by Anne Gracie
“You wanted to ask Miss Merridew something?” prompted Lady Augusta, with a less-than-discreet nudge in the ribs and a broad wink. Sebastian’s scattered wits began to function again.
“Ah, yes. Miss Merridew, I’ve come to beg the honor of dancing the supper dance with you.”
“The supper dance? Yes, of course.” She took out her dance card and said as she wrote on it, “I will put you down for the supper dance . . . and . . .” She gave him a bewitching smile. “And also for the last waltz, Mr. Reyne.”
The last waltz! It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Had he heard her aright? She had put him down for the last waltz!
The chaperone made an odd hissing sound between her teeth. Sir Oswald Merridew snorted with surprise. A mutter rippled through the masculine crowd surrounding them. She never put anyone’s name down for the last waltz.
Sebastian bowed over her hand and slowly, deliberately, pressed his mouth to the inside of her wrist the pulse point. “I shall count the moments,” he said gruffly.
He turned to Sir Oswald. “May I have a private word, sir?”
Sir Oswald’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, young Reyne. Come this way.”
“You’d better make her happy, young man!”
“It will be my life’s work,” Sebastian said simply. Sir Oswald had given them his blessing without a murmur. Sebastian could hardly believe it.
The old man gave a grunt. “Had you investigated, Reyne. Dark horse, ain’t you?”
Sebastian raised his brows. “In what way?”
“I have more than a few fingers in trade myself, though it’s not well-known. You’ve done well.” He gave Sebastian a shrewd look. “It’s widely believed you married the boss’s daughter for her fortune.”
“Is it?” Sebastian feigned interest in a painting. He would not justify himself to anyone. What was done was done.
“Tale for the tabbies, though, ain’t it? Boot on the other foot, I discovered. Her father did the courtin’. Wanted you for your clever fingers and your head for business, didn’t he?”
Sebastian deliberately flexed his hand, exposing the damaged fingers.
Sir Oswald made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t mean it literally. They say you have a genius for machinery. Made so many adjustments and improvements in his manufactories that he nearly doubled his production. Fellow was frightened he’d lose you to another employer. Married you to his daughter to keep you. Visions of foundin’ a dynasty.”
Sebastian didn’t deny it. It was pretty much the truth. What Sir Oswald had left out were Sebastian’s own feelings in the matter. He’d been twenty-three, and though he didn’t love Thea, he’d had hopes of rebuilding his family.
It hadn’t worked out that way.
Sir Oswald interrupted his thoughts. “From what I heard, she wasn’t an easy woman.”
Sebastian said nothing.
“Demandin’. Spoilt. Shrewish.”
Sebastian shrugged.
The old man nodded, satisfied. “They said that, too.”
Sebastian frowned. “Said what?”
“That you were a model husband. Faithful. Patient. And never said a word against her.”
Sebastian returned to his perusal of the painting. Such talk made him uncomfortable.
“How did she die?”
Sebastian swallowed. He still found it hard to talk of. “She miscarried a month or so after her father died. She was found dead in a pool of blood.”
Sir Oswald nodded, “Hence the lurid tales. But I checked with the doctor. It wasn’t her first miscarriage, was it?”
Sebastian’s brows rose. “You’re very thorough.”
Sir Oswald looked smug.
Sebastian sighed. “No, it wasn’t the first time she’d miscarried. I didn’t want her to risk any more, but her father was obsessed with heirs.” He clenched his fist.
“What I don’t understand is why the devil you didn’t scotch the gossip when it started. You weren’t even there when it happened. You were out west, seein’ to one of the mines.”
Sebastian shrugged. “People believe what they want to.”
The old man snorted. “We’ll see about that!”
Sebastian rose to leave, but Sir Oswald’s next words stopped him cold. “I traced your family connections.”
He turned back furiously. “Dammit, Sir Oswald, you had no right! My family connections are my own business!”
“Not when half the ton thinks you’re a bastard, it don’t! Why the devil did ye let that tale stick?”
