by Eva Leigh
As William and Miss Susan ambled off, trailing laughter behind them, embarrassment and anger tightened Seb’s muscles. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to take a calming breath.
“I’m sorry, Sebastian.”
His eyes opened at the sound of Grace’s voice, and she stood in front of him, her gaze soft with sympathy. In the corner of the room, her maid sat on a chair while she read.
“They were beastly,” Grace said.
He inwardly groaned. “You witnessed that?” Perfect.
She nodded. “Never seen it in action before. Is that how it always is?”
“Not with people I know, people who I consider my friends.” Christ, could he feel any more mortification? “But if they’re strangers to me, or I’m in social situations, I simply . . .” He shrugged stiffly. “You know. You’ve seen. I turn into a maladroit oaf with the finesse of a badger.”
“You have a better vocabulary than a badger.”
“Except I can’t access it when I’m too busy mumbling.” He held up his hand. “My gracelessness is hardly worth discussing. Not when you’ve got that set of your mouth you have when you’re unhappy.”
She let out a long exhale, and her shoulders drooped. To keep from reaching for her and offering physical comfort, he pretended his feet were bolted to the ground and his arms were weighted with sandbags.
“My father fell ill yesterday.” At Seb’s exclamation of alarm, she continued. “He’s recovering, told me this morning that I was to continue on with my usual schedule. He insisted I come out this afternoon.” She shook her head as if she could not quite believe her father could be so commanding when ill.
She went on, “Tomorrow he’s leaving for our country estate to rest. Because he insisted, my mother and I are staying in London. But, after this brush with mortality . . .” Her gaze slid up toward the ceiling. “He urged me to marry. Soon.”
Seb straightened. “Ah.”
Grace—married. A concept he never truly wanted to contemplate. He supposed he’d believed they would go on as they always did, meeting at the Benezra or taking jaunts about the city together, friends until their dotage. A husband for Grace would certainly change everything. He crushed a flare of jealousy beneath his mental bootheel. What she wanted, what she desired, these things belonged to her alone, and he couldn’t let himself feel possessiveness. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.
Still. He made sure to keep a scowl from his face. As lightly as he could manage, he asked, “Anyone fitting the bill as your potential groom?”
She glanced around to ensure that no one was nearby. “You know who.”
“Someone with the initials M F.”
“The same.”
He made himself nod, though it was sodding difficult. “That should make both you and your father happy. Your naturalist would be the perfect candidate.” Fredericks had the wealth Seb didn’t, with the means to keep Grace secure and generously supported.
Goddamn it.
“Except the man in question doesn’t consider me bride material.” She exhaled. “To him, I’m a colleague, and nothing more.”
Thoughts churned in Seb’s mind. Despite his disgruntled mood that she was fixated on Fredericks, a familiar lift of energy came from contemplating a particularly complex topic. He welcomed it rather than think about the fact that, even if he couldn’t offer for Grace’s hand, she never considered him a candidate for husband.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I’ve a strong urge to don my scholar’s cap.”
“Don away.” She waved her hand.
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at her. She always encouraged him whenever he dove into the anthropological waters, never chiding him for his excitement.
“Here’s what I’m thinking—value’s relative in many societies. When something’s recognized as being precious, everyone desires it.” Warming to his topic, he continued, “One could take a thing—an object, or even a person—and if a respected individual in the community treats it or them as valuable, others invariably follow suit.”
She frowned, clearly perplexed. “Pull up on the reins. How does any of that apply to me and . . . the gentleman in question?”
“Sorry. I forget that not everyone is as hopelessly mired in ethnography as I am.” He felt a corner of his mouth turn up in a contrite half smile. “What I mean to say is that if someone from London’s elite showed you a marked preference, thus indicating your value as someone to be desired as a mate, then others, including the esteemed but myopic Mason Fredericks, will do the same.”
She straightened. “Who could have that effect?”
“Some noteworthy figure,” he said with a nod. “A person so admired by men and women alike that this person’s opinion would be highly respected.” He heard how his tone grew more animated as he delved further. “He should be known by everyone, esteemed, but just rebellious enough so that whatever he says or does is doubly potent. It’s known that a hint of disobedience makes certain personages extremely appealing.”
“The idea’s sound, but . . .” She spread her hands. “A rake who consorts with demimondaines and fellow libertines isn’t going to look in my direction. And where would I locate anyone like that? Sneak into a gaming hell, approach a man with a dashing coiffure and jaded eyes, and proposition him to pretend to court me?” She snorted. “Things like that don’t happen.”
“Er, no,” Seb conceded. “Perhaps you could find someone of your acquaintance?”
“My elder brother’s friends are all married, and I know few other men.”
“The Duke of Rotherby,” he said abruptly. “He’s a very good friend of mine, and a bit of a rake. Everyone hangs on his word, too.”
She widened her eyes. “I couldn’t ask an actual duke to feign wooing me.”
“Right. Not quite feasible.” He chuckled ruefully. “Perhaps I should think about challenging Lady Marwood for the title of Most Outrageous Tale-Teller in London.” He dragged his hands through his shaggy hair, pushing it off his forehead and dislodging his spectacles in the process. Quickly, he replaced his glasses.
