by Eva Leigh
Little explosions of heat went off where she touched him. He shoved the unwanted reaction aside.
“If I lift my chin up any more,” he muttered, “I’m going to tip onto my back and flail around like an overturned turtle.”
“If you do, I’ll just flip you back onto your stomach.”
“Comforting to know.” He struggled to hold the posture, which became even more difficult as she stood close to him, emanating her subtly floral scent.
His awareness of her grew with each moment they spent alone together. When they had met over the years at the library, or on their occasional scientific forays around London, it had been much easier. They’d been two colleagues who shared an interest in observing the world around them. But with no one else around, and his attention fixed solely on her, he became more and more responsive to her. The set of her mouth as she worked through a problem. The way her smiles began in the corners of her eyes before her lips curved.
He didn’t welcome this new attunement to her. It made things sodding complicated.
“I’m supposed to just pose here like this? Rakes simply stand around social gatherings like absurd statues?”
“There’s walking, too.” She glanced down at her book.
He exhaled slightly as she backed up. Which was more difficult—attempting to emulate rakishness, or ignoring the way his body flared to life whenever she was near him? “God help me.”
“It says here that your pace must be elegant and measured. No, go slower,” she instructed as he took a step. “And your feet need to be pointed and slightly turned with each step. Draw attention to your calves and ankles.”
Seb did as she instructed, walking unsteadily as he attempted to force his body into yet more uncomfortable positions. His muscles silently protested the peculiar movement. Yet it was a relief to concentrate on an external task rather than observe the lines of her wrists.
“This can’t be right.”
“It isn’t.” She looked between him and the book, her expression intent. “Do you have a walking stick? It seems to be required.”
“Don’t have one.” A trickle of perspiration rolled down the back of his neck. He sweated less during the weekly football matches he played on Hampstead Heath.
“Just a moment.” She dashed from the room.
He scowled in mingled alarm and dismay. Had he frightened her off? Perhaps he was so ridiculous she had to run away to laugh in private. Ridicule wasn’t pleasant—God knew he’d experienced his share—but he’d learned how to ignore the derision of people he didn’t respect.
If she mocked him, however, the wounds would take forever to heal.
Soft, quick footfalls sounded in the hallway, and then she appeared in the ballroom doorway, holding a yard-long tree branch that was roughly two inches wide.
Relief shot through him, followed quickly by puzzlement.
“Found this.” She approached, holding the tree limb out to him.
“Did that come from the garden?” Gingerly, he took the branch from her.
“My bedroom.”
He frowned down at the thick piece of wood. “Why do you have a tree branch in your bedchamber?”
“What do you suggest I use for turning over logs and rocks when I’m looking for reptiles?” She looked at him as though he had sprouted antennae. “I can’t very well use my bare hands and risk injuring myself or the animal.”
A very good point.
“I’m to use this as my walking stick?” He swiped it through the air, careful not to hit her with it. The branch had the same heft and size as a fencing foil. Its familiarity helped anchor him a little, reminding him that he wasn’t entirely lost in this endeavor. Still, a bit of solid ground beneath his feet would be welcome.
“For now, it fills the role of walking stick.” She gestured in invitation. “Try strolling with it. Swing it carefully but with aplomb.”
“Aplomb?”
“That’s what it says in the book. And remember, take your time. Be leisurely.”
He exhaled in an attempt to breathe past his frustration. No one had promised him this enterprise would be easy. There was pleasure, too, in overcoming obstacles—or so he reminded himself.
Steeling himself, he began to walk. It was a challenge, maintaining an exaggeratedly upright bearing while pointing his toes and swinging the branch-cum-walking-stick, and after a few steps, his every muscle was white-hot with effort.
“What the deuce do gentlemen do if they’re in a hurry?” he said through clenched teeth. “It’d take me a quarter of an hour to walk ten yards.”
“Perhaps gentlemen of fashion are never in a hurry,” she suggested.
“It could be an emergency. Someone could be on fire and I’m carrying a bucket of water.”
She shrugged. “Bring them the bucket—elegantly.”
“Christ above, this is ridiculous.” Exasperation sizzled through him, and he couldn’t decide which aggravated him most: the cryptic rules of polite society that seemed to flout common sense, or himself, for being unable to decipher the encoded rules.
“It is,” she said with a nod. “But it’s what we have to do.”
He resisted the impulse to curse even more floridly. Being unable to perform for himself was an annoyance, but being unable to perform for Grace charred him with self-directed fury.
“Sebastian.” She lay a hand on his arm. The feel of her was both a thrill and a balm. “Look at me.”
He fixed his gaze with hers, and the flames of his frustration were quenched by the cool blue of her eyes. The crush of thoughts whirling in his mind calmed. He couldn’t quite recall what had made him so angry, not with her touching him and her gaze holding his.
“The only person who expects you to immediately get this right is you,” she said softly.
“They used to pay me to write their papers for them,” he said. “Students at Eton, and then at Oxford. Hardly mattered the topic. Present me with an assignment, and I can figure out precisely what to say and how to say it. That’s never in doubt. The same can be said for a physical task. Swim from one end of a lake to the other, or run a mile as quickly as possible—I can do all that.”
