His twin's death had dealt Damon a powerful blow, since the two of them had been as close as shadows. Losing his parents to a violent storm at sea a short time afterward had left Damon bereft of immediate family and purposefully devoid of feeling. From that moment on, he'd buried his emotions so deep, he would allow no one close enough to matter to him. Instead, he had pushed people away.
He'd turned reckless as well, certain he had nothing more to lose. For the next decade, he defied fate at every opportunity and earned himself a wicked reputation.
A reputation that had never concerned him until he met lively, beautiful heiress Eleanor Pierce during her first Season, when she made her social debut under the auspices of her high-stickler aunt, Lady Beldon.
Accepting a lamp from the footman who admitted him, Damon mounted the sweeping staircase and made his way down the hall on the right, to the master's quarters. Entering his bedchamber, he went straight to the windows to throw them wide open.
For two years now the house had been closed and shuttered, the furnishings shrouded in Holland covers. The musty odor that still permeated the rooms even after thorough airings came not from death and sickness-the foulness that normally pervaded hospitals and sickrooms-but from disuse. Yet Damon still couldn't abide the smell.
Turning, he shed his brocade evening coat, loosened his cravat, and poured himself a stiff brandy. His mind was still far away as he sank into a wing chair before the hearth, where a small fire burned cheerfully.
A respectful rap on the door, however, eventually brought him out of his reverie.
When Damon bid entrance, his elderly valet stepped into the bedchamber. “May I be of service, my lord?”
Damon frowned at his longtime servant. “It is late, Cornby. I believe I told you not to wait up for me.”
“So you did, sir.”
“But then you rarely heed my orders, do you?”
“Not in this instance, my lord. What kind of proper servant would I be if I shirked my duty whenever I felt the urge?”
Damon couldn't hide a smile at the impossible notion of the gray-haired Cornby shirking his duty. The old man had been in the Stafford family's employ for many years, long before Joshua took sick, and he'd cared diligently for the dying boy. In gratitude for such loyal service, Damon had kept the manservant on well past the time he should have retired.
Yet Cornby refused to accept anything resembling charity and so acted as Damon's valet and general factotum. Despite his advanced age, he'd accompanied Viscount Wrexham on his travels in foreign lands. Admittedly, there was many a time when Damon was glad to have Cornby's familiar presence at hand. The two of them shared the easy camaraderie of long acquaintances, with far less formality than usual for a nobleman and his manservant.
“Did your attire this evening meet your satisfaction, my lord, if I may ask?” Cornby inquired.
“Yes, it was quite satisfactory.”
Just then Cornby spied Damon's coat draped over a chair, and he gave a small moan of dismay. “My lord, you should not be so careless! That coat cost more than a pretty penny.”
Gently picking up the garment-a superbly tailored new evening coat fitted by Weston-he carefully smoothed the rich brocade. “Truly, your lordship, I am astonished. But then perhaps it has served its purpose. Attending the Regent's fete was a special occasion, was it not? This evening you primped in front of the cheval glass longer than I have ever seen you do.”
Damon shot the old man a glance. Granted, he had dressed carefully this evening in anticipation of seeing Eleanor, but he hadn't expected his efforts to be so obvious. “I beg to differ. I did not ‘primp.’ ”
“If you say so, sir.”
Biting back amusement, Damon fixed the manservant with a stern stare. “You do realize, Cornby, that I do not pay you to make observations on my behavior?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“One can only hope that sometime in the next decade or two you might learn to show a modicum of respect for your employer.”
“I expect that is highly unlikely, my lord. You know the saying-that it is difficult for an old dog to learn new tricks.”
Damon shook his head sadly. “I shall have to reconsider your employment. Remind me to terminate your post in the morning, Cornby.”
“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, we are not beginning early. I merely decided to have a nightcap.”
“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.”