Page 9

T oday is my chance to prove myself.

The grand dining room of the Greymont Estate was filled with the murmur of polite conversation and the occasional clinking of silverware. It was the kind of evening that demanded decorum— something that Daphne had been preparing for all week.

Daphne sat beside Richard, trying her best to embody the elegance and poise that she had been practicing for.

Tonight was important. When Daphne had arrived, she had been told that she would be seated next to Richard – on special request by him, no less! The idea alone was enough to fill her up with both nerves, and excitement.

It was the perfect opportunity – she would be in close proximity to Richard, and finally win him over with her poise and elegance.

Or at least that's what Daphne hoped for to happen. There was a small thorn in her way.

Or perhaps, a large thorn in the shape of an insufferable Duke. Across the table directly in her line of sight, sat Ambrose, the Duke of Greymont.

His presence was impossible to ignore. As always, his gaze seemed to follow her every move, and even though he hadn't spoken a word to her yet, Daphne could feel the weight of his attention, like a looming storm on the horizon.

Every time she reached for her glass or adjusted her napkin, she felt his eyes on her, scrutinizing her with that infuriating combination of arrogance and amusement.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

"Are you alright, Lady Daphne?" Richard asked gently, turning toward her with a kind smile.

Daphne forced a smile and nodded. "Yes, of course, My Lord. Just a bit warm, perhaps."

Richard's smile widened, and he glanced around the room. "It is rather stifling in here, isn't it? I do not blame you."

Daphne smiled softly, grateful for Richard's lightheartedness. He was always so kind, so gentle with her. It was easy to be around him—no sharp edges, no unexpected challenges.

Unlike his brother.

"Yes," Daphne said, careful not to chuckle. Always known for her loud laughter, Isadora had told Daphne that ladies do not chuckle. If they must express amusement, they only smile demurely or titter at best. "You always seem to understand, My Lord."

The conversation around the table continued, with various guests discussing politics, art, and the latest gossip from London. Daphne tried to focus, to engage in the discussions but every time she opened her mouth to speak, she felt Ambrose's eyes on her, as if waiting for her to slip up.

And, of course, that's exactly what happened.

It started with the soup course. Daphne reached for the wrong spoon—a simple mistake, but one that was immediately noticed by Ambrose.

"Lady Daphne," Ambrose called out, "the smaller spoon would be more suitable for your course, wouldn't you agree?"

Daphne froze, her fingers still wrapped around the larger spoon. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she quickly switched utensils, her heart pounding in her chest. Across the table, Ambrose wore that infuriating smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured. The warmth in her cheeks was undeniable as she felt the eyes of the other guests briefly flicker toward her.

Richard, bless him, didn't seem to notice. He continued chatting about some new piece of music he had heard recently, completely unaware of Daphne's discomfort.

Try as Daphne might, she seemed to be attracting attention from the wrong brother this evening.

"Tell me, Lady Daphne," Ambrose continued in his usual deep voice. "Do you often find it difficult to navigate formal dinners?"

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" she replied, her voice steady despite the heat rising to her cheeks.

Ambrose's smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement. "It's just that you seem... a little unsure of yourself this evening. I was wondering if perhaps you find these sorts of gatherings a bit overwhelming."

Daphne's grip tightened on her spoon. She could feel the eyes of the other guests turning toward her, their curiosity piqued by the Duke's pointed question.

"I assure you, Your Grace, I am quite comfortable," she said, her tone clipped but polite.

Ambrose raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Of course. I must have been mistaken."

It was at this point that Richard finally became aware of the palpable tension that had settled over the table. He cleared his throat before interjecting, swiftly.

"Perhaps we could discuss something else, Ambrose. I'm sure Lady Daphne doesn't need to be questioned about her dining habits."

Ambrose leaned back in his chair, a look of mock innocence on his face. "I was merely making conversation, little brother. No need to be so defensive."

“Yes, but perhaps conversation can be made about other topics,” Richard replied.

“What could be more relevant than discussing dining habits at the dinner table?” Ambrose chuckled.

