by Ashley March
“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Kemble scribbled a note on the little book she carried around with her everywhere, as much a part of her person as the round of keys she wore at her waist.
Leah moved slightly until her back was fully turned toward Sebastian and she could no longer see him in her periphery. It didn’t matter, however; her body was still attuned to his presence, aware of his gaze on her. Another blush heated beneath her skin. “Oh, and one more. For dessert, add a blackberry tart.”
“Is there anything else, madam?”
Leah shifted from one foot to the other. Perhaps if she changed the entire menu, enough time would elapse that he would leave. “No, that will be all.”
“Very good. I’ll alert Chef to the changes immediately. Thank you, madam.” With a curtsy, Mrs. Kemble turned and bustled away, her notebook tucked beneath her arm.
Taking a deep breath, Leah turned and faced Sebastian. Though tempted to sail straight past him without a word, she cloaked herself in the polite control to which she was accustomed and gave him her most winsome smile. “Have the guests become impatient? Did they send you out to find me?”
He ignored her questions and stepped forward. Only a foot away. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”
Leah raised her brows and started walking, creating a more comfortable distance between them. “Perhaps another time. The others are waiting, and it’s sure to be a long evening. You have to change into your costume as Julius Caesar, do you not?”
Oh, God. And now an image of Sebastian clothed in nothing but a toga seared her mind.
“You’re trying to avoid me.” His strides matched hers, making her attempt to preserve distance between them impossible. “I’m disappointed, Leah. You did so well earlier today.” His voice deepened, taunting her.
She stared straight ahead. Had she not made it clear enough the night before? She didn’t want him. “On the contrary, my lord. I shall be happy to speak with you in the drawing room, but I refuse to be rude to everyone el—”
He grabbed her arm and whirled her toward him at the foot of the stairs. “Allow me to apologize for last evening’s mistake. You have no need to fear me, Leah.”
She glanced up the staircase, toward the voices she could hear coming from the drawing room, then back. “I don’t fear you,” she said, steadily meeting his gaze, daring him to repeat it again.
“Then why did you run away?”
“Please remove your hand from my arm.”
He looked down and stared at the place where his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Instead of releasing her, he turned his grip into a caress, easing beneath the sleeve of her widow’s gown to stroke her skin.
Leah yanked away, trying to ignore the fire spreading from the inside of her wrist to her chest, the inside of her thighs. “Damn you, Sebastian,” she breathed, then turned and began climbing up the stairs. Her spine was straight, her steps steady and graceful. A dignified departure, but they both knew she was running away again.
Halfway up, Sebastian’s voice, hushed but still strong enough to set tremors racing through her body, carried to her from below. “I lied last night, Mrs. George.”
Clutching her skirts more tightly, Leah continued up the stairs.
“I didn’t kiss you because I wanted revenge on Ian or Angela.”
Leah faltered, almost losing her balance as her slipper caught the hem of her dress. Reaching out toward the banister, she kept her eyes on the landing above. On the landscape Ian’s great-grandmother had painted of Linley Park, on the two rose-patterned chairs positioned below.
His voice followed her, unrelenting. Defiant. “I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I wanted you.”
Her legs trembling beneath her, Leah ran to the top. Her breath shuddered as she turned toward the drawing room.
“Leah.”
She glanced down at the sound of her name, long enough to meet his eyes, to see the desire written clearly across his face. Then, with a low gasp, she fled—away from Sebastian and the reflection of her own need.
Chapter 12
I will send you a reply tomorrow. I found this two days ago, and thought of you. No matter what happens—I love you. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”
The next day, Leah changed the structure of the house party. Instead of the group activities she had scheduled, she encouraged the men to go out and enjoy the more traditional amusements of a country house party: fishing, hunting, riding. She let them choose, as she didn’t care what they decided as long as it kept Sebastian far away from her. The ladies stayed mostly indoors: chatting, knitting, and playing instruments in the music room. When they did venture outside in the late afternoon, it was to take long walks in the gardens, areas where Leah knew the men would not be.
At dinner Leah urged the most talkative of the guests—Lady Elliot and Mr. Dunlop—to regale the rest of the table with gossip they’d heard toward the end of the Season, and bits that were currently making the rounds from house party to house party.
Afterward, when she suggested an evening of cards, Leah made certain she remained occupied on the opposite side of the room from Sebastian. Though they both knew she was avoiding him, he surprised her when he made no effort to stay close or even to make sure she didn’t have an opportunity to be alone with the guests.
Apparently he trusted her now, although he would soon learn it to be a mistake.
The following morning, the day of the dinner party and the last day of the house party itself, Leah finally rose early enough to find everyone else still at breakfast. However, instead of having a plate readied for herself, she stood before the table and made an announcement.
“I apologize for my absence, but I’ve prepared a surprise for the dinner party tonight which requires me to journey to Swindon.”
“Oh, I do like surprises,” Mrs. Meyer said, looking at her husband. He nodded in agreement.
