkerchief. "I shall settle for that."
Rosaline stepped forward next, her daughter Annie perched upon Laurent's arm behind her. Rosaline embraced her sister carefully so as not to disturb the gown.
"You are trembling," she murmured.
Seraphine attempted a smile that felt terribly fragile. "Only a little."
Rosaline smiled knowingly. "That is permitted on one's wedding day. Fainting however, is rather less acceptable."
Seraphine huffed a quiet laugh. "I promise I shall walk towards the altar rather as steady as I can."
