Divine (House of Oak Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Upcoming Books

  Author's Note

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Mom,

  for late-night readings of Coleridge and Tennyson,

  for first inspiring my love of words.

  And to Dave,

  who still turns my insides all melty.

  Prologue

  The ballroom

  Stratton Hall

  Warwickshire

  March 10, 1808

  Sebastian Carew was a man without a heart.

  Not that he didn't have one in the conventional sense. There was definitely an organ in his chest that beat a steady rhythm, and friends regularly described him as good-humored and courteous.

  He was by no means heartless.

  But rather, Sebastian had quite thoroughly lost his heart years ago.

  He pondered this reality as he stood in the Earl of Stratton’s ballroom. Listening to bright, cascading laughter.

  Not any laughter.

  Her laughter.

  The sound had slammed into his solar plexus, hard and swift, leaving him gasping.

  Straining to see through the crowd of people, he located her gleaming head on the arm of her brother. She was smiling, brilliant, drawing every eye. Candles flickered around her golden hair, surrounding her in light.

  As if some angel were sending him a sign.

  Sebastian swallowed and glanced away. He wasn’t sure he believed in signs, divine or otherwise.

  And if there were some divine angel, it would be a decidedly ironic one with a wicked sense-of-humor.

  Dwelling on her would only bring him heartache. And a man of his social position did not have the luxury of heartache. He should just walk away, out the door without looking back.

  But against his will, his head turned, drinking her in.

  He pushed against the memory of that morning six years earlier when he had topped a small hill, lifted his head into the rising sun.

  And saw her.

  Standing in the dew-kissed meadow, surrounded by wild flowers and burnished sunflare. Her back to him, blond hair hanging loose in waves down to her waist, shimmering like spun gold just as poets describe. Her arms outstretched wide, face tilted toward the sky. The goddess of morning come to embrace her realm.

  The moment had seared into his soul, stretching time. The precise point which had divided his life ever after into two distinct parts.

  Before her and after her.

  When his heart had been irretrievably lost.

  And now, like a helpless planet to her sun, she pulled him into her gravity, held him tethered and thralled.

  Miss Georgiana Elizabeth Augusta Knight.

  It had been four years, six months and—here Sebastian did a quick calculation—fourteen days since he had seen her last. He shook his head.

  How pathetic that he knew that.

  Her grandmother’s estate, Lyndenbrooke, was part of the local parish where Sebastian’s stepfather was vicar. Georgiana had lived with her grandmother at Lyndenbrooke for a year after her father’s death. That one glorious year in which she became everything that he knew he would never have. A highborn heiress like Miss Knight did not marry a poor vicar’s stepson with nothing to recommend himself beyond a charming smile and good-natured humor.

  Such were the rules of polite society.

  And as one who inhabited merely the edges of polite society, Sebastian knew better than most the power of such rules.

  He stared at Georgiana across the ballroom, surrounded by eager swains. She was here as a distinguished guest, whereas he had only been invited as a local gentleman and distant relation to the earl. Someone who could be relied upon to dance with every wallflower and flirt outrageously with each widow.

  His lack of prospects were all that prevented her from considering him as a potential suitor. If he were wealthy and titled, then she would see him.

  He tossed that thought around his brain. Tried to convince himself of its truth.

  Tried to believe she was the kind of woman who cared about status and money.

  She was not.

  He watched Georgiana curtsy prettily to Lord Harward—Lord Stratton’s son and heir—and his new bride. Georgiana tilted her head. Her long neck graceful, the pearls around her throat and elegant white dress proclaiming to one and all her eligible status as a wealthy debutante.

  Lovely. Angelic. Always just out of reach.

  Sebastian would just watch her from a safe distance. That would be enough.

  But his feet had other ideas apparently, as he soon found himself threading through the ballroom toward her.

  As he drew near, her head swiveled, and his heart thundered as he saw recognition dawn. One of her wide, glorious smiles lit up her face. Warm and welcoming.

  It was enough to slay a man.

  His emotions seesawed between excitement and dread, neither emotion quite gaining the upper hand. He swallowed, tight and hard.

  There was no helping a greeting now.

  “Miss Knight, it is a pleasure to see you.” Sebastian performed a short bow and gave her his melting smile. The one that his mother said could charm birds from trees. Granted, mothers had to say such things.

  But Georgiana returned the smile in full measure. She was something of an expert in melting smiles herself, Sebastian realized. The kind that turned one’s insides to pudding.

  “Mr. Carew, what a delight!” Georgiana curtsied in return. Her brother cocked a curious eyebrow, and she turned to him. “James, this is one of my friends from my time with Grandmama, Mr. Sebastian Carew. Remember? I believe you may have met. Mr. Carew, may I present my older brother, Mr. James Knight.”

  Sebastian executed another of his flawless bows, noting the resemblance between James Knight and his younger sister: golden hair, shockingly blue eyes, that same wide smile.