“But this stymies you.”
He nodded, relieved that she understood him, yet that relief guttered when she took her hand from his arm.
“You’ll do this, Sebastian. I’ve every faith that you can meet this challenge.”
The gentle conviction in her words lifted him. It was a benediction, to have her trust, when he knew she gave it so sparingly.
“How about we move on to bowing,” she suggested. “We can circle back to walking another time.”
Seb straightened his shoulders as his hands curled into fists at his sides. He could do this. He would do this.
“Yes, bowing.” He shook out his body, loosening it. “What do I have to do?”
Bent over her book, she read aloud. “‘A gentleman must present himself as the epitome of effortless grace and studied artlessness.’” She looked up with a frown. “How can one study artlessness?”
“That’s what you get with a culture that loves its stratifications.” He snorted. “Try, but not too hard. The more effort you expend, the less likely you are to attain your goal.”
She blew at the strands of hair that had worked free from their pins to charmingly frame her face. “It’s so much easier in the animal kingdom. Eat, sleep, procreate.”
Heat crept up his neck to hear her say procreate. Again, a word that itself wasn’t particularly salacious, but on her lips . . . Mentally, he gave himself a shake. Stay focused on the task.
“There’s also avoiding becoming someone’s dinner,” he said. “Seems similar to life amongst human elite. Wait—I could put that in my book.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and scribbled on a blank page.
“I’ve seen packs of ravening matrons devour helpless debutantes like lionesses tearing into gazelles on the savannah.” She shuddered. “A sight that will haunt me to my grave.
And one of the reasons why, after my first Season, I’ve avoided balls, assemblies, and any other festive gatherings. I was easy prey.”
“Hold a moment.” He planted his hands on his hips as the truth behind her words sank in. “Help me understand—why you, of all people, aren’t considered . . . what do they call it? An excellent catch. What’s valued in the ranks of the elite, if not intellect? You have it, in abundance.”
She coughed as her cheeks reddened. “Thank you. It’s a quality not much esteemed in aristocratic females. Or English females in general.”
“Needs a thorough reexamination,” he muttered. A surge of anger pulsed through him. The most insidious parts of cultures were the ones so deeply ingrained that no one could question or challenge them without appearing like the veriest madman.
He marshaled his anger enough to write down more notes. Women of intelligence not prized. Why???
“It does,” she said with a nod. “But not today. Today, we focus on bowing.” She cleared her throat as she tapped the book in her hands. “It says here that to bow properly, a man must stick his leg forward, while also bending at the waist. At the same time, he removes his hat with a sweeping, polished motion. It must be smooth and elegant.”
“I’m supposed to do all of those things at once?” He swallowed as he set the tree branch aside. “Can I pick two out of the three?”
Her finger moved over the open page. “It doesn’t appear so. Oh! It also notes that the lower and longer the bow, the greater respect you show someone.”
Good God above, send me help.
“Very well,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. “Here I go.”
Seb thrust his right leg forward. As he did this, he hinged from his hips. Before he could reach for his invisible hat, his balance swung wildly out of control and he stumbled. He barely managed to swallow his profanity before straightening.
Grace’s look of concern was quickly replaced by an artificial smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am,” she agreed with a sigh.
“I can master this.” He spoke with far more conviction than he felt, but the stakes to this were much greater than when he’d learned how to swing a cricket bat or climb a tree.
He tried the movement again, feeling ten kinds of foolish and awkward as a wolfhound on its hind legs. Thank God no one was watching. Or were they? Did he hear footsteps and giggling out in the hall?
Maybe the servants watched him. Maybe they didn’t. He’d have to get used to an audience.
He bent forward, and pretended to doff his hat. Since he was likely going to be in rarified company, he ought to keep his bows low and respectful, so he went deep.
When he stood upright, a fillip of happiness danced through him to see admiration in Grace’s eyes.
It was an addictive feeling, making her happy.
She clapped her hands together. “Much better. Although . . .” She consulted the book again as a worried look flitted across her face. “That’s just for meeting people in the street. If you’re going to approach a woman in a ballroom for a dance, you do the first bow, and then a ceremonial bow after.”
“Another kind of bow?” He groaned.
“Your legs are open, and as you bend at the waist, stick your arm out to the side. Like this.” She set the book down on the pianoforte and then, with a lithe economy of movement, demonstrated the bow.
As she leaned down, Seb was afforded the most spectacular glimpse down the front of her dress. Her breasts pressed in soft rises above the neckline of her sprigged muslin gown, and, feeling like the worst kind of cad, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight.
He forced himself to look away. Stay focused, jackass. Grace is your friend. She trusts you. Don’t betray that.
After mentally shaking himself, he copied her movement. To his surprise, he didn’t pitch over like a drunken stevedore.
“Very good,” she said as she rose back up. “You’re nearly there.”
