Chapter 15 #2
As he spoke, Damien glanced across the lawn towards the center of the festivities, where Thalia stood surrounded by guests.
She was laughing at something one of the gentlemen had said, entirely in her element.
Watching her be social a gathering with such effortless ease always reminded him how different they were.
Seraphine followed his gaze before looking back at him with amused disbelief.
“An excellent one,” she corrected.
Damien let out a quiet breath and inclined his head in surrender, lifting his glass slightly as though conceding defeat in a negotiation. “That too.”
The corners of her mouth lifted immediately, satisfaction brightening her features.
“There. Was that so difficult?” she teased.
“Excruciating.”
A soft laugh escaped her, and Damien found himself smiling despite every intention not to. The sound lingered between them as they continued walking beside the pond, light and easy in a way that felt dangerously unfamiliar.
She laughed softly, shaking her head as though he was entirely impossible. The sound settled somewhere dangerously deep inside his chest.
For several moments they walked in comfortable silence. Damien found himself studying her profile when she was not looking. The sunlight illuminated the freckles scattered across her cheeks. He had never understood why women attempted to hide such things. On her, they suited her perfectly.
Far too perfectly.
“And you?” Seraphine asked suddenly.
Her voice drew him from his thoughts. She turned towards him as they walked, one hand lightly holding her glass of punch while the breeze toyed with a loose curl near her temple.
Damien blinked. “Me?”
She nodded, amusement already flickering in her eyes.
“You will not host such events at Wexford Manor?” she asked.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The very notion was so absurd that he nearly choked on his drink. “No.”
The answer came so quickly that she laughed as well, the sound bright and warm beneath the summer sun.
“Not even once?”
“Certainly not.”
She tilted her head. “Why ever not?”
Damien shook his head and gestured vaguely towards the sprawling picnic around them. “I spend my time on logistics, discipline, and responsibility, not frivolities.”
Seraphine glanced sideways at him. “That sounds dreadfully dull.”
Damien glanced down at her, faintly offended by how quickly she had reached that conclusion. “It is efficient.”
Seraphine took a leisurely sip of her punch, then looked back at him with entirely too much satisfaction. “It is dull.”
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “It is productive.”
She waved a dismissive hand as though productivity was a minor inconvenience rather than a virtue. “It is still dull.”
Damien huffed a reluctant laugh and looked away towards the water, though he could still feel her watching him.
Despite himself, he smiled. A real smile. One that appeared far too easily around her. She immediately looked pleased with herself, as though she had won some private victory. An alarming development. Worse still, he found himself enjoying her satisfaction far more than he ought to have.
“Besides,” she continued, gesturing lightly with her glass, “some of the most advantageous business arrangements between gentlemen occur at gatherings such as these.”
Damien looked down at her, slowing his pace slightly as they followed the curve of the pond. Sunlight danced across the water beside them, and for a moment he found himself distracted by the way it caught in the loose strands of hair escaping her coiffure.
He watched as she nervously twisted a glove between her fingers. He itched to reach out and take her hand to calm her… to touch her.
He placed his hands behind his back to stop such an action. His hand curled into a fist to quell the instinct to grab her hand, or something considerably more reckless. He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
A brow rose slowly. “You make a fair point,” Damien admitted.
Seraphine lifted her chin with exaggerated dignity and took a sip of her punch. “I generally do,” she replied.
“There is the arrogance I was expecting,” he said dryly, adjusting his grip on his glass.
“There is the criticism I was expecting,” she returned without missing a beat.
Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she shot him a look that was far too pleased with itself. Damien shook his head and let out a quiet laugh. “You are remarkably difficult.”
“So I have been told,” she said, spreading one hand innocently.
“Frequently, I imagine,” he replied, watching her far more closely than he ought to have.
“Only by people who dislike being corrected.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
God help me.
As they continued walking, his attention betrayed him repeatedly.
He should have been listening to the conversation.
Instead, he kept noticing entirely inappropriate things.
The shape of her mouth whenever she smiled.
The soft movement of her lashes whenever she looked down.
The way her pale blue dress skimmed elegantly over her figure when she walked.
He dragged his gaze away, only for it to return moments later.
This was absurd. He was thirty years old, a duke, a landowner, a man responsible for thousands of people, and yet one determined young lady with freckles had reduced him to behaving like a boy suffering through his first infatuation.
Every sensible instinct urged him to focus on the conversation, but his attention seemed to possess a will of its own whenever she was near.
“You are staring.”
The observation caught him entirely off guard. Damien looked down sharply and found Seraphine watching him over the rim of her glass, amusement dancing in her brown eyes.
“I beg your pardon; I was only just wondering if you’ve made any progress on your matchmaking?” he asked. A lie. He had been thinking about something else entirely.
“I… I am not sure. The gentleman I have spent time with are agreeable,” she said.
“But none are marriage worthy?” he asked.
“What?” she stopped.
“I’m merely attempting to find whether I have been helpful at all,” he said.
“You have, Your Grace. I thank you for your aid,” she said.
He should have changed the subject. Any sensible man would have done just that. Instead, before caution could intervene, he heard himself say, “So you will marry?”
The single question escaped before he could stop it.
Silence settled between them at once. Not an awkward silence, but something far more stressful.
Seraphine's eyes widened slightly, and Damien immediately regretted his honesty.
For one suspended moment neither of them moved.
He watched a delicate blush bloom across her cheeks, coloring her skin a soft shade of pink, and his pulse reacted with alarming enthusiasm.
Then she looked away.
Somehow that proved even worse.
“I believe I should join my sister,” she said stepping away.
“I’ll escort you,” he said but it was no use, she walked a full two steps ahead of him.
He was angry with himself, because the sight of her blushing sent his thoughts spiraling directly back to the balcony.
Back to the evening air, the moonlight, and the memory of her standing impossibly close to him.
He remembered the softness of her mouth beneath his, the way she had looked at him afterwards, and the impossible effort it had taken not to pull her back into his arms. The recollection struck him with such force that he nearly groaned aloud.
I must stop giving her so much attention. It is wrong. I am no longer helping her find a husband, if anything my attentions have probably chased men away.