Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The following afternoon, Damien stood amongst the crowd with a glass of lemonade in one hand, listening with half an ear as Thalia enthusiastically addressed her guests. His sister was in her element.
“Since everyone appears determined to avoid behaving like respectable adults," she announced cheerfully, "I have arranged games.”
A ripple of amusement spread through the crowd on Amberhall's sprawling lawns beneath a brilliant summer sky. Servants arranged tables, equipment, and refreshments for the day's entertainments.
“Guests shall be divided into four groups. Pall-mall, blind man's bluff, bullet pudding, and charades.”
A collective murmur followed as names were assigned. Damien paid little attention until he heard one particular name.
Lady Seraphine Fairchild.
His gaze immediately found her.
She stood amongst a cluster of guests near the fountain, looking far too pleased with herself.
Bullet pudding.
Interesting.
Damien heard his own assignment.
Charades. How unfortunate. Or perhaps not.
Without hesitation, he crossed the lawn toward the bullet pudding group. Lady Hannah Branson stood amongst them, chatting animatedly with several guests. Damien leaned down slightly and murmured something into her ear. Lady Hannah's eyes widened before she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Truly?” she whispered, lowering her voice as she glanced up at him.
“So I am told,” Damien replied smoothly, folding his hands behind his back.
The young lady immediately looked towards the charades group where a certain gentleman stood waiting. A blush spread across her cheeks.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Damien nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “It would be a shame if an opportunity were missed.”
Lady Hannah laughed again and shook her head. “Your Grace, you are very kind.”
“I am many things,” Damien replied dryly, which only made her laugh harder.
Within moments she had agreed to exchange places. Damien watched her hurry towards the charades group before taking her place amongst the bullet pudding players. A few moments later he found himself standing beside Seraphine.
He could practically feel her suspicion before she even spoke.
“What did you say to Lady Hannah?” she asked under her breath, turning towards him with narrowed eyes.
The accusation in her voice made him suppress a smile.
“Nothing scandalous,” he replied, meeting her gaze with an expression of complete innocence.
Seraphine folded her arms and tilted her head. “That does not answer my question.”
“I merely informed her,” Damien said smoothly, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence, “that one of the gentlemen in the charades group had remarked upon her beauty.”
Her eyes narrowed at once. “You meddled.”
“I facilitated,” he corrected.
“You meddled,” she repeated, refusing to let him escape the charge.
Damien's mouth twitched. “He wished to spend time with her.”
“And?”
“And she wished to spend time with him,” he said with a small shrug.
Her gaze sharpened further. “So you traded places.”
“Everyone wins,” he smirked.
“You are impossible.”
His smile deepened at the accusation, but before he could offer another infuriating reply, Thalia clapped her hands loudly enough to command the attention of the entire group.
“Attention everyone,” she called.
Seraphine released an exaggerated sigh and shot Damien one last warning look. “You have escaped interrogation.”
“Momentarily,” he replied, inclining his head.
The group leader immediately launched into an explanation of the rules, and Damien turned his attention towards the table before them.
A tall mound of flour had been shaped into a precarious tower, with a single penny balanced upon its summit.
The object of the game, it seemed, was deceptively simple.
Each participant would remove a slice of flour with a knife.
Whoever caused the structure to collapse and the penny to fall would be forced to retrieve it using only their mouth.
Damien listened with growing amusement. It was an utterly ridiculous pastime, which naturally meant it was exactly the sort of entertainment Thalia adored. Around them, guests gathered closer, laughing amongst themselves and placing wagers on who would be unfortunate enough to lose.
One by one, players stepped forward and carefully removed portions of the flour. Each successful turn was met with cheers and applause. The tower wobbled occasionally but stubbornly remained standing.
Then Damien's turn arrived.
He accepted the knife from the previous player and weighed it lightly in his hand.
As he stepped towards the table, his gaze drifted briefly towards Seraphine.
She stood beside him with her hands neatly folded before her, every inch the proper young lady.
Her posture was perfect. Her expression composed. Her dignity entirely intact.
Far too proper. Far too composed.
