“You fired me a fortnight ago, before we left Italy, sir. Have you forgotten?”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because you need me. You have very little staff to see to your welfare.”
“That is no longer the case,” Damon responded. “We hired an appropriate staff when we returned to London.”
“But none of them know just how you like things, my lord.”
That was certainly true, Damon silently admitted.
“My lord, if you will pray excuse me for a moment,” Cornby added, “while I hang your coat properly…?”
“Yes, of course.”
He took a long swallow of brandy as Cornby left to hang the coat in the suite's dressing room.
Upon returning to the bedchamber, the manservant glanced pointedly at the brandy snifter in Damon's hand. “Are we beginning early this year, my lord?”
“No,
“I have ordered you a cask of prime brandy as you requested.”
“Good.”
Damon rarely overindulged in spirits, but once a year, on the anniversary of his brother's death, he got thoroughly soused in a futile effort to drown out the sorrow he still felt. The fateful date loomed just ahead, in less than a fortnight, but he hadn't yet begun to observe his yearly ritual of grief. Even so, he didn't care to be reminded of it, even by a faithful servant.
“Cornby?” Damon said, glancing at the old man over the rim of his glass.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I will raise your salary considerably if you will leave me in peace.”
“You pay me exceedingly well now, my lord. If it is all the same to you, I will forgo further monetary remuneration for the pleasure of needling you now and then.”
“If it were only now and then, I could bear it with more equanimity,” Damon muttered in exasperation, even though they both knew he was jesting. He would not have enjoyed the fawning subservience most servants showed their aristocratic masters.
With polite dispassion, Cornby stood awaiting the viscount's orders, and when none were forthcoming, he prodded mildly, “Are you certain there is nothing more I may do for you, my lord?”
“Actually, there is one thing. You can have my riding clothes ready by seven in the morning.”
Eleanor was likely to be in Hyde Park early tomorrow, Damon suspected. A superb horsewoman, Elle relished a brisk morning gallop. And if she was riding with that Italian royal… Rightly or wrongly, Damon felt obliged to make certain she was not getting in over her head.
“Very well, sir. Will it be another special occasion-”
“Pray, go to bed, Cornby,” Damon said, not giving the valet a chance to quiz him more about Lady Eleanor. “You look fatigued enough to keel over, and I don't want your demise on my conscience.”
“Aye, my lord. As you wish.” The old man went to the door, then paused. “I must say, it is good to be home and to be privileged to sleep in a good English bed. Those foreign contraptions that pass for mattresses are scarcely fit for livestock. Sleep well, my lord.”
Damon acknowledged the servant's adieu with a slight nod of his head. It was indeed good to be in his own bed after living for so long on foreign soil. Yet he knew it would be damned hard to sleep after kissing Elle tonight. Too many memories had been stirred up, both good and bad.
He had never let himself become emotionally involved with any woman until Eleanor. After enduring so much grief, he'd refused to let himself care for anyone, never wanting to again risk the pain of losing someone he loved.
But her joie de vivre had enchanted him so utterly that he'd ignored the warning signs of their growing intimacy until her fateful admission of love.
The danger she presented had only been underscored by yet another death-when his distant cousin, Tess Blanchard, had lost her betrothed in the Battle of Waterloo. Seeing Tess's shock and devastation savagely reminded Damon of the grief he risked if he went through with his marriage to Eleanor.
It was why he had driven her away. He knew the anguish and emptiness he'd felt at his brother's tragic death and his parents’ untimely demise would be even greater if he lost Eleanor after the incipient bond between them had strengthened and deepened.
Damon had resolved to make her call off their betrothal, however, since a gentleman could not honorably jilt a lady. And so he'd arranged a public scene where she was sure to see him with his former mistress.
He had not actually been unfaithful to Eleanor; he'd merely let her believe him so-and therefore think him the lowest cad in nature.
To spare her further pain and humiliation, Damon had left England the following week.
Fortunately, during his travels on the Continent he had a mission for his pent-up passion and disillusionment, a larger purpose for himself. Perhaps it was because his family's senseless deaths had left him with a fierce need to control fate, but with Otto's guidance and connections, Damon had spent the past several years trying to save some of the unfortunate innocents who were struck by the devastating malady that had taken his brother.
The success of his endeavors was a source of, if not pride, then certainly satisfaction. He had accomplished what he'd set out to do, beyond his greatest hopes, in fact.
Not surprisingly, though, Damon had found himself yearning for England of late. A few short weeks ago, he'd decided he had wandered long enough, that it was time to return home and resume his former life. The rumors about Lazzara courting Eleanor had only hastened his departure.
Which brought him to this evening and the question of what to do about Elle.
He wouldn't repeat history by growing too close to her and then hurting her again when he walked away. Yet he couldn't just abandon her now. Not when she was being pursued by a rake who would make her a deplorable husband and only cause her misery. She deserved far better.
He wanted Eleanor to be happy, to be able to fulfill her dreams of marriage, love, children. The very future he had shunned when he'd deliberately and publicly betrayed her. If someday he married in order to carry on his title, it would be purely a union of convenience for him.
Still, he was certain Prince Lazzara was
Specifically so he could protect her from the profligate philanderer who was wooing the lovely, lively woman he had once thought to make his own wife.
Upon returning to their home in Portman Place, Eleanor accompanied her aunt upstairs and paused outside Lady Beldon's bedchamber to say good night.
“I am glad you enjoyed the evening, Aunt,” Elea nor said sincerely. “Signor Vecchi is quite agreeable, is he not?”
“He is indeed,” Beatrix answered with a slight blush at the mention of Prince Lazzara's elder relation. “The Signor is the epitome of charm. I suspect charm must be an inherent trait of Italian gentlemen, regardless of age.”
“You may be right.”
It warmed Eleanor's heart to think she could be witnessing a budding romance between her patrician aunt and the distinguished Italian diplomat. Since being widowed a half dozen years ago, Beatrix had shown no interest in any gentleman of any kind. But clearly her attention was engaged now by Signor Vecchi, who was likewise widowed. Moreover, he seemed to be attracted to her in return.
Aunt Beatrix's blush faded, however, as she gave Eleanor a careful scrutiny. “Did
“Certainly not,” Eleanor prevaricated. “He may go to the devil for all I care.”
“He already