Sebastian gave him a flat look.
“Hah! Pride, is it? Well let me tell you, young Reyne.” Sir Oswald wagged a severe finger at him. “Pride won’t butter onions!”
Sebastian blinked. “I never thought it would.”
“No indeed!” The old gentleman looked pleased with himself. “Second cousin to the Earl of Reyne. Now why keep that hidden?”
“He’s no family of mine!” Sebastian muttered, annoyed with himself for revealing his anger.
“They don’t recognize you?”
“I don’t recognize them!” He scowled, realizing he was going to have to explain. “The Earl of Reyne abandoned my mother, my brother, and my two baby sisters when they were in desperate need. I’ll have no part of the house of Reyne!”
The thick white eyebrows rose. “Weren’t you abandoned, too?”
Sebastian made a dismissive gesture. “I survived.”
“And your mother and brother didn’t. I see.” He added after a moment, “Your sisters survived.”
“No thanks to the blasted Earl of Reyne, devil take him!” Sebastian moderated his tone. “In truth, the girls almost did not survive! You have no idea of how close to tragedy they skated. So no! I do not recognize the Earl of Reyne!”
The old man nodded, a compassionate look in his eyes. “I understand.” He paused for a moment and said diffidently, “The new earl is your own age or younger. The old one died without issue. This earl could not have been part of what happened.”
Sebastian shrugged indifferently. He didn’t care one way or the other about the new earl. He hoped the old earl—the one his mother had written to and he himself had written to countless times—was rotting in hell.
Sir Oswald said, “Would you object if I sent out some feelers in that direction?”
Sebastian said impatiently, “What the devil is it to you?”
“Hope will make me a great-great-uncle one day soon.” He sniffed. “Child ought to have no stain on its background. Better its father is second cousin to the Earl of Reyne than a cit with no background.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. He steepled his fingers and added casually, “Better for those sisters of yours, too, come to think of it. Improve their chances of a good marriage. Little Dorie now, when she grows up, she’ll be a beauty. Right background, and she could snare a duke!” His eyes gleamed with bright ambition. “Wrong background, and . . .” He shook his head and gave a mournful sigh. And watched Sebastian from under his bushy white brows.
Sebastian knew very well the old man was trying to manipulate him, but he also knew he was right, dammit! “Very well! Do what you like—but I won’t go cap in hand to them!”
Sir Oswald looked horrified. “I beg you won’t take a cap anywhere at all, dear boy! Most unfashionable, caps—apart from the bedchamber. Very lower orders, if you know what I mean. In any case, it’s more likely the Reynes will come courtin’ you.”
Sebastian made a rude noise. “In a pig’s eye they will!”
The old man wagged a reproving finger at him. “Aha! Fine old family—yes. Lovely old house, too, and plenty of land. And all encumbered to the hilt!” He grinned. “You’re the only Reyne with any money, m’boy. Take my word for it, they’ll welcome you with open arms!”
Sebastian snorted.
Sir Oswald said in a coaxing voice, “If young Cassie had her coming-out ball at Reyne House, would make a big splash. You’
d have to fund it, o’ course. Cost you a pretty penny, but it’d be an investment in the girl’s future.”
Sebastian thought about it. He’d originally sought a wife among the members of the ton so his sisters could take their rightful place in society, the place to which their birth entitled them. In the face of that, his pride didn’t matter.
Besides, he’d moved a long way past the hurt and bitter man he used to be. The new earl was not responsible for the actions of the old earl. He thought of Hope, his beautiful dreamer, his new beginning, and nodded to Sir Oswald. “Very well, sir. Do what you will.”
“Splendid! Excellent! Now, your own wedding—St. George’s, Hanover Square, I trust?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Whatever Hope wants. I don’t mind.”
Sir Oswald rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Good, good. St. George’s it is, then. Most fashionable church in England. Only possible choice.”
“Aunt Gussie has taken Lady Elinore under her wing,” Hope explained as she twirled around Mr. Reyne in the supper dance.
