My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  The distance between Seb’s rooms on Howland Street to Grace’s Marylebone home was far enough to necessitate a carriage ride, but the day was relatively fair, so instead of the expense of a hired cab, he again decided to walk.

  He needed practice maneuvering through the world without his spectacles, so he kept them in his pocket. Since he wasn’t conducting any field research, when his observational powers had to be perfect, it was easy to forgo them. The mild afternoon air held a hint of future heat. A fresh breeze, untainted by smoke or the scent of the street, blew up into his face and he breathed in deeply.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much his spectacles acted as a barrier between him and the world. Without them, though, perception heightened—the sound of a woman on a stoop beating the dust from a rug, the warm feel of watery sunlight on his shoulders—and his thoughts loosened from his body.

  He simply was, no longer trapped within his head. The sensation freed him, as though he could take flight over the city and see below him the pitched roofs, the smoking chimneys, the patches of green, and the shining, sludgy Thames cleaving through London.

  If nothing else, this attempt to transform him into a rake had already given him a gift. He’d learned that he needed to take off his spectacles more. It opened the world to him.

  And . . . he’d been able to spend more time with Grace. His whole self felt lighter, looser, just to think of her, and the way she’d looked at him yesterday. As though she’d liked what she’d seen. She had called him handsome, and there’d been a moment when he’d forgotten about Rotherby, forgotten about everything, and had been secluded in a private, intimate corner of the world with him and Grace as the sole occupants.

  Had she . . . was it possible . . . she’d been attracted to him?

  His body suddenly hummed with energy. If he attempted to pry a tree from the earth, it would yield easily in his hands.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  He blinked, coming back to himself. A young woman holding a broom stood on the step of a milliner’s shop. She smiled. He glanced behind him to see who she addressed, but no one was there.

  She’s smiling at me.

  The familiar choking panic rose up in a rush, and his face felt burning hot. All the fears that had haunted him for most of his life swelled within him.

  Did this woman judge him as he fought to speak? Would she hurry into her shop and tell her fellow milliners that she’d just encountered a big blond oaf, and would the other hatmakers rush out to point and laugh at him?

  He realized the young woman stared at him, so he tried to reply. A single, strangled noise escaped him.

  Heart pounding violently, Seb quickened his pace. He prayed he wouldn’t hear derisive laughter pursuing him down the street.

  His stomach pitched down with disappointment. Damn—he’d been doing well, or so he’d thought. But no, he’d taken two steps forward, only to take a step back.

  Perverse curiosity made him look over his shoulder to see if the young woman pointed at him and cackled at his retreat. To his surprise, she had simply returned to sweeping the step. It was as if her encounter with Seb hadn’t happened, as though he felt the impact far more than she did.

  So. Perhaps a portion of his anxiety was founded on his thoughts, but not on reality. How . . . strange.

  He should tell Grace. She’d want to hear of his discovery.

  At the thought of her, he was brought back to yesterday afternoon in the ballroom. It hadn’t been difficult to gaze at her as though she was the most captivating person he’d ever met. She was the most captivating person he’d ever met. Looking at her was a pleasure. He’d gladly do it every day. And night.

  Careful. That way lies danger.

  He shook his head, pushing away thoughts of Grace in the soft glow of a bedside candle. They were collaborators, friends. Fellow natural philosophers. And if she felt attraction to him, it was merely because he’d been implementing Rotherby’s rakish strategies. A pot of water would boil with the application of heat—there was cause and effect. It was no different with him and Grace.

  Attraction didn’t mean desire. One’s body could respond to something without the brain or the heart getting involved. It didn’t mean she wanted him.

  He needed to remember that, especially as he rounded the corner onto Weymouth Street and Grace’s home loomed close.

  He strolled down the mews, and crossed the stable yard before opening the kitchen door. A footman stood waiting just beyond it.

  “She awaits you in the ballroom, sir.” The servant took his coat and hat.

