Page 45 of The Phantom Duke

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sally replied, happily oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside Maria. “I’ll go at once. After I speak with him, I shall return and help you dress.”

Mrs. Whitby excelled herself that evening. Maria found herself banished from her own sitting room and forced to listen in intrigue to the movement of furniture from the other side of a closed door. Then, the door had been opened, and Maria stepped through into a glittering, candlelit supper. Lamps and strategically placed mirrors made the room glow. Glasses and cutlery caught the light and made it sparkle.

Maria walked into the room, supporting herself on a walking stick, and as she entered, the door to the hallway opened. Damien came in. He looked resplendent, all in black, but the elegance of his clothes offset his primal looks, taming them and making him appear more civilized.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he said, walking around the table to pull out a chair for her.

“Thank you for accepting,” Maria said, sitting, “and for saving me, once again.”

Damien’s lips twitched as he took the seat opposite her.

“Mrs. Whitby clearly believes some…thing was needed between us,” he said, looking around the transformed room.

“Some romance perhaps?” Maria asked.

Damien grimaced. “Do not use that word. I have no use for it.”

“I think Mrs. Whitby is something of a romantic,” Maria said. “She has told me how glad she is that Winterleigh has a duchess once more.”

“Is she?” Damien said. “Did you tell her how close Winterleigh came to not having a duchess at all?”

“No. I did not care to draw too much attention to my own foolishness,” Maria countered smoothly.

Sally entered with water, which she poured for Maria and Damien. Maria jumped as Damien smiled wickedly.

“I am glad you recognize it. I did warn you.”

“And avoided saying I told you so, too,” Maria replied with a smile.

“I did not use those words.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“The woods are full of traps against those who seek to invade my privacy,” Damien said defensively.

Maria sighed, feeling like she was picking roses, trying to reach the flowers while avoiding the thorns. This was not how she had wanted the dinner to go. Damien glowered for a moment, then slapped his hand upon the table.

“You might have explained that,” Maria said. “When you said that I might have access to the grounds with my friends, I naively assumed that would include the woods.”

“I am sorry,” he snapped with ferocity, “I had not thought that you would be so absurd as to try wandering through the forests with a sprained ankle. I assumed I would have sufficient time to remove the traps or warn you of where they were. But you are inquisitive, and I should have recognized that.”

He seemed to soften as he continued speaking, as though the edge of his initial anger was blunting.

“And I am sorry, too. I was so desperate to prove myself,” Maria said. “I did not listen to you, and I should have. You were right. I did need to rest.”

Damien nodded. There was an awkward moment of silence. Maria did not want the conversation to end, for silence to reign between them. She floundered for something to say that would encourage Damien to talk. Unexpectedly, he came to her rescue.

“Your friends are exactly as I imagined them to be. Utterly improper.”

The lack of a smile as he spoke made Maria’s heart sink. Then it came, his mouth turned up at one corner, a lopsided grin.

“I quite approve,” he said.

Maria beamed in relief, taking a sip of water.

“We have a sort of club. Like you gentlemen do in town. We call it the Corset Chronicles Club,” she said.

Damien’s eyebrow arched. “A fascinating name. What does this club do?”