  “Carew, eh?” Knight asked, also bending in greeting. “Any relation to John Carew, the Earl of Stratton?” Knight gestured toward the elegant silver-haired earl across the room.

  “Distantly. My father died when I was a babe and my mother remarried the local vicar.”

  Knight nodded, his gaze casually scanning Sebastian’s attire. Noting the serviceable coat which didn’t fit quite as tightly as it should, the boots still shabby despite the hours spent polishing them. All the subtle telltale marks that did not add up to money, to prospects.

  There was no judgment or condemnation in Knight’s eyes, thank goodness, unlike other powerful men. But there was an air of dismissal. That quiet assessment which instantly placed Sebastian into a box labeled ‘Not Eligible for My Sister.’ A look with which Sebastian was long familiar.

  The orchestra struck up the first bars of a waltz.

  Don’t do it. Do not ask her.

  “Miss Knight, may I have the honor of this dance?”

  He asked her.

  Even a po
or, distant relation of the Earl of Stratton deserved a moment of heaven. A tiny taste of the life he would never have.

  “Of course, Mr. Carew. I would be honored.” She placed her hand in his. Even through gloves, her fingers seared.

  “Miss Knight?” she murmured as he led her to the dance floor. “Really, Sebastian, have we become so formal as that?”

  Oh, how he had missed the sound of her voice in his ear.

  “Well, I decided to have pity on your reputation and not call you ‘Georgie’ with everyone looking on,” he chuckled lowly.

  She gave him another lushly wide smile and playful tap with her fan. “Heavens, but it is so wonderful to see you after so many years. How are you, my oldest friend?”

  Gutted to the core at the sight of you but otherwise fine.

  Thank goodness his mouth obeyed him enough not to say that.

  “Delighted to see you, Georgie,” he said instead.

  He placed his hand on to the small of her back and twirled her into the familiar down-up-up rhythm.

  This made four, he realized.

  Four times that he had danced with her. And this was the first waltz.

  “I assume you are staying at Lyndenbrooke with your grandmother, Mrs. Knight?” he asked.

  “Of course. We just arrived earlier today. Grandmama has been happy of our company before we continue on to London.”

  It felt shockingly right to hold her in his arms, to feel her warm breath against his chin as she spoke. Being with her had always been like this. Effortless and comfortable, without a trace of awkwardness, even now after a separation of four years. Such a pity social conventions decreed unmarried men and women could not exchange correspondence. He had to rely on chance meetings to speak with her. And for gentlemen of limited means, chance meetings were few and far between.

  He saw her reflected in the mirrored walls of the ballroom. Tall and slender, white skirts swirling around them.

  He had always loved her height, that he didn’t have to crouch down to talk to her as with other women. Being the tallest man in the room did have its drawbacks. As it was, her head barely reached his shoulder, golden hair contrasting with his brown.

  Blood pounded in his ears. It was the worst sort of agony. Having her in his arms, feeling so much like home, and yet knowing there would never be anything beyond this moment.

  Why was he doing this to himself? Dancing was only going to make everything worse. He twirled her once, twice.

  Georgiana stared off into the mid-distance, lost in thought.

  “Still an expert at wool-gathering, I take it,” he said, suppressing a smile.

  Georgiana started slightly and gave him a rueful grin.

  “Please tell me your thoughts, at minimum, involved a dank castle and dastardly rogue?” He arched an eyebrow.

  She laughed, quicksilver and bright.

  Really, it shouldn’t be legal—a laugh like that. It wreaked havoc with a man’s good sense.

  “Remember, Sebastian, you are to pretend not to notice my daydreaming? But no—no dastardly rogues this time. I was thinking about that year. It was such a difficult time for me, with my father’s sudden death, my mother a little crazy with grief, and James trying to hold us all together.”

  As if Sebastian could forget that year. As if every minute he had spent with her wasn’t emblazoned in his memory. Hiding underneath the drooping branches of that huge white willow as she spun fantastical stories about kidnapped maidens and heroic knights, her giggling laughter as he taught her to catch frogs and skip rocks, sitting in the vicarage kitchen making biscuits with his sisters, gossiping and teasing.

  Yes, he remembered everything with vivid clarity. Too vivid.

  He gave her a game smile. “Not to mention all the quilling your governess obliged you to do.”

  Georgiana gave an elegant shudder. “Tis most ungentlemanly of you to remind me, Seb. Poor Miss Smith was exceptionally fond of paper filigree. Quilling is so incredibly tedious, endlessly twirling and gluing and molding all those tiny strips of paper. Do you remember that work basket she forced me to complete?”

  “The one with the puffy, little lambs?”

  “Precisely. It was hideous.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I would call it hideous. There is a certain elegance to lambs prancing through roses.”

  Georgiana froze slightly, her eyes hesitantly searching his for any hint of mockery. Sebastian tried to keep his look innocuous, but it was no use. His lips twitched upward.

  “The rainbow arching over the entire scene was a nice touch,” he said innocently and then ruined the entire effect by laughing.

  At least he told himself it was a laugh. Not a guffaw.

