Page 9 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

However, including a new child in his heart was nothing close to the devastation of having his heart ripped from his chest when Sarah was gone. As the light and life drained from her, so did she take with her his ability to love. If not his ability than his drive to extend any amount of care that would see himself or his children hurt once more. He hadn’t known love before Sarah, and he feared he was undeserving of love after her.

Four bloody years. It had been the longest—and also the shortest—years of his life. Desire and passion had no place in the world he’d created around himself. Even a sense of contentment hadn’t come to Damon yet. Each morning dawned, and he was secure in waiting for the sun to set once more…bringing him one day closer to a time when the possibility of seeing his wife once again drew near—and he’d be whole again.

Forevermore, his desire would lay dormant. No, not dormant, extinguished completely. Snuffed out as a candle was before bed. Yet, the fire of his passion and desire was never to be lit again, not even with a new day dawning.

Perhaps it would be wise to heed his sister’s advice and return to society, if only for a distraction. Anything to calm his melancholy and pass the years as swiftly and painlessly as possible. However, the pitying glances and murmured condolences would start once more. No doubt every Londoner with even the most basic amount of humanity would be remorseful with regards to Damon’s loss. Yet, reminding him of his wife’s passing at every turn would not bring her back, would not give his children a mother, and would not repair the massive void left within him. And if Damon did agree to venture out more, how long would it be before Flora was parading a new crop of young debutantes before him? His sister, Viscountess Wittenbottom, had good intentions—somewhere deep, deep inside. Her way of expressing her love for her younger brother verged on parental dominance, however.

His own heart notwithstanding, Damon would not risk causing his children more hurt by bringing any woman into their lives who would eventually be taken away. Governesses, yes. Any woman who meant more, never.

Light footsteps, followed by a set of heavier ones, rushed past the open ballroom doors.

Damon ducked farther into the room as Joy’s laughter rang out in the hall, followed by Abram’s irritated shout. When the pair continued on, their voices receding, Damon relaxed.

Their governess would soon see them to their rooms and ready for sleep, leaving him to his own devices and free to move about the house without being waylaid.

He hadn’t crossed paths with the trio since that morning, and he’d come to the ballroom knowing his children wouldn’t stumble upon him there.

“Master Abram,” Miss Samuels’ stern yet exasperated call followed in the children’s wake. “Miss Joy. How many times must I instruct you to walk whilst indoors?”

Likely another ten thousand times, he thought to himself.

His children had been born running, at least that was how Damon remembered it.

He inched closer to the door and caught a glimpse of his children’s governess stalking by the ballroom. She didn’t pause to glance into the room. Before she strode out of sight, he noted that she’d donned a fresh, simple, peach gown and let loose her long waves of hair, pinning the fall at the base of her neck.

Massaging his temples, Damon suppressed the urge to think back to the brief years of happiness he’d known within these walls—and this room. If he’d known it would be all he had before his entire world crumbled, Damon would not have worked so tirelessly, visited his club so often, or spent as many hours away from home and his family. He’d grown accustomed to the leisurely way of ton life, and it had come back to hurt him.

Any hope Damon had for a happy, content future was gone. The sound of Sarah’s uninhibited laugh on Joy’s lips, or the toss of Sarah’s glossy, golden curls on Abram’s willful head were knife-sharp reminders that his beloved wife was gone forever.

The best Damon could hope for was a present that was not altogether intolerable.

To achieve that, he’d need to keep clear of Miss Samuels and her contrary nature. As long as she watched over his children, attended to their education, and stayed out of his way, she would do for the time being. And, as every governess had before her, Miss Samuels would eventually move on to another house, another family. And when that occurred, Damon would charge his housekeeper with the task of finding a replacement.

For now, he need only concern himself with preparing for this evening.

One long night at a time—followed by an even longer day.

During the gaming parties held at 14 Saint George Street in Hanover Square, Damon was not the widowed baron with two small, motherless children. He was simply a lord enjoying himself, at least that was the image he attempted to portray. For those limited hours, no one saw behind his mask to the empty shell he’d become. And he could act normally, despite never feeling it.

“Ashford!” A familiar, shrill voice thundered down the hall and into the ballroom. “Ashford? Where in heavens are you hiding?”

His stomach tightened, dread coursing through him. Damon had managed to convince himself that the worst of his day had passed. Yet life—and its cruel irony—seemingly hadn’t been able to afford him even a few hours of peace.

As if his simple musings about society had conjured her, his sister’s labored breathing drifted toward him as she stomped down the hallway.

Lady Wittenbottom swept into the ballroom, her assessing glare scanning the room before finding him in the shadows. Her pungent, floral perfume permeated the air and would have likely announced her arrival long before he saw her. It was the smell of his childhood—an offending odor that drove away anyone that came near.

“Why are you hiding in the dark?” she snapped, flipping her fan open and waving it a mere inch from her face. Over a decade older than he and wedded since her seventeenth birthday, Flora had long ago assumed the role of the matronly and dour lady, feeling the need to impart her wisdom upon her younger brother and chastising him for every small infraction—actual and perceived. “Are you not going to offer me a refreshment?”

“I am not hiding, I am overseeing my household,” he retorted. “And you can well see that we need to retire to the salon for refreshments.”

“Certainly, if you had any sense in you, you’d wed and run a proper household.” Her chin notched higher, causing her headpiece to tilt precariously to the left. “It would serve everyone well. You would have a companion, and the children would have a mother. I simply do not possess the time nor the energy to run this household and my own.”

As if it were that easy. Everything being mended by marrying again and replacing the one lost after a mother died. Replacing someone of that importance in one’s life was not at all similar to securing a new governess. Though his sister likely thought there was no difference.

Damon scoffed. However, it sounded more like a strangled cry.

Flora slipped her fan into the bag on her wrist and hurried toward him. “You know I only care about you and the children, Damon. Despite my feelings for Sarah, it is you I think about. Poor Wittenbottom says I fret in my sleep, I am so plagued by worry for you. I simply cannot imagine you being alone”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“forever.”