Damien moved before he had consciously decided to do so. One moment he stood beside Caspian; the next he had crossed the distance and inserted himself neatly into Whickham's path. The gentleman halted with visible surprise.
“Your Grace,” Whickham said.
Damien inclined his head with impeccable politeness. “Lord Whickham.”
Something in his expression must have conveyed the rest, because after a brief hesitation, Whickham offered a stiff smile and retreated in search of less hazardous company.
Problem solved.
By the time Seraphine reached the bottom of the stairs, Damien was waiting for her. Before she could question his sudden appearance, he extended his hand toward her.
“Dance,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed at once as she looked from his face to his offered hand. “Is that a request?”
“It is an order,” Damien replied, keeping his expression perfectly serious.
A laugh flickered in her eyes. “How arrogant of you.”
“Come along,” he said, curling his fingers slightly in invitation.
To his satisfaction, she placed her hand in his. The warmth of her skin seeped through his glove and lingered far longer than it should have. As the orchestra struck up a waltz, he led her onto the dance floor, guiding her effortlessly into position amongst the other couples.
Then his hand settled at her waist.
This was a mistake. A tremendous mistake.
The silk beneath his palm felt far too thin, far too delicate, and Damien became painfully aware of every inch separating them, or rather, every inch that was not. Heat stirred low within him, alluring and unwelcome and, he decided, entirely her fault.
Seraphine glanced up at him as they turned through the dance. “What are you staring at?” she asked, suspicion already creeping into her voice.
Damien immediately shifted his gaze away and guided her through the next figure. “The room.”
“You were staring at me,” she said, arching a brow.
“The room behind you.”
“Liar,” she teased.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Unfortunately, the woman knew him far too well already.
They moved gracefully amongst the other couples, the orchestra carrying them through the waltz while Damien desperately searched for safer ground. Conversation seemed infinitely less dangerous than dwelling upon the warmth of her beneath his hand.
“I have fulfilled my promise,” he said at last as they moved through another turn of the waltz, forcing his attention onto safer ground than the warmth of her body beneath his hand.
Seraphine glanced up at him, immediate interest lighting her features. “Have you?” she asked, sounding far more intrigued than she had any right to be.
“I have found three candidates,” Damien replied.
“Oh dear. I am frightened,” she said with exaggerated solemnity, though amusement danced in her eyes.
“You should not be.”
Her expression suggested she disagreed entirely.
“Lord Shelding,” Damien began. “Lord Cunningham and Lord Everend.”
That at least earned a thoughtful hum as she considered the name.