“Unfortunately, I’ll be gone for several hours.” Leah motioned to Herrod. She gave him a list she’d penned the night of the tableaux vivants, one which had kept her busy from thinking of Sebastian’s words that evening . . . and the handsome tragedy he’d presented as Julius Caesar. “But I encourage you to look at the paper I’ve provided Herrod. It lists several more activities which Ian enjoyed.”
Though the expressions of the guests were curious, no one pressed her for further details. Even Sebastian abstained from questioning her, though she could feel his gaze on her back as she excused herself and walked out the door.
Once inside the coach, Leah tried to relax in the seat and prepare for the ride which would take well over an hour. She glanced across to the opposite side, where the black organza gown she’d never intended to wear in front of anyone else now lay neatly folded inside a long, rectangular box.
Leah—recent widow, self-made rebel—had decided to dance.
A test, that’s what she’d told Sebastian the other evening. The entire house party, from the beginning when she first thought of hosting it, to sending out the invitations, to planning events which pleased her and her alone, was meant to be a test to her new determination to live as she wanted. Her choice, to not bow to the expectations of others, but to find her own happiness through the independence she’d gained after Ian’s death.
And if she wanted to dance at her dinner party when most of society would agree that such a thing was wholly inappropriate for a widow in mourning, she would do it. And if she wanted to not only wear the black organza dress that was more a mockery of her widowhood than a symbol, but also to alter it into a scandalous style, then that was her choice. As she’d told Lady Elliot before, the happiness she created for herself now was for more important to her than the prison of her own reputation.
There would be consequences—she wasn’t naive to think she could escape unscathed—but for the first time in her life, Leah wasn’t afraid to discover what those consequences might be.
Wat
ching the hills roll by, with the thickets of trees few and far between, Leah idly wondered at Sebastian’s response to the news that there would be dancing after dinner that evening.
She’d meant to tell everyone that morning, as she knew the ladies would be thrilled at the prospect, but after Sebastian’s kiss in the garden and their subsequently frayed relationship, she thought better of it. Instead, she would tell them later this afternoon, before they began preparing to dress for the meal. Then it would be too late for Sebastian to try to cancel the party, as the other guests from the surrounding area would already be preparing at their own houses.
The more interesting thought, of course, was what Sebastian would do when he realized she meant to dance along with the other guests, especially when he saw what she wore.
He would be furious, that was certain.
But no matter his reaction, she didn’t plan to dance for him, and she didn’t intend to wear the gown for him. If she’d learned nothing else from the garden incident and the way she kept running from Sebastian, it was that part of her was still locked away with Ian in the past. And tonight, at last, she meant to be free.
The coach swung roughly around a corner, sending the dress box sliding across the opposite seat. Leah stretched forward to save it from falling to the floor. Catching it with both hands, she dragged it onto her lap. It remained there, held tightly beneath her arms, until they reached Swindon.
The dressmaker, Mrs. Neville, met her at the door of the shop. Much smaller than any modiste’s shop in London, Mrs. Neville’s business had only one assistant, and Leah saw her head bent low over a skirt as the dressmaker escorted her into the back room.
Mrs. Neville looked Leah over from head to toe, taking in her veil, dusty black skirts, and no doubt wondering at her widow’s weeds. Soon, however, the dressmaker held out her arms. “I assume this is the gown you mentioned in your note?”
Leah hesitated, almost reluctant now to give her the box.
“Madam? You do still wish me to make the alterations by tonight, yes?”
With a sense of stepping over an invisible line she’d only previously contemplated, Leah nodded and placed the box in Mrs. Neville’s hands. “Yes.”
“Helen,” Mrs. Neville called to the girl at the other end of the room. “Put down that skirt for now. Please help Mrs. George undress.”
Leah submitted as the assistant removed her veil and bonnet, then unbuttoned and pulled the dull black dress over her head.
At a table in a nearby corner, Mrs. Neville clucked her tongue appreciatively as she opened the box and lifted Leah’s gown out. She turned to Leah with a sly smile, her hands smoothing over the fabric. “I believe I’m beginning to understand what you wish, Mrs. George.”
Soon, with Helen’s help, they lowered the organza gown over her head. Even without the alterations made, Leah couldn’t help but be pleased as she glanced in a mirror set against the opposite wall. Although it was black like all of the other dresses she’d worn since the carriage accident, the customary white trimmings were missing from the high neck and around the wrists. The organza wasn’t crisp against her skin like bombazine or wrinkled like crepe; it was soft, the skirt shimmering blue with the light, fluid and supple in her hands. In contrast, the petticoats beneath felt too stiff, too restrictive.
Mrs. Neville began taking measurements around her waist. As she moved to the back, Leah could feel her fingers skimming over the long line of pearl buttons. “What would you like me to do with these, madam? I could sew them around the edge, if you like.”
Leah considered the mirror and the bold woman within. For the first time in a very long while, she met her own gaze without flinching away. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Mrs. Neville.”
After half an hour, the dressmaker finished with the other measurements to the bodice and shoulders and stepped back. “Very good, Mrs. George. I don’t believe it will take me long. I’ll have it delivered to you by six.”
Leah nodded, took one last glance into the mirror, and smiled.
