Page 62 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
Damien sat bolt upright, straightening his hair back and pulling his coat free of creases.
“He would not have been amused,” he muttered.
Emma sat back opposite. Her hair remained windswept, glistening from the diamonds still present. She frowned.
“I did not mean to be disrespectful of your father. I'm sure he was a great man.”
“We will not talk about my father. Or my past. I should like to sit in silence until we reach the palace, in fact,” Damien declared, his voice hard and unemotional now.
He could see that his words struck her like physical blows.
Why did you have to mention my father? Why open that wound? God's Wounds, but I have been too weak and indulgent. It is time to return to the letter of our plan. I do not want this woman any deeper into my heart than she already is.
“I am sorry to offend,” Emma whispered, folding her hands in her lap.
Damien did not trust himself to answer. The carriage rode along Pall Mall and the Palace, and its passengers did not speak further.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
St James' Palace was a gloomy Tudor construction of dark stone, with a tall, turreted, square tower over its entrance. Within, the Regent had stamped his own personality on the centuries-old interior.
Mirrors reflected the light of candles. Chandeliers of shimmering crystal hung from the ceiling, and gold shone from inlaid panels and the thread of clothing.
In the Great Hall, a gentle bubble of conversation provided a constant backdrop. The gentle notes of a string quarter underlay it and occasionally peeked through the noise. The room clinked and winked, chains, bracelets, tiaras, and rings adorning the guests.
Emma felt intimidated by the opulent grandeur, so different from the social occasions she was used to. The sudden change in Damien's mood in the carriage had left her feeling uncertain and ill at ease.
“Why, Your Grace, what a surprise to see you here!” crowed a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair and an eagle's nose.
“His Lordship, the Earl of Coventry,” Damien introduced Emma to the man, “Coventry, this is my wife.”
“And this is my Countess,” Coventry indicated a woman at his elbow. She had dark hair, a statuesque figure, a beauty spot, and a face covered in powder.
“My pleasure, Your Graces. I have read much of you,” she began boldly.
“Read?” Emma asked. “Did you perhaps mean our wedding bans?”
“I did not,” Lady Coventry said with a sly smile.
“Ah, then you mean the gossip columns,” Emma replied as though only just realizing something terribly obvious, “I'm afraid they are fascinated by my husband. I cannot think why; he is perfectly ordinary.”
“Oh, but the ordinary on the surface can hide so much wickedness beneath, don't you find?” Lady Coventry said with a suggestive wink.
Emma should have let the comment pass with a graceful smile. Perhaps she might have, once. But now, she would play the role she had committed to play, and that was of a Duchess. Thatmeant defending her husband against innuendo. She would show Damien she could be trusted and relied upon. Perhaps he may someday trust her enough with his own secrets then. Like why his father’s memory had angered him so much in the carriage.
“I find that wickedness leaves its mark where it is found. One can always recognize it. I do not know which is the more wicked. The men who concoct lies to sell what they call a newspaper. Or the people who read it and keep them in business,” Emma said airily.
“Hear hear!” the Earl bellowed enthusiastically, earning a dagger from his wife.
“Excuse us, your ladyship,” Damien pinched a graceful smile, “but we must mingle further.”
He steered Emma silently through the room, making introductions and a few shards of small talk as they went.
“You might thank me at some point,” Emma murmured.
They had reached a quiet place in the room where the ebbs and flows of the assembled guests momentarily eddied around them without touching.
“I did not ask, but thank you,” Damien finally whispered.
