Chapter 4
Chapter Four
It is difficult to believe that I have reached a point in life where attending a house party feels less like a social engagement and more like a campaign for survival.
Seraphine was not going to the welcome party for amusement, nor for dancing, conversation, or any of the pleasures such gatherings usually offered. She was there to find a husband, and preferably before the month expired and the new Earl of Donmere cheerfully bundled her off to Westborough Abbey.
The reality of it all felt faintly absurd, yet desperation had a way of making absurd plans seem entirely reasonable.
She descended the stairs to join the others. Amberhall Manor had transformed entirely since her arrival that afternoon.
As she stepped out onto the terrace, she paused for a moment to take in the scene before her.
Lanterns hung from trees and cast pools of golden light across the gardens.
Music drifted through the evening air, mingling with the sound of laughter and conversation.
Guests wandered along winding paths or gathered in small groups amongst the flowerbeds, their bright clothing creating splashes of color against the darkening landscape.
“It is beautiful. Enchanting, even,” she muttered to herself.
Under different circumstances, Seraphine would have thrown herself into the festivities without a second thought. She would have sought out Thalia, laughed with friends, and enjoyed herself thoroughly.
Instead, she found herself surveying the crowd with the calculating eye of a General preparing for battle.
Potential husbands.
Lord Ashbury immediately caught her attention. He stood beside the fountain, smiling broadly as he attempted to charm three ladies at once. Judging by the expressions on his face, he believed himself enormously successful.
Seraphine watched for several seconds before deciding that maintaining such enthusiasm looked exhausting.
Her gaze moved onward.
Mr. Sinclair appears considerably more promising. Pleasant features, respectable family, agreeable manners.
Unfortunately, he was staring at a blonde young woman as though she personally hung the moon in the sky.
A lost cause.
Seraphine suppressed a sigh and continued her search. Then she noticed Lord Pemberley.
He stood beneath a lantern near the edge of the lawn, speaking with another gentleman. Even from a distance he presented a respectable figure. He was handsome enough, well dressed, and carried himself with confidence. More importantly, he possessed a title and remained conspicuously unattached.
She gazed upon him and hope stirred within her.
Now there is a possibility.
Drawing a steady breath, Seraphine crossed the lawn and approached the group of ladies and gentlemen that stood with Pemberley and inserted herself into that conversation.
“Lord Pemberley,” she said brightly as she moved next to him..
His face lit immediately.
“Lady Seraphine,” he replied, bowing. “You look delightful this evening.”
The compliment was ordinary enough.
Encouraging, even.
For several minutes, the conversation progressed pleasantly. They discussed the estate, mutual acquaintances, and the various entertainments planned for the week.
Gradually, however, Seraphine became aware that they were no longer standing where they had begun.
They had been walking for several minutes before Seraphine became aware of it.
At first, she paid little attention. Guests wandered constantly through Amberhall's gardens, drifting from one conversation to another beneath the lantern-lit trees.
It seemed natural that Lord Pemberley should suggest a stroll.
Yet gradually she noticed the changes around them.
The music from the terrace had faded until it was little more than a distant murmur. The lanterns appeared farther apart. The laughter of the other guests no longer reached her ears.
A thread of unease tightened in her stomach. She glanced over her shoulder towards the manor and was surprised by how distant it appeared. The glowing windows that had seemed so near only moments ago now looked frustratingly far away.
This is worrisome. Should I be alarmed by this distance? Is this intentional of him?
Slowing her pace, she offered Lord Pemberley a pleasant smile and said, “I ought to return to the others.”
“Why?” he asked, turning towards her with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“I was enjoying the party,” she replied lightly, already beginning to angle herself back towards the house.
“So am I,” he said.
Something in his voice made every instinct inside her sharpen.
The sensation was immediate and familiar.
Years spent navigating her father's moods had taught her to recognize danger before it fully revealed itself.
She had learned to notice subtle shifts in tone, expression, and posture.
Learned when to retreat and when to remain still.
Now those instincts stirred to life.
This is wrong. Very wrong.
Without another word, she turned to leave. A hand shot out and closed around her arm. Hard.
Seraphine froze.
The charming gentleman she had been speaking with moments earlier vanished entirely. The pleasant smile disappeared from Lord Pemberley's face, revealing something colder beneath. Something ugly.
“I know your circumstances,” he said as his fingers tightened around her arm.
Her spine stiffened. “Release me,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite the sudden rush of anger.
Instead of obeying, he tightened his grip further.
“I know your father is dead,” he continued.
“I said release me,” she repeated, attempting to wrench herself free.
“I know you have no fortune worth speaking of.”
The words struck harder than she cared to admit. Not because they were entirely true. But because he believed they made her vulnerable. Anger flared hot and immediate.
“You know very little,” she snapped, lifting her chin.
His smile widened unpleasantly. “Oh, I know enough,” he said as he stepped closer. “No father. No protector. No prospects.”
The smell of wine drifted from his breath. Revulsion curled through her.
“So really, Lady Seraphine,” he continued softly, “I can do whatever I please and you'll remain silent, yes?”
For one stunned moment she simply stared at him.
The audacity. The arrogance. The certainty that I am powerless.
Rage surged through her. She opened her mouth, fully intending to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
“I don't think so.” The deep voice came from behind them. Cold. Sharp. Menacing.
