by Anne Gracie
The effect on him was instantaneous. Arousal. Sebastian was horrified. He’d never had it happen in public like this—not since he was a young boy. He half closed his eyes to will it away.
To cover his confusion, he blurted out, “Are you Miss Faith or Miss Hope?” And then cursed himself silently for sounding—and feeling—like a gauche boy.
Chapter Three
Lady you bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins,
And there is such confusion in my powers.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
HOPE SMILED, LIKING HIS DIRECTNESS. PEOPLE OFTEN PRETENDED they could tell the twins apart, but very few could. “I am Hope. Faith is wearing sky blue tonight.”
He nodded. “Hope,” he said, and on his lips her name sounded special.
His accent was unself-conscious: cultured but with a faint, abrasive undertone of the north. It was different. She liked it. In her limited experience, people not born to the ton either were almost belligerently regional in accent or adopted painfully refined speech.
He was turning out to be altogether different from her initial imaginings. She was no longer so daunted by his tough-looking physique and the leashed power in his body. How could she, when he’d used it so effectively to protect her just now? But though it was too soon to tell what sort of man he was, the dance itself was proving very revealing, even if his conversation wasn’t.
“You did not say what brings you to London, Mr. Reyne.”
He twirled her in a rigid circle. “Various matters.”
“Oh, well, variety is nice. And where is your home?”
“I live in the north.”
He would never be accused of garrulity, Hope thought. “So, just a short stay in London?”
“Yes. A few weeks. Perhaps longer. It depends.”
Hope gave him a look of bright inquiry. “On what?”
He didn’t respond. She hadn’t really expected him to. Mrs. Jenner had said he was looking for a wife. He would hardly blurt that sort of information out on the dance floor. But he was busy retreating back into formality and distance, and Hope wanted to put a stop to that. The suspicion dawned that it was stubbornness that made him so closemouthed.
Hope had her own share of stubbornness. “And what are your impressions of the city?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve been too busy to sightsee.”
“Oh, but that’s so dismal!” she exclaimed. “You cannot possibly visit London and not see all the famous sights. Why, when you return home, people will be quite cross with you if you cannot regale them with tales of your derring-do in the capital.”
He said in a quelling manner. “Most people know better than to expect me to regale them with tales of derring-do.”
Hope made a sympathetic moue. “How sad. But think how nice it will be to surprise them.”
“Most people prefer not to be surprised,” he said seriously.
Hope raised her brows. “Prefer not to be surprised? How strange. I adore surprises. I can see that you aren’t the loquacious sort, but it does not do to keep your light wholly under a bushel, you know. Though why anyone would keep a light under a bushel is beyond me, for a bushel is a measure of weight, is it not? I know my grandfather used to measure the wheat crop in bushels. It’s a strange expression, isn’t it?”
He made a neutral noise. Hope smiled to herself. She knew she was rattling on, but she was determined to provoke some sort of response out of him.
It was as if having petted the tiger and found him gentle, she was no longer as wary, and now was determined to provoke him to action.
She said chattily, “So who are your people at home? Would I like them?”
He gave her a forbidding look. Hope smiled artlessly up at him. She adored that stern face he put on. Tiger to lamb: “Stay away, or I’ll eat you.” Hope loved a challenge. The lamb skipped closer. One part of her wondered what on earth she was doing. The other part relished it.
She said, “It would be such a shame if you went back to wherever you live without a single tale of derring-do. Or a visit to a famous monument. Have you seen Lord Elgin’s marbles? He brought them back from Greece, you know, and they’re thousands of years old.”
“I have no interest in antiquities, Greek or otherwise.”
“Well of course you haven’t!” she said, pretending to be shocked. “Nobody is interested in antiquities! But the marbles are all the rage, so you must see them. One must be à la mode, you know. My young sister is fascinated by such things, so I have become quite familiar with them. If you would like a guide, then perhaps . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off suggestively. No gentleman of her acquaintance would be able to refuse such an opening.