  “Seb, you are truly terrible!” Georgiana pursed her mouth and attempted a quelling stare. However, her dancing gaze betrayed her.

  “Well, I do try. Having so many older sisters has given me a certain amount of practice.”

  Georgiana chuckled appreciatively and locked her playful eyes with his. Those impossibly huge blue eyes, pools of morning sky. Eyes which transported back to that year.

  When they had been Seb and Georgie. Georgie and Seb.

  Living in each other’s pockets, finishing each other’s sentences. When he had surrendered himself to her, heart and soul.

  He had thought—wished, even, in his darker moments—that the connection he felt to her would fade over time.

  But, no, Fate would not be so kind to him.

  As they danced and laughed together, the past became present, and he allowed himself to hope. Maybe he could woo her, win her. Claim a small share of happiness for himself.

  Hope. Such a foolish, futile emotion.

  He twirled her again, drinking in her glorious eyes.

  Maybe . . . just maybe, this time she would finally see him . . .

  “Despite your teasing, you were so generous to befriend an awkward, chatterbox of a girl.” She smiled up at him, fondly. “You made the grief of that year more bearable. I felt so blessed to have your friendship. It was like God had sent me another brother. I will always appreciate your kindness.”

  Sebastian felt his smile freeze.

  Brother. Ouch.

  The pain was swift, slicing deep.

  She thought of him as a brother. Warm, uncomplicated filial feelings. While his for her were decidedly . . . not.

  Well, his feelings were warm too. But they were about as far from filial . . .

  He swallowed. He needed to change the topic. Now.

  “Tell me of the latest on-dit.” It was a question born of old habit.

  She arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Tell me a scandal,” he’d say. “Something shocking.”

  “Why should I know anything scandalous, Seb?”

  “Please. You love gossip like you love to breathe.” He nudged her shoulder. “Probably more.”

  “Well . . .” She tapped her lips. Thinking. “I did overhear Grandmama talking with the housekeeper this morning about the new blacksmith . . .”

  “What makes you think I still read the broadsheets, Sebastian?” she asked archly.

  “The sun still rises in the east, so I am quite sure the world as I know it has not entirely collapsed. And of all people, Georgie, you would remain the same. Here, I will even give you the topic—Lord Harward and his recent marriage.” Sebastian nodded his head toward the gentleman dancing across the room with his new bride.

  “Oh, that has been delicious, has it not?” Georgiana grinned. Her face lit with mischief. “How wicked of Lord Stratton! Requiring his heir to marry before his twenty-seventh birthday or risk losing his entire fortune.”

  “And to gooseberries, no less.”

  “That is the best part of the story. I understand Lord Stratton found the whole situation entirely diverting.”

  “And Harward decidedly did not appreciate his father’s ridiculous meddling.” Sebastian gave a rueful smile.

  His decidedly eccentric relation, John Carew, Ear
l of Stratton, had determined several months ago that his wayward son and heir, Viscount Harward, needed to marry. Being the president of the West Midlands Heritage Gooseberry Society and a decided enthusiast, Lord Stratton had altered his will. The new will stipulated that if Lord Harward did not marry before his twenty-seventh birthday, the absurdly large sum of sixty thousands pounds would be divided between three gooseberry societies: one being Stratton’s own gooseberry society—the other two belonging to his longtime friends, Sir Henry Stylles and Lord Blackwell.

  Good friends, all three men had spent the last twenty-five years indulging in a shared passion for the small fruit. Fierce gooseberry devotees, Sir Henry and Lord Blackwell had reportedly been giddy over the prospect of potentially receiving twenty thousand pounds each to devote to their gooseberry cultivars.

  Given young Lord Harward’s distaste for gooseberries and love of money, it had proved an ingenious motivation. Harward had courted and married within eight weeks. Sebastian looked over at the silver-haired Lord Stratton, standing and chatting with two widows, regal and yet sparkling with energy and mischief. The elderly earl was an unmitigated rogue.

  “I heard tell that women were endlessly inventive in their attempts to woo Lord Harward. It is said that Lady Margaret Simon hid in Harward’s dressing room intending to trap him into marriage.”

  “Have you still not learned that it is not proper for a lady to gossip?” Sebastian shook his head in mock censure, spinning her again. The strains of the waltz drifted around them.

  She laughed and made a dismissive gesture with her head, easily brushing away any prick of conscience.

  “Please! You asked me about the scandal first.” She shot him an amused eyebrow.

  He chuckled. “Indeed. My apologies.”

  “Besides, without gossip, what is a lady to do?” Georgiana said, matter-of-fact. “How else should we occupy our time? As ladies, we are obligated to merely pretend not to like it, that is all. Gossip is what makes the world turn round, I daresay. Secrets are far too much fun. It is the only way to be involved, to feel truly connected, don’t you think?”

  Ah, Georgiana. Always so utterly herself without apology.

  Sebastian nodded in agreement, grinning at her. They twirled again, her body light and graceful, flowing easily with him.