(Evelyn's POV)
The Rothwell dining room was the sort of place where silence had weight. It was large, expensive, and steeped in generations of expectation. A long mahogany table stretched between us, polished until it reflected the golden light from the chandelier above. The scent of roasted lamb, red wine, and faint candle wax clung to the air.
Damien sat at the far end, across from Mr. Rothwell, a picture of perfect composure in a black suit. One elbow rested lightly on the arm of his chair, his glass of wine turning lazily in his hand. He wasn't looking at Clara, even though she had made sure to position herself beside him. No—his eyes, when they wandered, found me.
And that was the problem.
It wasn't obvious enough to be called out, but it was deliberate enough to make my skin prickle. A flicker of a glance when I shifted in my seat. A ghost of a smile when my fork clinked against the plate. When I reached for my water, his gaze dipped for the briefest second, and my chest tightened in response.
Mr. Rothwell's voice broke through the hum of cutlery.
"So, Mr. Vale…" he began, and my spine stiffened at the name. Damien's lips twitched, but he didn't correct him. "We were quite surprised by your response to our earlier letter. Clara was… very disappointed."
At my side, Clara's fingers tightened around her napkin.
Damien set his glass down, slow and precise, as though he had all the time in the world. "Ah. The proposal." His voice was smooth, but beneath it, I could hear the quiet edge that made people lean forward to listen. "I'm afraid my answer remains the same."
The words landed like a knife in the center of the table. Clara's eyes darted to him, wide, pleading. My parents exchanged a quick look, but it was Clara who spoke next.
"But… I thought…" She faltered when he finally turned his gaze to her. Not cold. Not hostile. Just… unreadable. "I thought you might reconsider."
He tilted his head ever so slightly. "And why would I do that?"
Her lips parted, but no words came out. I caught the faintest tremor in her hands.
"I don't believe in arrangements made for convenience," Damien continued, lifting his wine again. "Especially when my interests… are elsewhere."
The pause that followed was long enough for the weight of his words to sink in. He didn't look at Clara when he said it. He looked at me.
I shifted in my seat, my fingers tightening around my fork. My throat felt dry. He wasn't smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes, like he knew exactly how much this was affecting me—and Clara.
Mrs. Rothwell tried to laugh softly, the kind of brittle laugh that doesn't belong at a table like this. "I'm sure we can all… keep an open mind. Perhaps you and Clara simply need more time together, Mr. Vale."
"Time changes many things," Damien said lightly. "But not my preferences."
This time, there was no mistaking the way Clara's face flushed—whether from anger or embarrassment, I couldn't tell. She reached for her wine, gulping more than sipping, but the damage was done.
When dinner moved to the drawing room, the tension followed us like a shadow. Damien took a seat on the leather sofa, stretching one arm along the backrest. I sat at the opposite end, determined to keep distance. Clara perched on the armchair nearest him, leaning forward slightly, as if proximity alone could win his attention.
It didn't.
He poured himself a measure of brandy, took a slow sip, and then—without even looking at Clara—extended the glass toward me.
"Taste this."
The request was casual, but I hesitated, knowing exactly how it would look. Clara's head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. I took the glass anyway, my fingers brushing his in the exchange. The touch was brief, but it sent a current up my arm.
The brandy burned warm down my throat. I handed the glass back, but instead of taking it immediately, Damien's fingers closed over mine, lingering for a heartbeat too long. His eyes never left my face.
"Smooth, isn't it?" he asked.
I nodded mutely, aware of Clara's gaze stabbing into me like knives.
Mr. Rothwell cleared his throat. "Mr. Vale—perhaps you'd allow Clara to show you the gardens tomorrow. They're quite lovely this time of year."
Damien's lips curved—just barely. "I don't doubt that they are. But I'm rather particular about who I spend my afternoons with."
It was delivered with the same polite tone one might use to decline a second serving of dessert, but it was a dismissal all the same. Clara's fingers dug into the fabric of her dress.
"I think," she said tightly, "I'll turn in for the night."
She left without another glance at me.
The silence she left behind was almost pleasant.
Damien leaned toward me—not enough to be scandalous, but enough that his voice was low when he said, "I don't like games played over dinner."
"You didn't have to—" I began, but he cut me off with a faint smirk.
"I meant what I said. I don't do arrangements. And if your family wants to play politics, they should know… I'm not a piece to be traded."
He straightened, finishing the last of his brandy. "And neither are you."
Before I could respond, he set the glass down and rose to leave, his presence still clinging to the air like the scent of his cologne.
I sat there, my pulse unsteady, knowing that whatever game Clara thought she was playing—Damien had already won tonight.