chapter 11

"Only God knows where she will lead me next…"

And so, he remained where he stood, his grip on the infant tightening slightly, as the first chapter of his carefully crafted tale began to unfold.

Lord Reginald released a measured sigh, his sharp eyes scanning Damien one last time as if searching for a crack in his carefully composed facade. Without another word, he rose from the seaden, adjusting the sleeves of his distinguished coat, and made his way toward the door.

Yet, just as his hand met the brass handle, he paused. Turning back, he fixed his son with a gaze laden with expectation.

“I shall await her reply within two days,” he stated, his voice void of warmth. “If no response arrives by then, I expect this… child to be removed from this household. I will not tolerate reckless sentiment interfering with the Blackwell name.”

With that, he strode out of the chamber, leaving behind an air of unyielding finality.

Damien clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. Out? The very thought of his father discarding the child as if she were naught but an inconvenient trinket sent a surge of ire coursing through his veins. His grip upon the babe instinctively tightened, though he was careful not to stir her from her slumber.

Still, he remained composed, forcing down the anger that threatened to rise. Patience. It was but a matter of time. Once the marriage was sealed, he would assume rightful authority over his household. Until then, he could ill afford reckless defiance.

Exhaling slowly, he turned back toward the bed, moving with purposeful steps. Upon reaching it, he carefully arranged a four-wall barrier of pillows at the center, ensuring the child would not roll or stir beyond the safety of her space. He ran his fingers lightly over the fabric, checking that she remained secure, then straightened, eyeing the arrangement with mild dissatisfaction.

A cradle. I shall have to procure one at once.

He made a mental note of it, unwilling to have her sleep upon his bed indefinitely. But first—there remained another pressing matter to attend to.

Without wasting another moment, Damien turned toward the adjacent bathing chamber, his stride firm as he crossed the room. Without hesitation, he pushed the door open, prepared to issue a sharp remark about the absurdity of her hiding away for so long.

The words, however, died upon his tongue the moment his gaze fell upon her.

The sight before him was… unexpected.

Kara lay curled within the great bath, her delicate form softened by the dim glow of candlelight. The water had long since cooled, her nightgown clinging to her figure, the damp fabric accentuating her slender frame. Her usually untamed curls were damp, a few errant strands framing her face, which rested peacefully against the curved edge of the tub.

Damien inhaled sharply. He had seen her but twice before, always attired in her formal riding suits—garments that veiled every inch of her beneath layers of stiff fabric. But here… here she appeared fragile, delicate, as though she herself were a child, lost in the embrace of slumber.

For a brief moment, his irritation wavered, replaced by something altogether unfamiliar.

She looked… soft.

The thought startled him. He was unaccustomed to viewing her in such a light. Kara Winter, with her sharp tongue and reckless abandon, was many things—but soft was not one of them. And yet, as she lay there, the gentle rise and fall of her breath creating small ripples in the water, he could not deny the image before him.

His gaze trailed lower, where the soaked fabric of her gown betrayed the curve of her form. A sudden warmth crept up his neck, an unfamiliar heat settling at the tips of his ears.

With a firm exhale, he averted his eyes, cursing himself for such a foolish lapse in decorum. This is madness.

Steeling himself, he stepped forward, his voice firm as he called, “Miss Winter.”

No response.

Damien frowned. “Miss Winter,” he tried again, this time reaching out to place a hand upon her shoulder. The moment his fingers brushed against the damp fabric, she stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent under her breath.

He exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Of all places to fall asleep…” he muttered.

Then, with the efficiency befitting a man of his station, he leaned down and, in one fluid motion, gathered her into his arms. The moment he lifted her, her head lolled against his shoulder, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she instinctively curled closer.

Damien stiffened.

This—this was not supposed to happen.

Clearing his throat, he adjusted his grip, mindful of the dampness seeping into his clothing. With deliberate steps, he carried her toward the chamber, his expression one of sheer exasperation.

Trouble itself, he thought once more, his lips pressing into a thin line. And now I am carrying it back to my own bed.

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