Mayfair Misfit (The Castleburys Book 1) by Jennifer Seasons

Author:Jennifer Seasons [Seasons, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2024-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Damon slipped silently into the gentle moonlight, following Lady Carenza after she dashed through the doors onto the balcony. As he passed by, he murmured a thanks to Rainville for interfering in Lord Arnold’s courting attempts. Pathetic as they were.

Rippling with protectiveness and not a little possessiveness, he forcefully ignored his desire to punch Arnold in his foppish face and restrained a growl as he stalked over the cold stones. Anger and jealousy tugged within him, and he disapproved heartily. More bloody feelings? Yes. All because of one very aggravating goddess.

He was expecting her to be on the upper balcony, so Damon’s brow furrowed even further when he did not spot her shining golden strands or see fabric the color of lavender fields fluttering in the cooling breeze. “What the devil?” he said quietly. “Where did you go, my lady?” Something about the word my struck him particularly hard, and he sucked in a breath, momentarily taken aback by the force of it.

Regaining his wits, he glanced around, searching for Carenza to no avail. He knew Lord Arnold could not have absconded with her, for he was still engaged in animated conversation with the duke. Still, he double-checked over his shoulder, peering through the glass double doors within to the ballroom and the pair of gentlemen in conversation beyond. Spotting the viscount there confirmed Damon’s rising suspicion that Carenza had left the balcony altogether, taking the dark walk into the gardens.

Alone.

Of their own accord, his feet set off across the balcony stones, his top boots clacking against the flooring. Sconces and torches lit the terrace as a few people milled about, their voices a blended murmur to his ears as he made his way to a set of steps. The air hung heavy with scents, summer flowers vying with colognes and French perfumes and the pungent sharpness of horse manure undoubtedly released by a horse harnessed to a guest’s waiting carriage. Jasmine, rose, peonies—those notes saturated the night breeze. Yet they were not the ones he sought.

Tuning out the conversations buzzing around him and the annoyingly energetic performance by the string quartet inside the ballroom, Damon breathed a steadying, calming breath and let his senses heighten, his focus sharpen. “Where did you disappear to, hechicera?” he asked the breeze, knowing it would answer and show him the way. It always did, without fail. Over the years he had learned to trust the wind more than people; his mother’s Spanish Gitano blood ran true through his veins. Though she had died while he was still a child, her memory and spirit lived on through his ability to track nearly anything—a skill he remembered well her teaching him and now put to very lucrative use.

Lilac and lemons.

The scent filled his nose, and Damon smiled, a sharp turn of his lips that displayed his crooked incisor. A young miss passing him released a small, frightened yelp and hastened her pace, casting him wary glances as she went. He was unoffended—the response rather amused him.

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