“No.” Damon settled beside her in the vacant chair. “In truth, I decided that you might have been justified in your reprisal. I should not have interfered in your attempts to romance your prince, much as I disliked seeing you kissing him.”
His comment surprised Eleanor even more than the revelations about Damon's philanthropy, and she eyed him with suspicion. It was not like him to surrender so easily. But perhaps she didn't know him nearly as well as she had thought…
“Mr. Geary told me how you occupied your time in Italy these past two years.”
Damon seemed to go very still, as if all his muscles had tensed. “And what did he say?”
“That you have been championing the plight of consumptives because of how your brother died.”
His dark eyes held an emotion that was impossible for her to read. Without answering, Damon shifted his gaze to look out over the crowded ballroom.
“Why did you never tell me?” Eleanor prompted when he was silent.
He shrugged. “What was there to
tell?”
She studied his profile measuringly. “I might have concluded you were not the care-for-nothing rogue you led me to believe.”
Damon's expression remained impassive, as if a mask had suddenly dropped over his face. And his drawl, when it came, sounded somewhat cool. “Does it matter what you think of me since we are no longer betrothed and you turned down my recent offer of matrimony?”
“I suppose not. But your compassion is extremely admirable.”
His mouth twisted. “My efforts had little to do with compassion. I was acting out of anger.”
“Why anger?”
“Better that than wallowing in maudlin sorrow. Building a sanatorium was my way of trying to control fate in some small measure.”
“You could not save your brother so you became determined to save others.”
“You might say that.”
Eleanor fell silent, wondering if Damon had truly come to terms with his sorrow. She very much doubted it. She bit her lower lip, envisioning the grief he must have felt, the sheer desolation of losing his brother, then his parents. He would have been alone in the world. At least she'd had her brother Marcus to love and comfort her and ease her loneliness over the years.
“I am sorry I stole your shoes,” she said softly. “I hid them in the music room, behind the curtains of the first window seat, if you want to retrieve them.”
Apparently Damon saw through her attempt to apologize, for a hard note entered his voice when he replied. “I don't want your pity, Elle.”
“It is not pity. It is sympathy. I can only imagine my grief were I to lose Marcus.”
Damon's face remained closed, shuttered, yet for a fleeting moment, she could feel his vulnerability.
“It is hard without Joshua, isn't it?”
An old, savage pain flickered over his features but was gone just as quickly. Then Damon shot her a piercing glance. “You seem to have forgotten where we are, sweeting,” he pointed out curtly. “My brother's wretched fate is inappropriate conversation for a ball.” He rose just as abruptly. “You should be dancing with your prince.”
This time it was Damon who walked away. Eleanor stared after him, yearning to follow and offer him comfort. She regretted that she had struck such a raw nerve in Damon. Obviously his brother's death was not something he liked to dwell on, but she had unwittingly laid his painful memories bare.
Regretting their conversation also, Damon found himself wishing that he had better deflected Eleanor's probing questions and unwanted observations. For the remainder of the evening, his chest felt tight, a circumstance that reminded him why he'd contrived to end his betrothal to her in the first place: Eleanor made him feel too much.
At least his attention was diverted for a time during the carriage ride home as Otto told him about finding traces of a stomach purge in Prince Lazzara's punch cup. But learning that his suspicions about the danger were correct couldn't curb the restless agitation Damon still felt when he arrived home.
Therefore, instead of repairing to his bedchamber to sleep, he went to his study, where he poured himself a very large brandy and sat drinking in the dark. An indulgence, Damon reflected, that was much like his ritual observance each year on the anniversary of his brother's death, which would occur next week. He was merely getting an early start.
When he could feel himself sinking into a stupor, Damon stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.
Sometime later he was dredged up out of an abyss of pain and darkness by a persistent voice urging him to awaken.