He made an interested sound, so she continued, “I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize her, but Mr. Bemerton is wrong if he thinks someone is making her do something she does not wish to do.” She chuckled. “I thought he would strangle poor Mr. Hathaway when Lady Elinore decided she preferred to dance with him instead of Mr. Bemerton. And I’m sure Mr. Hathaway isn’t the dreadful rake Mr. Bemerton claimed he was.”
He made another indeterminate noise. Hope decided he was concentrating on the dance steps. Lady Thorn had daringly introduced a new Hungarian dance, calling it the Rimavska Galop. Luckily, it was quite simple and very exciting—a little like a fast waltz, in pairs in a circle around the floor. Glissade . . . chasse . . . then alternate.
“Aunt Gussie can be quite forceful, but I believe Lady Elinore is just as stubborn. Their, er, initial debates were positively explosive, but the results are extraordinary, are they not?”
He twirled her—glissade . . . chasse . . . alternate—watching her with tender, hungry eyes. That particular way he looked at her never failed to thrill her.
He said in a soft growl, “I don’t care if Lady Elinore is dressed as a gray ghost or Lady Godiva. The night is young, the music is playing, and I have you in my arms. Not wholly the way I want . . . I’d prefer you all to myself.” He looked at her with that dark and potent hunger that started her trembling, deep inside.
Desire.
Hope instantly forgot all about Lady Elinore and Aunt Gussie. She stared back, her mouth dry. Distracted, she stumbled, but he caught her smoothly and swept her on in the dance. He was so deliciously strong. She recalled the feeling of being carried in his arms . . . And the sensation of his mouth caressing her flesh . . .
She scanned the ballroom and checked the whereabouts of her chaperone, her twin, and her great-uncle. All were concentrating on the new dance. “We could slip out into the garden for a few moments,” she suggested. “No one will notice. Everyone is watching their steps.”
He led her to the farthest corner of the garden, out of reach of the bright lozenges of light that spilled from the French windows of the ballroom onto the terrace, away from the burning brands in their specially fitted sconces.
He circled a bed of roses, their rich fragrance filling the air. The music receded into the distance. The garden was still and silent, clean and moist and fragrant from a recent shower. The air was warm and filled with perfume, the night velvety dark. There was no moon. A whisper of breeze stirred the leaves of the birches that lined the garden’s high stone walls.
His arms tightened around her, and she shivered in them, though she was not cold. His lips were devastatingly gentle, teasing, persuading, arousing. She clung to him, wanting more, seeking more.
His body pressed against hers, and she felt herself rubbing against him, reveling in his strength and his heat and his power, feeling her own heat and power reach to complement his.
“More,” she whispered. “More.” She pushed her body against him, wanting a closer connection, reaching for him blindly, blissfully, feeling the hard thrust of his arousal, yet not knowing how to complete the action she craved.
He kissed her deeply then, long, drugging kisses, passionate and intense and focused on her, just on her. She tasted his male hunger and his need. Female hunger and need came bubbling up to meet it, and heat rose between them like a fever.
The scents of the night rose all around them, and eventually Sebastian pulled back, breathing hard. “We must stop,” he ground out. “Or else . . .”
“Why?” she panted, feeling shaky, incomplete.
He released her and stood leaning against a stone urn overflowing with mint and lemon verbena. The scent of the crushed leaves was sharp and clean. He breathed in deep, unsteady breaths. “If we do not stop, I will end up taking you here, in the garden, and that I will not do. Not where anyone can stumble across us.”
She bit her lip as it occurred to her that on the chaise longue that time, she’d screamed. If that happened here . . .
He caressed her face tenderly and said in a rough, soft voice. “There will be another time, another place, my love. And when we are married, we will not have to stop.”
She reached out a hand to him. “Promise?”
He nodded slowly. “I promise.”
The final waltz was about to begin. Every gentleman had heard of the extraordinary rumor that Hope Merridew had signed that fellow for the last waltz—the third one she’d granted him, too! But not every gentleman accepted it. As Sebastian strode up to take Hope’s hand and lead her out onto the floor, three men stepped forward, blocking his way.