He gave her a quick glance, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist, but she soon realized it was to hold her at a more rigid distance, and all he said was, “I have no interest in Lord Elgin’s marbles. Or anyone else’s.”
Drat the man! He was not a gentleman; she’d forgotten that.
The waltz drew to a close, and he bowed, thanked her, and escorted her off the floor. Mrs. Jenner came bustling up, Mr. Bemerton at her heels. She nodded coolly to Mr. Reyne and drew Hope’s arm through hers. “Let us withdraw a moment, my dear. Good-bye, Mr. Reyne, Giles,” she said in a less-than-subtle move.
Mr. Reyne bowed again, gave Hope a long, intense look that burned, and turned resolutely away, taking his friend, Giles Bemerton, with him.
Hope watched him stride away from her. She shivered, feeling cold now that she was no longer touching him. What a contradiction the man was. Having sought her out, he had determinedly kept her at a distance in more ways than one. Why?
And as for her own reactions . . . If he was a mass of contradictions, her own behavior was even less understandable. She was repelled by his strength yet drawn to his gentleness. He’d treated her with an unsmiling lack of charm, and it had charmed her. He’d made no attempt to ensnare her in any way, and yet when he looked at her in that intense, hungry way, she trembled deep inside.
She used to tremble when Grandpapa was in a rage. But it was not fear that made her tremble when Sebastian Reyne looked at her.
And when, in averting that accident, he’d held her hard against his big, tough body, she hadn’t felt alarmed in any way. In fact, she’d felt protected in a way that took away her breath.
Faith hurried up to join them. “We have been invited to a special concert at Lady Thorn’s next Thursday. Apparently there is a marvelous new violinist arrived in London—a Hungarian count, and by all accounts as dashing as he is skilled—and Lady Thorn has managed to secure him for a private soiree. I’m told ladies on the Continent have been known to faint, so overcome have they been by his divine music. May we go, please, Mrs. Jenner? May we?”
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Jenner assured her. “We had nothing in particular planned for that evening, and though I must say all violinists sound the same to me, I know how much you love your music, and at least if this Hungarian is handsome, Hope and I will have something to look at.”
Faith laughed. “Thank you. It will be wonderful, I’m sure. I am told he can make his instrument sing, and the vibrato he achieves—”
Mrs. Jenner patted her hand. “Yes, yes, my dear. Now, there is Sir Oswald and Lady Augusta. The poor man looks positively puce after that long waltz. It can’t be good for him at his age, but will he admit it? Why don’t you girls ask him to escort you into the garden to cool off, and while you do that, I will . . . catch up with a few acquaintances.”
She glanced at Hope as she said it. She was going to collect gossip about Mr. Reyne.
Hope was torn. Part of her wanted to know every little thing about him. Another part of her wanted to ignore the gossip and unravel his mysteries slowly for herself. Gossip never spoke kindly about anyone. But Mrs. Jenner would not be stopped, she realized. It was a chaperone’s job to check such things.
Faith interrupted her thoughts. “Poor Un
cle Oswald, he looks so hot, and Lady Gussie looks as cool as a cucumber. Come on Hope, let us rescue the poor dear from his masculine pride.” Her sister linked arms with Hope, and they walked up to where their red-faced guardian was standing, trying not to puff.
Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego fanned herself delicately with an ebony fan. As the girls came up, she said, “A gorgeous big brute you had there for the waltz, Hope, my dear. I do like those big, dark, dangerous-looking fellows. Those shoulders . . .” She sighed appreciatively. “If I were half my age, I’d cut you out for him, you know. Did he live up to expectations?”
Great Uncle Oswald huffed disapprovingly. Lady Gussie winked at Hope.
Hope grinned back. “He was . . . most intriguing.”
Faith looked at her in surprise.
