Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Find a husband.
The following morning, Seraphine entered the breakfast room with a specific goal.
Preferably one who possessed a title, a respectable income, and no alarming tendencies toward threatening ladies in dark gardens.
Surely that was not asking too much. The long breakfast table was already crowded with guests. Gentlemen discussed hunting plans, ladies exchanged greetings, and servants moved quietly through the room carrying silver coffee pots and platters of food.
Seraphine immediately spotted two promising prospects. Lord Richards sat near the middle of the table, handsome and agreeable, with a respectable estate in Yorkshire.
Beside him sat Mr. Hawthorne, a younger son but reportedly in possession of a comfortable inheritance.
Excellent. Two possibilities.
Already feeling considerably more optimistic than she had upon waking, Seraphine slipped gracefully into the empty seat between them. Lord Richards immediately straightened and offered her a warm smile as he inclined his head towards her.
“Lady Seraphine,” he said, his expression brightening. “What a pleasant way to begin the morning.”
Beside her, Mr. Hawthorne nodded with enthusiastic agreement. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he added, flashing what he likely believed was a charming smile.
Seraphine returned both smiles politely as she settled her napkin across her lap.
Wonderful. Perhaps today will prove more successful than yesterday after all.
Two eligible gentlemen, both apparently delighted by her company, and an entire morning ahead of her.
Unfortunately, she then made the mistake of glancing across the table. The Duke of Wexford sat directly opposite her.
Of course he did.
The Duke appeared entirely at ease; one hand wrapped around a coffee cup as though he had not a care in the world. When his gaze lifted and met hers, the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Seraphine immediately became suspicious.
She had come to recognize that particular expression. It never preceded anything pleasant. In fact, it usually signaled that the Duke was about to become thoroughly insufferable.
She should have trusted her instincts.
Lord Richards had barely begun an earnest discussion about the unusually mild weather when the Duke of Wexford set down his coffee cup and casually inserted himself into the conversation.
“Richards,” he said, setting down his cup. “How is your former maid?”
The entire table seemed to pause. Lord Richards froze so abruptly that even his fork halted halfway to his mouth. Confusion flashed across his face as he stared at the Duke across the table.
“What?” he asked, his voice noticeably tighter than before.
The Duke offered him a pleasant smile. “The maid,” he said lightly. “The one involved in that unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Lord Richards's face immediately turned a spectacular shade of crimson. “There was no misunderstanding,” he said stiffly, shifting in his chair.
“Oh?” The Duke leaned back with all the ease of a man discussing the weather rather than publicly dismantling another gentleman's reputation. “Then I suppose her father challenged you to a duel for an entirely unrelated reason.”
Around them, several guests suddenly became fascinated by their breakfasts. One lady nearly buried her face in her teacup.
Lord Richards looked horrified. “It was years ago,” he muttered.
“Was it?” the Duke asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“It was resolved,” Lord Richards insisted, gripping his napkin.
“How fortunate,” the Duke replied smoothly.
An agonizing silence settled over that section of the table. Seraphine could practically feel Lord Richards's desire to vanish into the floorboards.
A moment later he pushed back his chair so abruptly that it scraped loudly against the floor.
“I have just remembered an appointment,” he announced.
At breakfast. Inside a country house?
Seraphine watched him retreat with remarkable speed before slowly turning her gaze toward the Duke. He merely took another sip of coffee as though he had not just chased away one of her most promising prospects.
The brute.
Beside her, Mr. Hawthorne appeared to sense danger approaching. He devoted himself to his eggs with the concentration of a man attempting to avoid execution.
Unfortunately for him, the Duke had already selected a new victim.
“Hawthorne,” he said pleasantly.
The poor man visibly winced before looking up. “Your Grace,” he replied with obvious caution.
The Duke folded his hands before him. “How are your finances these days?”
Mr. Hawthorne nearly choked. After coughing into his napkin, he stared across the table. “My finances?”
“Yes,” the Duke replied, his tone remaining perfectly conversational. “I heard rumors regarding your… gambling debts.”
The gentleman nearly dropped his fork. Seraphine could only stare across the table in disbelief.
Good heavens. The Duke is hunting them.
“There were no debts,” Mr. Hawthorne said quickly, straightening in his chair as though confidence alone might save him.
“Excellent,” the Duke replied smoothly, setting down his coffee cup.
“There were merely... temporary difficulties,” the man amended, shifting uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny.
“I see,” the Duke said with a thoughtful nod.
“Entirely temporary,” Mr. Hawthorne added.
The Duke’s expression remained maddeningly pleasant as he tilted his head and asked, “And the creditors?”
Mr. Hawthorne closed his eyes briefly, looking like a man praying for divine intervention. “What about them?”
“Were they temporary as well?” he enquired.
Several guests immediately choked on laughter, while others bent their heads over their plates in a futile attempt to hide their amusement. Mr. Hawthorne looked ready to throw himself from the nearest window.
“The matter has been resolved,” he said stiffly.
“Splendid,” the Duke replied.