  “Has the duke arrived?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  Seb checked his timepiece and saw that it was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon. Rotherby’s punctuality was famous. It was a jest amongst his friends that one could be certain of a disaster if Rotherby was even five minutes late.

  “Do you smell smoke?” Seb asked the footman. Perhaps a fire was sweeping through London as it had in 1666.

  The servant inhaled. “No, sir.”

  It hadn’t rained last night or this morning, so flooding was unlikely. And yet, for some unknown reason, Rotherby wasn’t here.

  Well, everyone was capable of change. Seb himself had attracted a woman’s attention on his walk, so something within him had altered. Perhaps it was the same for Rotherby.

  After taking his leave of the footman, Seb continued on to the ballroom. Grace’s home was becoming more familiar to him, and he glanced with pleasure upon the painting in the hallway that depicted some variety of reptile sunning itself on a rock. Clearly, it had been selected by Grace.

  He found her sitting in the middle of the ballroom floor. Her legs stretched out in front of her, and she leaned back, bracing herself on her hands as she stared up at the elaborately painted ceiling. She looked so charming and lively that his sodding heart lurched happily in his chest.

  This was why he’d never spent more time with her, why he’d been extremely careful to keep his emotions and body on a tight rein, because he’d known in the hidden recesses of his mind that to be near Grace for greater than a few hours here and there, he would quickly slide into infatuation.

  He could see it coming—and couldn’t stop it.

  As if drawn by an unseen force, Seb now found himself immediately stretched out beside her, his posture identical to hers.

  “What are we looking at?” he whispered to her.

  “In the mural, I’ve counted five women with bare breasts,” she whispered back. “But I haven’t seen a single man with an uncovered chest.”

  “What about that chap?” He pointed to a figure. “The bloke lurking in the corner.”

  “He’s wearing armor that only looks like his naked torso, but he’s as clothed as all the other men.” She exhaled. “And the women’s breasts look like strange frosted cakes. I don’t think the artist had ever seen an actual breast before painting this,” she said darkly.

  “Perhaps he never worked from life,” Seb suggested.

  “It seems a dreadful gap in his artistic education. What a pity.”

  She did nothing to ease his fascination with her, damn it. “He still managed to obtain the commission to paint the mural in your family’s ballroom.”

  “True enough. But he ought to know better. First—there needs to be parity. If he’s got cavorting nude nymphs, he needs naked satyrs or wrestlers or some such. And then he should use actual women as models so he can get their anatomy right.” She glanced down at her own chest. “Mine certainly don’t look like iced cakes. Well, perhaps they’re more like petit fours.”

  Seb couldn’t help it. His gaze went straight to Grace’s breasts. He had the impression of small but delightfully full shapes that could easily be covered by his hands—and then he dragged his eyes away.

  Please someone rescue me from myself.

  “They’re, erm, quite nice.”

  “I think so, too,” she said with a nod, then added, “I noticed, you
know.”

  “Your, ah, breasts?”

  She shook her head. “The way you entered the room.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Quite different from yesterday.”

  “Different meaning better, I hope.”

  Her lips tilted into a smile. “Oh, yes.”

  “Very good,” he said evenly, but he felt like turning cartwheels around the ballroom.

  “Don’t mistake me,” she continued, “there wasn’t a thing wrong with you before. The duke’s lessons only highlighted what was already there.”

  One unfortunate consequence of his fair complexion meant that his cheeks turned a deep pink whenever he experienced the slightest bit of discomfiture. They also flushed whenever he felt pleasure. He didn’t have to look in a glass to know that her words had turned his face a vivid pink.

  He could take refuge behind the stance of a dispassionate observer, and he quickly told her of his experience on the walk over. Deliberately, he spared no detail, including his humiliating inability to speak to the milliner. He recognized his candor with Grace for what it was—an attempt to preserve the platonic distance between them.