Lady Gussie’s eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Intriguing—I like the sound of that. He reminds me of my second husband—the Argentinean. He was the big, dark, brooding type, too . . .” She sighed reminiscently. “And a devil in b—” She caught her cicisbeo’s eye and amended it. “—when roused to passion.”
Great Uncle Oswald spluttered, “Gussie!”
Lady Augusta said with an innocence that deceived no one, “Well, he did have a very bad temper!” She gave their great-uncle a look from beneath her lashes and added in a dulcet tone, “You have the same . . . fierce temper, too, Oswald.” She batted her eyelashes rapidly.
Hope and Faith giggled. Great Uncle Oswald tried to frown, but he was so delighted by the improper compliment that his eyebrows just waved about indecisively. He was blushing so hard, Hope thought he would explode.
“It’s very hot in here,” she said hastily. “Let us go outside for some cool air.”
Lady Gussie chuckled. Hope linked arms with Great Uncle Oswald, and her twin took Lady Gussie’s. For an old lady well on the shady side of fifty, Lady Gussie was not the slightest bit proper. It was an open society secret that Great Uncle Oswald had been trying to get her to marry him for the last two years, but she was in no mood to be tied down just yet. She’d been widowed twice already, she said, and if that didn’t tell him something, it should. For the first time in her life she was enjoying being a widow and an exceedingly merry one, too.
Hope had even heard her say once that Oswald could make merry with her to his heart’s content, but marry him she would not! In the past, she and Faith had speculated for hours as to whether that meant Lady Gussie was Great Uncle Oswald’s mistress.
Now Hope doubted no more, and from the look on Faith’s face, she agreed. It was quite shocking—at their age, too!—but all the same, rather sweet.
It would be lovely to still be in love when one was old, thought Hope wistfully. She so longed to be in love. There were some days when the hollow, aching, emptiness inside her was almost too painful to bear.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to fall in love. She’d tried so hard. In the last two seasons she’d danced with hundreds of men, given them smiles and encouragement and listened to their tales and their woes. They’d paid her compliments and brought her flowers and small gifts. Several had asked her to marry them. They’d kissed her hand, and even her lips once or twice, but none of them, not one, had moved her in the slightest.
She glanced across the room to where Mr. Reyne was bowing correctly over Lady Elinore’s hand and frowned. Lady Elinore, again?
Sebastian felt her watching him and tried not to notice. He was here to court Lady Elinore. Of all the ladies on Morton Black’s list, Lady Elinore stood out, as if tailor-made for the job. She was quiet and grave and earnest—all qualities he admired. He found her quite easy to talk to; she didn’t mind silence, and she didn’t expect to be charmed with compliments and whimsical fripperies. He was not the charming type.
And she was rational. All his conversations with Lady Elinore so far had been on wholly rational matters, which was a great relief. He didn’t understand women. Any females, really. A woman who was rational would be a relief to deal with.
Best of all, there was no danger of him becoming vulnerable to her. She was not the kind of woman men fell helplessly in love with, and that, for Sebastian, put the seal on the deal. She would be a satisfactory wife, and he would take good care of her.
She was the only rational choice, and he’d considered his options thoroughly. He was not a man known for abandoning his plans. He saw them through to the end. And if unforeseen problems arose, he dealt with them and moved on.
He glanced across the room. His unforeseen problem was frowning: an adorable wrinkling of her brow, a jut of her perfect chin, and red lips pouting thoughtfully in a way that made him long to kiss her, just once. And then move on.
She stood with her family and friends on the other side of the ballroom, now laughing suddenly with them all at some joke. It could as easily be an impassible chasm as a polished parquet floor.
He nudged Giles and signaled his intention of leaving. Within minutes they were bowing over the hand of their hostess, taking their leave.
“What’s the matter?” Giles asked as they waited for their coats and hats to be brought. “I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“The waltz was a mistake.” Sebastian shrugged into his greatcoat. “I need to expedite this courtship in as short a time as possible.” Avoiding as much contact with Miss Hope Merridew as possible. He took his hat from a liveried footman and crammed it on his head.
