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, andfar 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.
One moment she had been speaking with Lady Branson near the refreshments table, enjoying a rare stretch of peace, and the next Damien was standing beside her as though he had materialized from thin air.
Again, Seraphine turned her head and eyed him suspiciously.
“You do realize this is becoming alarming,” she said as he calmly accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing servant.
Damien lifted a brow and took a sip before asking, “What is?”
“The way you keep appearing,” she replied.
A faint smirk touched his mouth.
“I walk,” he said.