  “Ah, Sebastian,” she murmured sympathetically when he’d finished recounting his mortification. “That’s a pity.”

  His chest squeezed. “I’m sorry to fail at this. You need a rake, and I’m not certain I can be one.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She rested her hand atop his, and his skin went taut and sensitive. “This process is uncomfortable for you, and I hate to think of you exposing yourself to pain, especially on my account.”

  Her words both cooled and inflamed him. “This is for both of us. It’s time I learned to throw off the bonds that weigh me down. Been afraid of making a fool of myself for most of my life. I don’t want to live with that fear any longer.”

  As he spoke, he realized he’d meant every word. It was exhausting, walking around with this paralyzing terror that he might encounter a room full of strangers or that he’d have to speak to someone he didn’t know. Perhaps he might never be what some would call normal, but he could be a stronger, better version of himself.

  A gentle smile touched her lips. “Whatever I can do to help rid you of that fear, you’ve only to ask.”

  “I will.” He forced his attention back to the ceiling so he wouldn’t stare covetously at her mouth.

  After a moment, she said, “Why . . .”

  She seemed disinclined to continue, so he prompted, “Why what?”

  “Why is it that . . . you haven’t married?”

  He felt his eyebrows shoot up. The unexpectedness of the question had him reeling, and that she had asked it was even more startling. “Honestly never considered it.”

  “Too dedicated to your studies, like Newton or Descartes?”

  “Too poor. Barely any allowance from my adoring father, and what funds I can get through grants is barely enough to keep me in mutton and secondhand books.” He spoke easily, without bitterness. His requirements were simple, and he didn’t mind his poverty overmuch. It was merely something to tolerate, like the weather. In his case, the winter of his coffers lasted twelve months out of the year.

  “Surely that can’t keep you from taking a wife.”

  “It’s enough.” He nudged her shoulder with his own. “For now, we’ll keep working and moving forward. For all that Rotherby can be a high-handed rogue, he does make for an excellent tutor in the art of being a rake.”

  “The high-handed rogue accepts your gratitude,” Rotherby announced from the doorway. He carried a leather portfolio beneath his arm.

  Seb was at once relieved to see his friend and also resentful that the blighter interrupted his time alone with Grace.

  “Oh, blast,” Grace muttered under her breath. She glanced at Seb with a wince of shared embarrassment. “I think he overheard you.”

  “Rotherby’s heard worse from me,” he said easily. “Isn’t that so?”

  His friend paced into the room. “Most of the names the Union calls each other are not suitable for ladies’ ears.”

  Seb held out his hand to help Grace stand, and when she took it, awareness shot through him hotly. It took an admirable amount of restraint not to curl his fingers around hers in a primal, unthinking need, but he kept his hold on her light. He got to his feet before assisting her up.

  “The Union?” She lifted a brow.

  “The Union of the Rakes.” Seb rolled his eyes. “A dreadful name we came up with for ourselves back at Eton. More aspirational than truthful.”

  “Speak for yourself, Holloway,” Rotherby said.

  “I generally do. Tell us what’s in the portfolio.”

  Rotherby undid the strap holding the leather case closed before removing a sheaf of paper. Without his spectacles, Seb could not quite make out the documents, but, judging by the hazy collection of dots scattered across them, they appeared to be sheets of music.

  “Today, my friends,” Rotherby declared, “we dance.”

  “That is,” the duke said, eyeing Grace dubiously, “if we know how.”

  She couldn’t be insulted by his implication that a woman of scholarly inclinations—namely, her—wouldn’t have any aptitude when it came to social skills. And she was grateful for Rotherby’s demand because it meant she didn’t have to consider why she’d asked Sebastian about his plans to marry.

  Thinking of her dunderheaded question, she could have cheerfully imbibed a serious but not fatal dose of laudanum so that she could fall into unconsciousness and forget the whole thing.

  Except she couldn’t. There was nothing to do but keep plowing ahead.