“Why do you say the waltz was a mistake?” Giles placed his silk-covered hat at a rakish angle and tucked his sword stick under his arm. “She did you a signal honor in selecting you for that last waltz, you know; the ballroom was knee-deep in men who’d kill for the chance.”
Sebastian made a noncommittal sound. He knew it. And tried not to read anything into it. His heart pounded with the memory of it. That was why the waltz was a mistake—that damned pounding!
Giles went on, “I thought you and Miss Merridew looked charming together. And I’m certain with practice, you’ll loosen up.” They descended the steps into the chill, damp air.
Sebastian scowled but decided not to explain to Giles that the problem lay not with his knowledge of the steps but with the effect of the lady on his wits. And body.
“Charming looks do not come into it.”
Giles stared at him. “Why ever not, my dear fellow? You don’t have to make do with Lady Elinore. Just because Miss Merridew looks like an angel doesn’t mean she is lacking in all the qualities you seek.”
“I’d be obliged if you ceased harping on this theme,” Sebastian muttered. “Miss Merridew is not the sort of woman I need, and that’s that.” Their footsteps echoed as they walked.
Giles said frankly, “I’d say from the way you were dancing, she’s exactly what you need.”
Sebastian frowned, but decided not to pursue that line of argument. He said with dignity, “I need a wife, not for myself, but for my sisters.”
Giles chuckled. “I don’t think that’s legal in England.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know what I mean. My sisters need a mother figure. They could scarcely find her in a chit only half a dozen years older than they are, now could they?” He quickened his pace. Tendrils of mist hung in the air as they walked.
“Strictly speaking, your bride would be a sister-in-law, not a mother, and who is to say that an older sister not so very far removed from them in age would not be the very thing they need?”
Sebastian shook his head firmly. “I need a wife who has seen something of life, who understands that fairy tales are lies told to children, who has experienced hardship, and will not be easily shocked by my—”
Giles interrupted him. “Miss Merridew might surprise you. She is stronger than she seems and has firsthand experience of hardship—”
Sebastian cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Why do you continue this harping on about Miss Merridew?” Sebastian exploded. “We shared but one dance!”
Giles grinned. “Yes, one rather intense dance. And a thousand looks.�
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Sebastian made a scornful-sounding noise and strode along the pavement.
Giles chuckled. “You may snort all you like, but I saw your face when you looked at her. Every time you looked at her. If ever a man was smitten . . . And if you are determined to run your head into a matrimonial noose, it might as well be with a girl as sweet-natured and beautiful as Miss Merridew. You have needs and desires, too, you know.”
Sebastian quickened his pace. “My needs and desires are not important. Miss Merridew may be all that you claim, but she is the wrong sort of person for the girls. I need someone who can deal with harsh reality, not a girl who has spent her life wrapped in cotton wool.”
“Yes, but I told you, the Merridew girls have experienced—”
“Enough! The subject is no longer open for discussion,” Sebastian snapped and lengthened his stride along the cobbled pavement. Giles, like other members of the upper classes, had no idea of what true hardship was. Despite his sympathetic nature, despite what he knew of Sebastian’s life, he was essentially ignorant of how the rest of the world lived.
Miss Merridew may have experienced what she considered hardships, but he doubted if she had ever been starved or abused. The Merridew girls might be orphans, but they were rich orphans, and they had a loving family to shelter them. He had seen the way Sir Oswald doted on them.
Hope and her sister had grown up to be happy, laughing girls. His sisters were not happy, laughing girls. Dorie watched the world with wary suspicion and had not uttered a sound in the four months since he’d recovered them. And Cassie carried a knife strapped to her thigh. A child of fourteen. Those facts alone spoke volumes.
His sisters had experienced horrors of which a laughing sprite like Hope Merridew would know nothing.
And it was Sebastian’s fault they had. Sebastian had to atone. And if marrying Lady Elinore was what it took, he would marry her gladly.