“Indeed he was,” Lady Birkenhead replied, her eyes never leaving Damien’s face. “Though I confess, I’ve found widowhood has its own… compensations.” The pause was barely perceptible but loaded with implication.
Eleanor felt heat rise in her cheeks at the woman’s brazenness, but Damien merely smiled with polite acknowledgment before moving to settle beside Eleanor on the settee. His proximity should have been reassuring, but she could feel the attention of every woman in the room focused on him.
“Now then, Your Grace,” Lady Thornfield said once tea had been served, “you simply must tell us about your travels. The Orient must have been quite… exotic.”
What followed was a masterful performance of masculine charm. Damien regaled them with stories of monsoons in Macao that had lasted for weeks, of learning to navigate by stars whose names he couldn’t pronounce, of befriending aChinese merchant who spoke seven languages but insisted on communicating primarily through elaborate hand gestures.
“The man could conduct an entire business negotiation without speaking a word,” Damien explained, his hands moving expressively as he demonstrated. “By the end of our third meeting, I was fairly fluent in his particular form of commerce. Though I suspect I may have accidentally agreed to purchase his daughter’s dowry goats in the process.”
The ladies dissolved into delighted laughter, and Eleanor found herself torn between admiration for his storytelling ability and irritation that he was performing for them at all.
“How wonderfully adventurous,” Lady Monmouth sighed. “I can’t imagine having such courage to venture so far from home.”
“Courage had little to do with it,” Damien replied with self-deprecating humor. “Desperation and stubbornness proved far more useful qualities.”
“But surely you must have missed England terribly,” Mrs. Brassey ventured with uncharacteristic boldness. “The comforts of home, the familiar Society…”
Eleanor noticed the slight shift in the atmosphere, the way Lady Birkenhead’s attention sharpened with predatory interest.
“One adapts,” Damien said simply. “Though I confess, certain discoveries upon my return have made me question why I remained abroad as long as I did.”
His eyes met Eleanor’s briefly, and she felt an unwelcome flutter of warmth at the implication.
“How romantic!” Lady Thornfield exclaimed. “Though one does wonder at the peculiar circumstances of your marriage. Such an unusual arrangement, conducted at such distance…”
Eleanor’s teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it down with excessive force. “The circumstances were perfectly respectable, I assure you.”
“Oh, naturally,” Lady Birkenhead interjected smoothly, her violet eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “Though one can’t help but observe how… uncomfortable you both seem, even for a couple only recently acquainted in person. It’s almost as though you’re still learning each other’s preferences.”
The statement was delivered with such innocent curiosity that anyone listening might have missed the poisonous implication—that Eleanor and Damien were strangers playing at marriage.
Eleanor felt her composure threatening to crack, but before she could formulate a cutting response, Damien leaned back with lazy confidence.
“You’re quite perceptive, Lady Birkenhead,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Though I’d suggest that any husband worth the title never stops learning his wife’s preferences. The moment one assumes complete understanding of a remarkable woman is the moment one reveals oneself to be a fool.”
The rebuke was so gently delivered that Lady Birkenhead couldn’t object without appearing churlish, yet every person in the room understood perfectly that she’d been put firmly in her place.
“How wonderfully devoted,” she replied with a brittle smile, though her eyes had narrowed dangerously.
Eleanor felt a surge of gratitude toward her surprising husband, even as she noted how Lady Birkenhead’s gaze lingered on his profile with undisguised hunger.
The conversation continued for another quarter hour, with Damien deflecting increasingly pointed questions about their courtship with such smooth expertise that Eleanor began to suspect this wasn’t his first encounter with predatory Society matrons. When the ladies finally took their leave—Lady Birkenhead’s farewell notably warmer than strictly proper—Eleanor felt drained by the effort of maintaining her composed facade.
“Well,” she said once they were alone, “that was illuminating.”
“Indeed,” Damien agreed, his casual demeanor evaporating now that their audience had departed. “Your friend Lady Birkenhead seems particularly inquisitive about our domestic arrangements.”
“She’s not my friend,” Eleanor said sharply. “And her interest appeared to extend beyond mere curiosity.”
Damien’s eyebrows rose at her tone. “Are you suggesting the lady has improper intentions toward your husband?”
Eleanor felt heat flood her cheeks at his knowing look. “I’m suggesting she has improper intentions toward any gentleman who might prove… accommodating to her particular appetites.”
“How scandalous,” Damien murmured, though his eyes danced with amusement. “One might almost think you were concerned for my virtue.”
“I’m concerned for my reputation,” Eleanor corrected stiffly, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. “Any scandal attached to your name becomes mine as well.”
“Speaking of which,” Damien said, his tone shifting to something more serious, “we should discuss your various enterprises. Your charitable work, the hospital, those business investments Lady Thornfield mentioned.” He moved closer, his voice dropping. “Some of your activities may require adjustment now that I’m in residence. A duke’s wife must be above reproach, and certain ventures—however well-intentioned—might be seen as inappropriate for someone of your position.”