The poor man glanced around desperately, clearly searching for an escape route. Finding none, he abruptly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
“I believe I would like a walk,” he announced.
“You do?” the Duke asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“I do now,” Mr. Hawthorne declared before making a hasty retreat from the room.
Seraphine watched him flee, then slowly lowered her gaze to the two empty chairs flanking her. A moment later she looked across the table at the Duke, who appeared entirely pleased with himself.
Her annoyance flared instantly. Without thinking, she stretched out her foot beneath the table and kicked his shin. Not hard. Just enough.
The Duke paused in the act of refilling his coffee. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.
An infuriating smirk appeared.
Oh no. That smirk.
“Not very proper for a lady,” he whispered, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Neither is interrogating breakfast guests,” she shot back whispering beneath her napkin.
“You assaulted a duke,” he observed.
“You deserved it,” she replied.
His eyes gleamed with unmistakable satisfaction. “I shall endeavor to recover.”
Seraphine rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull.
The rest of breakfast passed without further casualties, though she noticed several gentlemen giving the Duke a remarkably wide berth and no one dared take the seat next to her. Cowards, every one of them.
Eventually the meal came to an end, and guests began rising from the table, drifting out into the manor in small groups. Seraphine escaped as quickly as possible, determined to put several corridors between herself and the infuriating Duke.
Unfortunately, she had taken only a few steps into the corridor before a familiar voice sounded beside her.
“Leaving already, sweetheart?” the Duke asked as he effortlessly fell into step at her side.
She resisted the urge to groan. The Duke had appeared at her side as though summoned by irritation itself.
“You frightened away both my prospects.”
“They were not prospects,” he replied as though explaining something painfully obvious to a child. He continued strolling down the corridor at an infuriatingly leisurely pace while Seraphine hurried beside him.
“They were sitting beside me,” Seraphine repeated, turning sharply to face him as they walked. “Which is generally how one becomes acquainted with a potential husband.”
“They were liabilities,” he said dryly, not appearing remotely troubled by her irritation.
Seraphine stopped altogether and folded her arms. “You seem to have forgotten something,” she informed him.
The Duke slowed and glanced back at her, one dark eyebrow lifting. “Have I?”
“I have not accepted your help,” she said firmly, holding his gaze.
“Not officially,” he replied with a shrug.
“Or unofficially.”
“Yet here we are,” he observed, his mouth twitching with amusement.
The man was infuriating.
“You must stop interfering,” she said, falling into step beside him once more.
The Duke regarded her calmly. For once, the teasing expression faded from his face, replaced by something more serious. “No,” he said simply.
Seraphine blinked at him. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, entirely unrepentant before resuming his walk down the corridor.
Agitated, she followed.
“You cannot simply decide these things,” she protested.
“I already have,” the Duke replied without breaking stride.
“Damien.” His name escaped before she could stop herself.
Immediately, he looked far too pleased by her usage of his Christian name. Which only annoyed her further.
“Seraphine,” he returned smoothly.
His eyes dance when saying my name. I crossed that line first, so it is only fair, but why does it affect me so?
“Apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean to…” she said.
“Do not burden yourself,” he said.
She stared at him in disbelief. “Why do you care who I choose as a match?”
For the first time, the Duke hesitated. The pause lasted only a moment, but Seraphine noticed it all the same. Then his gaze settled fully on her, steady and direct enough to make her strangely aware of herself.
“I feel responsible for you,” he said at last.
The answer caught her completely off guard.
“What?” she asked, staring at him.
Damien shrugged one shoulder, though his gaze never left hers. “You are my sister's closest friend,” he said simply.
“That does not make me your responsibility,” Seraphine replied, folding her arms across her chest.
“No,” Damien agreed without hesitation.
A frown creased her brow. “Then why?”
“I cannot stand by and watch you marry an idiot,” he interrupted.
The statement was delivered with such complete sincerity that Seraphine could only stare at him.
“You barely know me,” she pointed out.
Damien's mouth twitched. “And already you've selected three disasters, which is enough for me to know about you.”
Her mouth fell open in outrage. The worst part was that he had a point. An irritating, infuriating point, but a point, nonetheless. She hated that he had noticed her ineptitude. She hated it even more so that she could not immediately argue against it.
Before she could formulate a suitable response, Damien took a step backwards. A faint smile appeared, softening the severity of his features.
“I must leave. I have matters to address back at the house,” he said.
“But you have not given me a real explanation,” Seraphine protested, following him with her eyes.
“That is all you're getting… for now,” Damien replied, sounding entirely untroubled by her frustration.
“Damien.”
He had already begun walking away, but at the sound of his name he glanced back over his shoulder. The smile deepened slightly, as though he found her exasperation supremely entertaining.
Before she could examine his reaction more, the Duke added casually, “Besides, sweetheart, your taste in men is appalling.”
Then he walked away.
Seraphine watched wondering what he truly meant by his words. What sort of man did he think she should marry?
Appalling? I asked you for your hand, did I not?