  “Be at ease, Rotherby.” She placed her hands on her hips. “My parents bartered with me to ensure I learned how to dance. For every session with a dancing master, I was rewarded with a piece of scientific equipment. A looking glass, a compound microscope.”

  “Bribes,” Sebastian said with a wry smile.

  “No doubt about it—I can be bought.”

  “We had a dancing master,” Sebastian said. “My brothers and I. Part of my family’s hope to scale the heights of British Society.” He made a wry face.

  “Please tell me you applied your capacious studying ability to learning how to dance,” Rotherby pled.

  Sebastian shrugged. “It’s nigh universal—cultures incorporate music accompanied by rhythmic movement. I couldn’t apply myself to examining the kalamatianos dance of Greece without learning British dancing.”

  The duke exhaled. “That’s one less mountain to scale. But we’re still practicing so that, when the time comes—and it will come—you’ll be able to dance with Grace and inspire envy in all who behold you.”

  “A rather tall order,” Grace said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. She knew the steps well enough, and recalled intimately the giddy pleasure she’d experienced the early weeks of her first Season when she’d danced with gentlemen eager to make her acquaintance. Dancing had made her feel light and free and untethered from the planet’s gravity.

  Her mistake had been speaking to the gentlemen whilst they danced together. Foolishly, she’d talked not about the weather or her delight in the splendid room, but of her studies. She’d been open in discussing how she loved to observe the tiny miracle that was a hatching tadpole, or the incredibly fine hand that the Creator had employed when fashioning a reptile’s long toes. The looks on those young men’s faces . . . the disgust, the dawning realization that she might be a prize as a bride, but as a woman, she was something to be endured.

  She had tried to curb her tongue. She’d prattle inane things about the theater or fashion or simply nodded and smiled at whatever the gentlemen said. Yet the more the would-be suitors enjoyed her company, the more disgust she felt with herself for pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  “Must we dance?” she asked the duke.

  “You must. Trust me,” Rotherby said with a smug smile, “with you and Holloway under my tutelage, Fredericks shall see you as mu
ch more than a colleague.”

  “We’ll need music,” Sebastian said, glancing at the pianoforte.

  The duke raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Waiting downstairs in your butler’s study is a music student, a young man by the name of Mr. Scarpelli, to play piano for us.”

  “You’re very thorough.” Grace tugged on the bellpull, and when a footman appeared, she requested he fetch Mr. Scarpelli. “Thinking of everything.”

  “Madam,” Rotherby intoned, “it is a burden to be so admirable.”

  “Conceit has always been in abundance for Rotherby,” Sebastian said, making Grace chuckle.

  “Because I’ve earned it.” But the duke spoiled his high-handedness by grinning boyishly.

  A moment later, Mr. Scarpelli came into the ballroom. From his wild hair to his hastily tied neckcloth to the slightly frayed shirt cuffs peeking out from his sleeves, he was every inch a music student. He bowed before taking his seat at the pianoforte.

  “Where would you like me to begin, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “I assume you have a battle plan,” Sebastian said. “You always do.”

  “We shan’t bother with country dances.” Rotherby waved the notion away. “Our concern is the waltz. That is where you and Grace will attract the most notice.”

  Oh, gracious. Country dances only involved the occasional joining of hands, and the maintenance of distance between partners.

  And while she’d learned how to waltz, she’d never actually done it with anyone other than her dancing master, whose touch had been deliberately and rightfully professional, entirely impersonal.

  It would be the same with Sebastian. Wouldn’t it? His hand holding hers, his other hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder . . . there was nothing to fear. Merely a simple transaction between friends. Something to be done for an intended purpose.

  Even so . . . contemplating a waltz with Sebastian felt as though moths were fluttering in her belly.

  Mr. Scarpelli shook out his hands before setting them on the pianoforte keys. At the duke’s nod, the musician began to play. Grace attempted to distract herself by tapping her feet in time with the air. One two three, one two three.