When Grace came back into focus, he found her staring at him, as though she’d just made an incredible discovery.
Alarm prickled the back of his neck.
She grabbed him by the wrist and, with surprising strength, pulled him into the empty corridor. He was so stunned he couldn’t register the fact that this was one of the few instances where she actually touched him. Certainly it was the longest amount of time she’d ever done so.
Using that same strength, she positioned him to stand in front of her, and for the rest of his days, he’d never forget the look in her eyes as she gave him a thorough survey.
Oh, God.
Then she stepped closer, her scent of flowers and loam surrounding him, and his sense of reason winked out of existence.
Grace’s heart pounded and she could barely catch her breath as she narrowed the distance between herself and Sebastian.
He held himself very still and confusion shone in his gaze. Despite their years of friendship, this was the closest they had ever been, mere inches from each other. His body radiated heat.
Definitely warm-blooded, she thought through the haze of nearness. For a brief moment, she didn’t exist in a morass of worry over her father, or his implored wish for her to marry. Just then, she was only aware of Sebastian, and the gleam of an idea that was utterly preposterous . . . wasn’t it?
Raising up on her tiptoes, she lifted her hand, but stopped before she could touch him. “May I?”
Slowly, he nodded.
His breath puffed against her hand as she raised it to his face. Carefully, she plucked the spectacles off his nose. The metal was warm from his skin.
She slipped the glasses into his jacket pocket. Still balancing on the tips of her toes, she gently brushed his hair back. Nothing had ever felt quite so soft.
As she stroked his hair away, her fingers grazed his skin and her breath left her in a sud
den gust. He, too, jolted.
It’s only Sebastian, she reminded herself. My friend.
But with his hair off his forehead, and his spectacles gone, she finally saw his bare face. And while she’d been aware of him as a man from the beginning, now she allowed herself the freedom to truly see him.
His jaw was square, and he sported a faint cleft in his chin. A light blond stubble grazed his cheeks and framed his astonishingly sensual lips. His nose was beautifully proportioned, large and masculine. High cheekbones emphasized eyes of bright, crystalline blue.
He possessed a long, strapping body, with wide shoulders that suggested athleticism. With his height, his bodily mass, and his handsome—no, striking—features, she knew with absolute certainty that one of his ancestors had braved northern seas to claim a home and mate for himself here in England.
This was what it must feel like to encounter a rare and magnificent species. The world suddenly became much, much larger.
“It’s you, Sebastian,” she whispered to him. “I need you.”
An expression of pleasure crossed his face—his brows lifting, a smile raising the corners of his mouth—followed a second later by a look of pure panic.
“Me?” He fumbled to retrieve his spectacles. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I do.” She imagined that her eyes were almost feverish as she stared up at him. “You are the man I need to play the part of my admirer.”
“But . . . but . . .” He backed up, putting needed distance between them. “Your world isn’t my world. Never has been.”
The wall met his back, and it would have struck her as ludicrous, a man well over six feet tall retreating from a woman of her diminutive stature, except she was too focused on the idea that coalesced in her mind.
He glanced toward a passing footman, but the servant was too busy being uninterested to notice.
“Not so.” She advanced. “Only last week at the Rudstons’ ball, I counted no fewer than three men of industry and business amongst the guests, as well as their wives and adult children. One of those men was your father.”
She thought she heard him mutter, Damn, but wasn’t entirely certain if she was imagining things.
“All right,” he conceded, “you’ve a point. Maybe other industrialists’ sons have made their entrée into Society. Not me. Never me.”
“But you could.” She took another step toward him.
He held up his hands, and she halted in her advance.
“You’ve seen what happens when I’m in unfamiliar company. Feral dogs have more eloquence. Apologies—but what you’re asking of me can’t be done.”
Unexpected hurt jabbed Grace. “Can you not at least pretend to court me? Or . . .” A horrible thought struck her. “Am I truly so unappealing?”
“No,” he said quickly. “You’re quite . . . quite pleasant.”
“Pleasant?” She wrinkled her nose. “Like a cup of tea?”
“Charming. Delightful.” He seemed to want to say more, but his jaw tightened. Then, “You aren’t at issue here. It’s me. I can’t be a Society beau. I’m not, and never will be, a rake.”
A thread of desperation unraveled within her. She had to marry, and the one man she could imagine taking as a husband was just out of her reach.
“You aren’t a rake and the darling of the ton now. But . . .” She caught her breath, excitement at his potential rising within her, and she whispered, “We can make you into one.”
“Impossible.”
As Sebastian tried to sidle around her, his body brushed hers and a hot jab of awareness struck her low in her belly. No—she couldn’t think about that now.
“It’s not—”
“Look at me.” He spread his hands. “I’m just a tongue-tied scholar in scuffed boots. The idea that anyone could mistake me for a suave man about town is ludicrous.”
Grace did look at him. Her gaze moved over the length of him in a perusal she’d never permitted herself before.
