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 itwas. 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 visiblereluctance, “I had not reached that stage yet,” and lifted her chin as though the confession were somehow a victory.