It seemed that Ambrose was determined to put her on the spot. His pointed comments that singled her out were a clear indication of that. Daphne could feel her heart pounding in her chest, but she tried her hardest not to let it show on her face.

I shall not give him that satisfaction. She had worked too hard to be thrown off by his arrogance. She wasn't going to let him ruin this evening for her—not when she had come so far.

She turned her attention back to Richard, who was clearly trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. He was kind, as always, and Daphne could see the concern in his eyes.

He was so unlike his older brother that Daphne found it hard to believe that both of them had been raised by the same woman – who was of course, no other than the Dowager Duchess, Edith Harris.

She was present at the table, as well, engaged in a spirited conversation with the young lady seated next to her—a beautiful, demure girl with perfect posture and a quiet smile. Every so often, Edith would glance toward Ambrose, and then Richard.

Daphne found herself wondering what sort of mother in law she would make. Surely, she would be difficult to impress, and Daphne was going to have to put on her best performance.

As the main course was served, Daphne glanced up and caught Ambrose's gaze once more.

Oh, heavens. What is his problem? Does he not have anyone else to stare at?

This time, his expression was unreadable—neither mocking nor amused, but something more complex. It was as if he was studying her, trying to decipher something.

Daphne quickly looked away, focusing on her food. She wasn't sure what Ambrose's game was, but she was determined not to let him win. Whatever it was, she wouldn't allow him to derail her evening.

Richard, noticing her distraction, placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Are you sure you're alright, Lady Daphne? You seem a little... distracted."

Daphne smiled at him. "I'm fine, truly. You need not worry about a thing, My Lord."

It was another thing that Isadora had taught her, and Daphne felt proud of herself for remembering it.

The old Daphne would have had a comment to make.

But she swiftly remembered that ladies do not complain.

It is a highly undesirable trait, after all, and no man wishes to be with someone who complains too often.

Richard gave her a subtle raise of the eyebrow, "Are you sure?"

"Of course," Daphne assured. "I am certain."

"Hmm," he mused. "You know, you are quite agreeable, My Lady."

At this comment, Ambrose scoffed from across the table but Daphne chose to ignore him, her smile widening instead.

After all, what did it matter if Ambrose scoffed in her direction if Richard thought she was agreeable? It was the latter’s approval whom she sought.

Richard was exactly what she needed—steady, reliable, and kind. He did not make pointed comments about her, nor did he argue with her. He would make the perfect husband, she was sure of it.

And yet, despite all this, her attention inadvertently kept wandering over to the duke, a mix of irritation and curiosity stirring within her. She noticed that she was not the only one, either. He seemed to command the attention of the room.

She could see it in the way that the guests leaned forward to listen to him each time that he spoke. Not only that, they made concerted efforts to include him in conversation, waiting for him to react, to nod in approval, or to raise an eyebrow in quiet amusement.

“Isn’t that right, Your Grace?” one of the guests ventured in regard to something he had said, to which Ambrose offered only a polite nod.

The ladies seemed especially captivated, their gazes lingering on him for longer than they ought to.

He must be used to this, Daphne thought to herself. Always having people try their hardest to win their approval. Maybe that was why he was so hard to please.

Still, Daphne could not blame them. As infuriating as she found him, she had to admit that there was a certain magnetism in the way he conducted himself.

He had a quiet confidence about him, one that needed no convincing.

When another one of the guests eagerly engaged him in conversation, Daphne forced herself to look away, rolling her eyes at the effect he had on everyone.

For the rest of the dinner, she decided to keep to herself, focusing intently on her plate. She told herself that it was because she wanted to avoid more interruptions from the duke. But, if she was honest, part of it was because she had simply run out of things to say to Richard.

"I hope you enjoyed the evening, Daphne," Richard turned to her as the dinner drew to a close. It was now time for the entertainment part of the evening, and Daphne was just happy that she would get a chance to escape the duke's scrutinizing gaze.

"I did, My Lord. Thank you for inviting me."

Richard returned her smile, clearly pleased by her response, though he didn't seem to notice the hint of distraction in her voice.

"I've enjoyed your company more than you can know, Lady Daphne,” Richard smiled.