He nodded, trying to suppress the pleasure that coursed along his limbs whenever she gave him even a teaspoon of praise. It dawned on him that for all the years of their friendship, they’d never actually complimented each other, as if to do so would disrupt their platonic balance. Today, they’d crossed that line, and there was no going back to their old roles.
He did and he did not want to go back.
“Is there more?” he asked.
“Perhaps we should practice how to take snuff. That’s what the book says gentlemen do.”
“Sorry, but no.” He glanced past her, seeing the garden through the windows—and not seeing them. A hundred images coursed into his brain, and none of them were pleasant. “Tobacco serves a ceremonial and spiritual purpose for many tribes in the Americas. If I used it, it would be like stealing from them.”
To his relief, she didn’t look upset or irritated by his refusal. “Of course.” She added with a pained expression, “Most commercial tobacco crops are tended and harvested by slaves. It’s . . . repugnant.”
Thank God she understood. “We’ll get by without snuff.”
“We will.” She knotted her fingers together, and her expression turned sheepish. “I ought to mention that, in a week from today, Lord and Lady Creasy are hosting their annual garden party. It’s one of the highlights of the Season. Mason will be there. And . . .” She swallowed. “You will make your debut.”
It was as though someone had thrown him into a freezing lake. He couldn’t catch his breath. “A week? That’s not much time.”
“He leaves for Greenland in less than two months, so we must work quickly.” She strode to him, and when she once more placed her hand on his forearm, he felt reasonably confident that he’d never breathe again. He couldn’t understand it—unlike common wisdom that said he’d grow inured to something the more he was exposed to it, he was growing more sensitized to her touch.
“You can do it, Sebastian.” She looked up into his face, her eyes lovely and serious.
“Glad one of us believes that,” he muttered.
“Our next step is a crucial one.” She smiled, and his gut unclenched. “Fieldwork.”
Chapter 5
With Katie in tow for the sake of propriety, Grace and Sebastian left her home and walked north to Park Square. Grace kept her hand lightly resting on Sebastian’s arm as they strolled together. He felt delightfully firm beneath her gloved hand—but perhaps that could be attributed to the tension silently emanating from him.
“It’s just a practice run,” she assured her friend. “The stakes are very low.”
“But they aren’t.” His voice was taut. “Even a trial of my abilities will determine the course of the next week, and whether or not this project has any chance of succeeding.”
“You will,” she said firmly. “Besides, hardly any hypothesis requires only one test to see whether or not it can be proven. There aren’t failures in scientific methodology. Only opportunities to learn.”
He made a soft exhalation through his nose. “I’ve quite a lot to learn.”
Was it his apprehension she felt or hers? This scheme had to work, and yet she was taut with concern on his behalf. She hadn’t known until now how much Sebastian was eager to please—at the library, he would assist others with tasks such as fetching books from high shelves or carrying someone’s stacks of tomes, but he didn’t seem to extend himself overmuch.
Yet here, with this plan to become a rake, he was trying so very hard, and she ached with sympathy.
Was he fighting so fiercely to succeed for the sake of his future book—or was it for her?
It had to be for the book. If he worked this much because of her . . .
She banished the thought. Or she tried. A tiny voice whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, she was his motivation. And if that was the case, then he felt a good deal more than friendliness toward her.
He could. Did he? And did she want him to?
Lord knew, she’d revealed
things about herself to him that she’d never told anyone before, not even Jane. She had not permitted herself to think about such thoughts. Yet he’d drawn confessions from her, and it had felt so natural to speak to him of the most secret chambers of her heart.
She’d had enough sense to keep from blurting of her hope for love. That much truth was too much. Yet perhaps he was exactly the person with whom she could be entirely vulnerable, no barriers, no protective wit. Just her and him.
She wouldn’t allow herself to entertain such thoughts. They led to dangerous places, places she did not know how to navigate.
Fortunately, she didn’t have time to consider that any further when they reached Park Square. The green park was ringed with stylish terraced homes in the process of being constructed along the crescent and surrounding the square. The elegant residents of Marylebone Road in their pristine and fashionable garb mixed with laborers coated with stucco, paint, and sawdust.
“I assume you have your methodology already planned,” Sebastian said drily.
“That’s where Katie and I are going to sit.” She nodded toward a bench. “I brought a book to camouflage myself while observing as you practice your newfound skills.”
Katie had already buried herself in her Lady of Dubious Quality novel and barely glanced up when her name was mentioned.
“Walk around a little,” he said, “attempt to bow, that sort of thing?”
“Exactly. Even better if you approach a woman and strike up a conversation.”
Other than the time in the foyer earlier today, never in the course of her friendship with Sebastian had she ever heard him say any coarse imprecation. Surely he didn’t mutter Fucking hell under his breath just now. Surely not.
“All right.”
He gave a decisive nod before stepping back. It was a shame, because there was something warm and tingly about standing near him. She’d felt it earlier in the ballroom, and she felt it now, and it wasn’t entirely wanted. Over the duration of their friendship, she hadn’t permitted herself responsiveness to his physical self. But there was no denying it now.