Relief hit her so suddenly she swayed. Lord Pemberley released her arm and spun around. Several feet away stood the Duke of Wexford.
He looked utterly calm. Which was somehow far more frightening than if he had appeared angry. His green eyes revealed everything. For one suspended moment nobody moved.
Then the Duke crossed the distance between them. His fist connected with Lord Pemberley's jaw with a crack that echoed through the garden.
The unfortunate gentleman staggered backwards and crashed directly into a hedge with a startled cry.
Good heavens.
The punch had appeared almost effortless.
The Duke had not even seemed inconvenienced by it. The Duke looked down at the sprawled man with complete indifference, as though striking arrogant noblemen in gardens was merely another item on his evening schedule.
“Leave,” he said.
The single word carried more threat than shouting ever could.
Lord Augustus Pemberley scrambled upright. “My father will hear of this,” he declared as he staggered backwards, one hand pressed to his rapidly bruising jaw.
“I sincerely hope he does,” the Duke replied coolly, as though discussing the weather rather than threatening a gentleman's social extinction.
The unfortunate gentleman took one look at the Duke's expression and wisely decided not to continue the argument. Within moments he had disappeared down the garden path, leaving only an uneasy silence behind him.
Seraphine watched his retreating figure until he vanished amongst the hedges. Only then did she allow herself a slow breath. Her pulse was still racing unpleasantly. She hated that it was. Hated even more that the Duke of Wexford had witnessed her discomfort.
Turning back towards him, she folded her arms across her chest in an effort to recover some dignity.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin as she met his gaze, “though I had everything under control.”
His eyes immediately dropped to her arm. Following his gaze, Seraphine noticed the angry red marks beginning to bloom where Lord Pemberley had gripped her. When she looked back up, the Duke’s expression had darkened noticeably.
“You did?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“I did,” she insisted, refusing to retreat.
His gaze remained fixed on the marks for another moment before returning to her face. “You looked extremely in control.”
The dry sarcasm in his voice made her teeth clench.
“I was preparing a response,” she informed him.
The Duke nodded solemnly, though the amusement lurking in his eyes ruined the effect. “I am certain it would have been devastating.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he replied, folding his arms in a mirror of her own posture, “I remain correct.”
The infuriating thing was that she immediately wanted to argue.
Something about the Duke of Wexford always brought out the most contrary parts of her personality. Around everyone else she was sensible, composed, and perfectly capable of behaving like a lady. Around him, she became argumentative and reckless. It was deeply inconvenient.
Drawing herself up, she said, “I do not require rescuing.”
His mouth twitched. “You required rescuing approximately thirty seconds ago.”
“I would have managed,” she said stubbornly.
“How?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
She opened her mouth at once, prepared to deliver a cutting response.
Nothing came out. The truth was she had not yet decided what she would have done. Faced with the obvious flaw in her argument, Seraphine hesitated before admitting, with visible reluctance, “I had not reached that stage yet,” and lifted her chin as though the confession were somehow a victory.
To her immense annoyance, the Duke laughed.
The sound caught her completely off guard.
She had heard him amused before, but only in fleeting moments, and never quite like this.
The laugh transformed his face, softening the severity of his features and bringing warmth to those green eyes.
For a brief, treacherous moment, she forgot to be irritated.
Far too handsome. Entirely unfair.
And somehow even more irritating because she noticed it.
As his laughter faded, something thoughtful lingered in his expression.
He regarded her quietly, his gaze moving over her face as though weighing a decision.
The silence stretched just long enough to make her uneasy before he finally said, “I am going to help you.”
Seraphine frowned at him immediately. “Help me?” she asked, folding her arms more tightly across her chest.
The Duke inclined his head slightly. “Find a husband,” he replied as though discussing the weather.
She stared at him in disbelief. “Why?” she demanded.
“Because your judgement is clearly questionable,” he said dryly, one dark eyebrow lifting.
“My judgement is excellent,” Seraphine informed him, drawing herself upright.
The Duke’s expression remained unimpressed. “You selected Pemberley,” he pointed out.
“I selected a title,” she countered, gesturing vaguely in the direction the disgraced gentleman had fled.
“A poor strategy,” he replied.
“An effective one,” she shot back.
“Not tonight,” he said, his gaze steady on hers.
The words should not have affected her. Yet something about the way he looked at her made the air feel strangely charged. The familiar tension settled between them once more, that peculiar mixture of irritation and awareness that seemed to accompany every conversation they had.
Then the Duke took a slow step closer. Not enough to touch her. Just enough to make her aware of him.
The movement was subtle, but Seraphine noticed it immediately. She became absurdly conscious of the quiet garden around them, of the distant music drifting from the manor, of the warmth lingering in the evening air.
“I will help you find a decent man,” the Duke said, his voice lower now, quieter.
Something in his tone made her pulse stumble. Suspicion immediately followed. Nothing involving Damien was ever simple.
“And in return?” she asked cautiously, narrowing her eyes at him.
A slow smile touched his mouth. “As you said before, I owe you a favor, sweetheart,” he said.
The endearment should have annoyed her. Instead, the words settled over her like warm honey, sending a flutter through her stomach. Seraphine hated that she noticed the way his voice deepened when he said it.
Sweetheart.
Her heartbeat quickened despite herself.
Why do I feel this way with such a simple word?.