“Look here, Reyne. Where you come from it might be all right to make a lady the object of persistent attentions, but in the polite world we do things differently.”
Sebastian’s brows rose. “Indeed?”
The three gentlemen pressed forward threateningly and were joined by several more. “Yes, indeed. Miss Merridew chooses a different partner for the last waltz every night. It is something of a tradition.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, so why not try at least to imitate the gentleman you ape and leave the girl alone!”
Sebastian said in a voice of soft menace, “I ape no one. And Miss Merridew has, of her own free will granted the last waltz to me, for tonight and every other night in the future.”
There was a hiss of outrage at his words.
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Merridew has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.” He paused to let the words sink in, then added, “And Sir Oswald has, this very night, approved the match. And now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my betrothed is waiting, and where I come from, a gentleman does not keep a lady waiting.”
In deep shock, the solid bank of men parted to let him through.
The final waltz drew slowly, reluctantly to a close. Sebastian stood with Hope in his arms, not wanting to release her. Her eyes were dreamy, half-closed, her body still swaying to the silent echoes of the music. “I wish it could go on forever,” she murmured. “Will you dance me home, beloved?”
His arm tightened involuntarily. He wanted to pull her close.
“Anywhere you want, love. To the ends of the earth and back, if you wish.”
A moment later the sound of a violin playing drifted in from the garden.
“The count,” said Hope. “And I remember now, Lady Thorn said the evening is to end with a fireworks display! Come along—let us find a good vantage spot. I adore fireworks.”
People crowded out onto the terrace, drawn by the haunting, beautiful music of the lone gypsy fiddler. The count stood partially in the shadows, only his silhouette and the outline of his violin visible in the flickering flames of fiery brands placed nearby. The violin soared and sobbed in a strange lament that pulled at the heartstrings.
No wonder Faith could not resist him, thought Hope, watching. He was the very embodiment of the romantic hero they’d imagined in their girlhood. And his mu
sic was irresistible.
She felt the hard, strong arm of the big man at her side tighten around her waist, and leaned into him, dizzy with love. No imaginary hero could live up to her Sebastian.
The music reached a long, quavering crescendo and suddenly died. In the sudden hush, there was the sound of a loud slap, followed by a muffled masculine exclamation. “I am not in the least ruined!” exclaimed an unseen female crossly. A genteel ripple of amused speculation passed through the crowd.
Sebastian choked. “If I’m not mistaken that was—”
Hope giggled. “It was, I’m sure.”
Hope pressed against Sebastian. “It’s a magical evening, isn’t it? Look.”
Sebastian followed her gaze. Her twin, Faith, stood pressed against a pillar, her eyes glued to the gypsy fiddler, her face dreamy, entranced. Then, as the last note of the fiddle music died on the evening air, a shower of stars filled the sky. The fireworks display had started.
The glittering silver and gold sparks lit up the night in a series of brief, brilliant displays. The crowd watched each new burst to the accompaniment of oohs and aahs.
Hope and Sebastian watched, enchanted. Or at least Hope watched the fireworks, enchanted, and Sebastian watched her face, which was enchanting. He’d seen fireworks before and enjoyed them, but he’d never seen them with her. Her capacity for pleasure and enjoyment was contagious. He absorbed it like a starving man.
Under the pretext of finding a better vantage point, he drew her farther along the terrace and found a place where, in the brief lulls between rockets or showers of colored sparks, he could steal a kiss or two. Most faces were turned skyward, but as he bent to kiss Hope, something caught Sebastian’s eye.
He murmured in Hope’s ear. “It must be catching. Look over there.” He pointed to where a slender, golden-haired gypsy lad stood locked in a passionate embrace with a small, dark-haired lady dressed enticingly in scarlet.
“I’m so glad,” Hope said. “Now we can be completely happy.” She twined her arms around his neck and began to shower him with kisses. “This is the most heavenly night. I think love must be in the air.”