A ridiculous thought slipped into his mind as he watched her standing there with all the dignity of a duchess rather than a participant in one of Thalia's absurd games.
He could make her laugh. He could make her abandon that flawless composure.
He could make her forget herself for a moment.
Before he could examine the impulse too closely, the knife descended.
A larger slice than necessary disappeared from the tower, and the structure gave a dangerous wobble.
Nobody seemed to notice except Damien and, perhaps, fate itself.
When the knife passed to Seraphine, she eyed him suspiciously. “You are smiling, why?” she said, narrowing her gaze.
Inclining his head, he gestured towards the flour tower. “Your turn.”
Seraphine carefully cut away the smallest portion imaginable. The moment she withdrew the blade, the tower collapsed and the penny vanished into the flour. Cheers erupted from the surrounding guests.
“Oh no!”
“Bad luck, Lady Seraphine!”
“You must find it now!”
Slowly, she turned towards Damien, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “You did that on purpose.”
Damien merely shrugged. “Did what?”
Her expression promised murder. He found it entirely charming.
A moment later she bent forward and plunged her face into the flour.
Laughter echoed around them as she searched blindly for the penny.
Dark curls escaped their pins and tumbled around her face while flour coated her cheeks and nose.
Guests called encouragement from every direction, thoroughly entertained by her predicament.
At last she emerged victorious, the penny clenched triumphantly between her teeth.
The group burst into applause.
Seraphine straightened, flour covering nearly half her face. Damien felt an unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest. She looked utterly ridiculous. She looked beautiful. The combination was surprisingly enchanting.
Still clutching the penny in her teeth, she marched directly towards him. A challenge sparkled in her brown eyes as she held out the coin.
Damien accepted it as she dropped it in his hand, but his attention snagged on a streak of flour lingering near the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed his thumb softly against her lower lip.
Everything seemed to stop. Seraphine froze beneath his touch, and a sharp breath escaped her. Damien felt it. Felt her warmth. Felt the softness beneath his thumb. His pulse slammed violently against his ribs as awareness crashed over him all at once.
Good God. What am I doing?
Around them, guests remained distracted by rebuilding the flour tower, while several others had wandered away in search of refreshments. Nobody was paying attention to them. Nobody would notice.
The dangerous thought arrived immediately and with alarming certainty.
Kiss her.
The impulse struck with terrifying force. It would take only one step, one movement, one moment of weakness. Her lips parted slightly as her brown eyes lifted to his, trusting and curious, and far too soft for his peace of mind. Every instinct he possessed urged him forward.
A duke does not behave this way. A duke does not lose control. A duke certainly does not kiss his sister's best friend in the middle of a garden party.
Damien abruptly stepped back. The loss of contact felt immediate and brutal. He shoved both hands behind his back before he did something else that would be deemed foolish.
“You should clean yourself up,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.
Confusion flickered across Seraphine's face before it gave way to annoyance. The familiar scowl returned, and Damien found himself absurdly relieved by it. Matters between them were much safer when she was irritated with him.
Without another word, she turned away. Damien released a slow breath and told himself he should leave immediately. Instead, he remained exactly where he was, watching her.
His hesitation proved to be a mistake. Lord Whickham approached carrying a clean cloth. The gentleman offered Seraphine an easy smile as he held it out.
“May I assist?” he asked.
Seraphine laughed softly and inclined her head. “Please.”
Whickham stepped closer and gently brushed flour from her cheek. She smiled at him, a genuine smile, warm and effortless.
“Thank you, Lord Whickham,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Something ugly twisted inside Damien's chest. His jaw clenched, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The sensation startled him with its intensity.
As he watched Lord Whickham make Seraphine laugh again, Damien's fists clenched tighter until his knuckles turned white. He did not understand why the sight bothered him so much, only that it did. And he did not like the feeling one bit.
After Lord Whickham had successfully rescued her from resembling a particularly unfortunate pastry, Seraphine returned to the games with renewed determination.
To her annoyance, Damien seemed to possess an uncanny ability to appear wherever she happened to be.