Eleanor accepted his assistance, noting how his strong grip steadied her as she found her footing on the treacherous ground. “Why were you following me?”
“Because,” he said, his tone growing more serious despite their ridiculous circumstances, “these trails are full of dangers for a woman riding alone. Highwaymen, rough characters from the slums, aggressive geese…” The last was delivered with such solemnity that Eleanor laughed again.
“I’ve been riding these paths for years without incident.”
“That was before you married a duke,” Damien pointed out, catching the reins of both horses, who stood looking supremely unimpressed with their humans’ performance. “Before you became a target for anyone who might profit from your misfortune.”
The weight behind his words caught Eleanor’s attention. “What sort of target?”
“The sort that men like Croft create,” Damien said grimly, then paused as though he’d revealed more than intended.
Eleanor studied his face, noting the way his jaw tightened at the mention of Lord Croft’s name. “You know him well, then?”
“Well enough.” Damien looked toward the sky, where dark clouds were gathering with ominous speed. “We should seek shelter. There’s rain coming, and we’re both soaked through already.”
As if summoned by his words, the first drops began to fall—fat, cold drops that promised a thorough soaking within minutes. Eleanor looked around, getting her bearings despite their undignified detour.
“There’s a groundskeeper’s cottage just over that rise,” she said, pointing toward a small hill crowned with ancient oak trees. “Old Timothy uses it during the summer months, but it should be unlocked.”
They made their way up the hill leading their bedraggled mounts, the rain increasing with each step until they were both thoroughly drenched. The cottage, when they reached it, proved to be a small but well-maintained structure with a stable shed attached—clearly designed for exactly this sort of emergency.
Damien saw to the horses while Eleanor examined the cottage itself. The interior was simple but clean: a single room with a stone fireplace, a rough wooden table, two chairs, and a narrow bed covered with clean blankets. Most importantly, there was dry wood stacked beside the hearth and flint on the mantel.
“Civilization,” Damien announced as he entered, shaking water from his hair. “Though I fear we’re trapped until this passes.”
Eleanor was already working to light a fire, grateful for the practical skills her unconventional upbringing had provided. “At least an hour, judging by those clouds. Possibly two.”
The flames caught, sending blessed warmth into the small space. Eleanor turned to find Damien watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“What?” she asked, suddenly conscious of her bedraggled appearance.
“You’re full of surprises,” he said simply. “Most ladies of my acquaintance would be having vapors about their ruined gowns and demanding immediate rescue.”
“Most ladies of your acquaintance probably don’t end up in marsh water being attacked by militant geese,” Eleanor replied, wringing water from her skirts.
“True.” Damien moved closer to the fire, his wet clothes steaming in the warmth. “Though I suspect you’d handle any crisis with the same competence.”
The compliment was unexpected, delivered without his usual teasing undertone. Eleanor found herself studying his profile in the firelight, noting the genuine admiration in his expression and the way the flames cast golden highlights across his strong jaw.
“You still haven’t fully explained why you felt the need to follow me,” she said, settling into one of the chairs and extending her hands toward the flames.
Damien was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight she hadn’t heard before.
“Because I’ve spent the last three years watching someone I love destroy himself, and I’ve learned that danger rarely announces itself with fanfare. It creeps up quietly, strikes when you least expect it, and by the time you realize what’s happening, it’s often too late to prevent the damage.”
Eleanor felt something shift in her chest at the raw pain in his voice. The vulnerability in his admission, so different from his usual confident demeanor, drew her like a magnet. Withoutconscious thought, she rose from her chair and moved to stand beside him.
“Your brother,” she said softly.
Damien turned at her approach, and suddenly they were standing much closer than propriety dictated. The firelight danced between them, creating an intimate cocoon that seemed separate from the world outside. His eyes, usually so full of mischief and calculation, held only honesty and a pain so deep it made her breath catch.
“Dominic,” he confirmed, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze dropped to her lips for just a moment before returning to her eyes. “I couldn’t bear to lose someone else I…” He stopped, the unfinished words hanging in the air between them.
Eleanor’s pulse quickened as she realized what he’d almost said. The space between them seemed to shrink without either moving, the air growing thick with possibility. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his breathing had become as uneven as her own.
“Damien,” she breathed, his name a question and an invitation all at once.
His hand rose slowly, as though he were afraid she might flee, until his fingers barely grazed her cheek. The touch was featherlight, reverent, and it sent fire racing through her veins.