She could see it, the possibility within him, that hidden beneath his rather threadbare clothing and painful shyness existed the makings of a rake. It was like standing beside one of those newfangled engines that ran on steam in the moments before it surged to life—the capability of tremendous force was a silent presence. All Sebastian lacked was the proper fuel, and then, he would be unstoppable.
But he didn’t believe it.
There might be one way to appeal to him. Trying to keep the frantic desperation out of her voice, she said, “Think of the research possibilities.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, frowning thoughtfully.
It wasn’t an outright no. There was hope, and she seized it with both hands.
“What do you study on those periodic wanders you go on?” Every few months, Sebastian would take a small pack and a fresh notebook and venture out into the English countryside, something he’d done since she first met him. Of particular interest to him was documenting customs and traditions that were on the verge of dying out, which happened more and more with the advancement of technology and improved roads.
She often had to repress feelings of jealousy that, as a man, he had the freedom to do something like that while she, as a woman and the daughter of an earl, could go nowhere unchaperoned.
“Rural communities’ courtship rituals,” he said. “The stages of wooing, how a suit is presented, the patterns of behavior between courting couples.” As he spoke, animation filled his words, but then he caught himself and added in a more contained voice, “That sort of thing.”
“Now you can study London high society, too.” She spread her hands encouragingly. “Just imagine the book you could write. A thorough investigation into British courtship rituals of both commoners and nobility.”
His gaze turned faraway, and she couldn’t stop the tiny curl of pleasure she felt in knowing that, of all the things he valued most, the acquisition of knowledge was the most significant to him.
“An anthropological work that could be truly groundbreaking . . .” he murmured.
For many heartbeats, she held her breath. She was balanced on the very narrowest of ledges, with her father’s wish to see her wed impelling her forward.
“I know what I’m asking of you is monumental.” Hope and terror clashed within her, half fearing and half desiring his answer. “But it would mean so much to my family. To me.”
A pause. She died and was reborn a thousand times within that pause.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll do it.”
Impulsively, she flung herself at Sebastian and wrapped her arms around him. Giddy happiness swirled around her. “Thank you, thank you!”
Half a breath later, she realized something.
She was pressed tightly against Sebastian. Her body snug to his. And he was quite warm and quite tall and quite, quite muscular—far more brawny than she’d suspected. He also smelled delicious, like the scent of paper and wood smoke and leather mingled into one intoxicating fragrance that was heated by his skin.
They’d never stood close enough for her to catch his scent. Until now. It was like her first drink of claret, when she’d realized that she’d have to be very careful not to let the wine lead her into danger.
Oh, goodness.
Abruptly, she released him and took several steps backward. She cleared her throat, striving for some fragment of lucidity. “We can start tomorrow afternoon at my home. You know where it is? The house on the corner of Weymouth and Harley Streets.”
“I’ll find it.” He looked perplexed. As perplexed as she felt.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
She hurried away, aware of his gaze on her back. Aware of the fact that she’d just convinced Sebastian and herself to do something truly outrageous.
Jane Argyle paused in the middle of polishing her telescope’s eyepiece and set the device on the sofa cushion beside her. Books, equipment, and half-drunk cups of tea filled the
parlor of her snug Greenwich home, attesting to the fact that both Jane and her husband, Douglas, devoted the majority of their time to the study of astronomy.
Grace sat on the floor of the parlor, sorting through the stack of books Jane had requested help with categorizing. Periodically, the Argyles’ personal library required herding, especially after Jane had visited booksellers’ shops.
“I have serious reservations about this plan of yours, Grace.” Jane’s gentle tone took the sting out of her words, but Grace felt her invisible hackles rise. “Is this what your father meant by finding yourself a husband?”
“He didn’t specify which methodology I should use, only that I’m to wed someone.” Grace checked the spine of a book. “Johannis Hevelii, Annus climactericus?”
“Put that in the stack for Uranus.” Jane shot Grace a quelling look when a giggle escaped Grace’s lips. “Do grow up.”
“Can’t help it! Why name a planet Uranus if you don’t want people snickering?”
Jane sighed, then smiled. “Yes, well, we haven’t even gotten into discussions about galactic bulges.”
Tension released from Grace’s chest as she and Jane shared a cackle. She hadn’t felt this sense of relief for over twenty-four hours, and the pressure of her father’s health and his desperate request for her to marry was a vise constantly squeezing her.
“Of all men to play your dashing suitor,” Jane said when their laughter quieted, “why Sebastian Holloway? He’s an agreeable fellow, but not quite rake material.”
“Without his spectacles, and with his mane of disheveled hair off his face, he’s quite . . .” Grace cleared her throat. She’d known, in a way, that he was a fine figure of a man, but she hadn’t truly understood the depths of his allure until today. What a revelation that had been. Her body still resonated with the shock. Her friend had the face and form of a Corinthian.
She’d been tricked by his camouflage. But he wasn’t Chamaeleo chamaeleon, shifting the colors of his skin to blend in with a leafy canopy. He was a spectacularly handsome man, hidden behind the facade of a reserved scholar.