“She’s a fine mare, but no better than Lord Derryhow’s. I saw her at Ascot last year, when her left leg turned lame shortly after the first turn . . .” Any words Sebastian had meant to say next disappeared as Leah walked into the drawing room.
“But her bloodlines are far superior. Why, her sire was—”
Sebastian blocked out the sound of the voice of Baron Cooper-Giles, who apparently hadn’t yet seen the beautiful woman who’d just entered.
“Lord Wriothesly?”
Sebastian gestured toward the doorway. “I believe Mrs. George has returned from preparing her surprise for this evening.”
A surprise that required her to leave her guests for most of the morning and early afternoon. Whatever she’d done, she appeared quite pleased about it, her eyes sparkling despite her attempt to match the somber tone of her mourning clothes. Sebastian turned his head, fingering the curtain of the window he leaned against as he glanced outside. No matter how much he’d tried to stay away from her yesterday, his memory teased him mercilessly with reminders of their kiss and the desire he’d witnessed in her eyes. Sebastian released the curtain to look at Leah. Or perhaps he’d only imagined the desire; he certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it since.
“I apologize for not telling you before now,” she said, “but I wanted to make sure all the details were in place. Tonight, after dinner, I’ve arranged for musicians to come. We’ll finish both the dinner party and the house party with dancing.”
Although murmurs had risen when she appeared in the drawing room, guesses made regarding the surprise for the evening, her announcement about dancing withered every voice in the room. Each moment of silence pulsated with the question in everyone’s minds: would she dance as well?
Jaw clenched, Sebastian waited with them for the answer, although he already suspected the truth. While he understood Leah’s quest for freedom and might have encouraged it otherwise, if she did decide to dance, the rumors created in the wake of the scandal could escalate dangerously. It was possible they wouldn’t extend to Ian and Angela, nor then to Henry’s legitimacy. Possible, but Sebastian wasn’t comfortable with the idea of possible.
Leah inclined her head, the ribbons of her widow’s cap swaying with the motion. Her posture, her expression, every movement she made bespoke modesty and meekness. Sebastian crossed his arms and watched her, looking for any nuance that would give her thoughts away.
“As I said before, I know this isn’t a usual house party, but with this being the last night, I wanted to do something to express my appreciation for your presence. Ian always enjoyed dancing. Tonight, I hope you will, too.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. She focused on their enjoyment, their dancing, but she didn’t say she wouldn’t be joining them.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I believe our other guests will be arriving in a little over an hour. I must get ready for dinner.”
As Leah turned and exited the drawing room, he had to admit it was very well done. In only a few sentences, she’d been able to raise even more speculation: she would attend the dinner—that much was clear—but would she also attend the dancing? And if so, would she participate or simply observe?
It was the perfect way to heighten excitement about the evening. Unfortunately for her, it was also the perfect way to ensure he would corner her before the dinner began and discover her true intentions.
Almost as soon as Leah left, the other women departed for their own preparations. The men took the opportunity to lounge about and chat about horses and the upcoming fox hunting season before they had to return to their rooms as well.
Sebastian didn’t wait, however. Excusing himself, he made his way to the opposite wing and shortly found the mistress’ bedchamber. Looking down both ends of the corridor to make sure no one saw him at Leah’s door, he knocked once, then twice more.
As if to torture him, an image of Leah undressing immediately arose in his mind.
Grima
cing, he knocked again, then stepped to the side when he heard footsteps near the door. Even though it was likely one of her maids, he didn’t want to take the chance of accidentally spying Leah in her undergarments. Or, God forbid, seeing even one inch of her bare skin beyond her face and hands.
He heard the door unlatch; then a round face peeked out at him from around the doorframe. Her lady’s maid blinked. “Yes, my lord? How may I be of assistance?”
Sebastian straightened away from the wall. “Please tell Mrs. George—”
“Oh, is that Lord Wriothesly?” he heard her call from inside the room.
The maid peered over her shoulder. “Yes, madam.”
There was a rustling sound, and soon the lady’s maid disappeared. Leah appeared in her place, wearing another of her ordinary black crepe mourning gowns. However, no widow’s cap covered her head. Instead, most of her hair was hanging down, as if the maid had just begun to work on it. Light brown locks gleaming like golden amber flowed over her shoulders and caressed the side of her face. The same locks he’d made the mistake of touching only a few nights ago.
Leah smiled as she looked at him, all of the vulnerability and insecurity she’d revealed to him before now hidden behind the curve of her lips. Sebastian suppressed the urge to reach out and touch her hair again, to stroke her mouth with his thumb, to see the pretense of her expression fade away.
“I expect you want to know if I’ll be dancing with everyone else tonight,” she said, her gaze meeting his evenly.
“Are my thoughts so transparent?” He studied her face, willing himself to find Angela in the contrasts between their features. He could see Angela clearly when he was alone; though he tried to dismiss her memory, she was everywhere he looked. He would spy her profile in the pattern on the wallpaper, or imagine her reclined on his bed at night, the voluptuous curve of her back turned toward him. If he attempted to squeeze his eyes shut and block her from his thoughts, her image clung to the black slate of his vision, taunting him, refusing to let him forget her.