by Eva Leigh
Sebastian breathed in deeply, then moved to approach her. But Rotherby stepped forward and placed his hand on Sebastian’s chest.
“I’ll demonstrate first,” the duke said.
“But I already know how to do this,” Sebastian protested.
“You know the steps, but not the art.” Rotherby bowed to Grace. “Would you do me the honor?”
She raised her brows in surprise. A waltz with a duke? How unexpected. And likely the dream of many young women. Many other young women.
Rotherby came toward her and held out his hand. She took it, and he led her to the center of the ballroom.
They bowed and curtsied before taking their positions. The duke held her in the proper stance. They looked into each other’s eyes. They really were quite nice eyes. Deep and richly hued like coffee. Just like yesterday, he regarded her as though he found her captivating.
Yet there was no leap of excitement at his touch, no thrill of contact. He was merely a person she knew, with her entirely unmoved by his closeness.
It made no sense. He was handsome, finely built, and exuded charm. But nothing within her came alive to have him escort her to the center of the ballroom. She did sense a fizz of excitement to dance again, after years of avoiding it.
She and the duke waltzed. She slipped easily into the steps, her body recalling the tilt and sway, and while she leaned into the spinning and freeing sensation, a whisper of disappointment stole through her. The movements themselves were fine, but dancing with Rotherby was like practicing with her dancing master. It wasn’t particularly special or wonderful, only mildly interesting to observe.
“Guide her, Holloway,” the duke said without taking his gaze from Grace. “Move with her. Create a miniature world that consists only of you two.”
“I see,” Sebastian said, writing in his notebook.
“He doesn’t need to seduce me.” Alarm at the prospect shot through her. Not that she found the notion unpleasant. Far from it—and that was worrisome. “This is for show only.”
“Have you never been to the theater?” Rotherby asked. “The greatest performances come from actors and actresses who fully invest themselves in the role they’re playing. They must believe they are who they pretend to be.”
“Or else no one else accepts them as the ingénue or brooding hero,” Sebastian said as the music and dance continued.
The duke nodded. “Holloway has to be convincing. Everyone who looks at you dancing together will see a man at the height of his masculine powers, and will inevitably turn their attention to the woman who has captivated him.”
“And I’m that woman?” Grace couldn’t quite keep the skepticism out of her voice.
“This is as much about your performance as it is Holloway’s.” Rotherby’s gaze bored into her. “I want you to believe yourself to be a woman capable of ensnaring Britain’s greatest rake.”
Her feet slowed, and the dance stuttered to a stop. The music went silent. Her whole body tensed as her hands fell away from the duke.
“I can’t make myself into the sort of woman men flock to.” She blinked hard from the burn of her shame, and though it hurt to confess such a thing to Rotherby and Sebastian, they both needed to know the immensity of the task that lay before them. “I once saw a gentleman throw back his drink to shore himself up for the task of dancing with me.”
The duke’s jaw tightened, and Sebastian cursed softly.
“That man was an ass,” Sebastian growled, taking a step toward her. “Give me his name. I’ve studied cultures that flay their enemies, so I’m certain I can make him suffer.”
“Sounds messy,” she said, absurdly touched by his bloodthirstiness on her behalf.
“I’ll wear a butcher’s apron to minimize the mess.” Sebastian said firmly, “You don’t need to alter yourself for anyone. Especially not Fredericks.”
No one had ever said such a thing to her. Something stung her eyes, and she realized it was the heat of unshed tears of appreciation. “But Rotherby said—”
Sebastian drew closer. “Trust in me, Grace. Trust that when the time comes, Fredericks will be utterly captivated by you. And if he still can’t get his head out of his arse, then he’s not worth the effort.”
“You seem to keep swearing in my presence,” she said, because it was either make a jest or gratefully kiss him.
Kiss him.
Wait—what?
Rotherby stepped back, and put his hands on his hips. “Pair up, you two. I want to see you dance together.”
Chapter 9
She was still reeling from her mind’s insistent demand that she kiss Sebastian when he set his notebook down. In and of itself, putting his notebook aside was not especially remarkable. But then he shucked off his coat and draped it over a nearby chair, and Grace felt the ground beneath her shift.
God above. In his shirtsleeves, Sebastian was a vision of robust masculinity. As he moved, the lawn of his shirt pulled snug across tight, sculpted muscles. The backing of his waistcoat drew taut across his wide shoulders. When he bent down to tug at the top of his boot, she was treated to the sight of woolen trouser fabric draping his firm buttocks.
Her mouth actually watered, as if she’d lifted a silver dome covering a plate, and discovered not a drab meal of boiled carrots, but a luscious roast dripping with juices.
She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her frenetic giggle. She couldn’t compare a fellow human being to meat. That was beyond disrespectful.
But, Lord help her, he was gorgeous.
And she was about to waltz with him.
Confusion turned her thoughts hazy. Something was happening to her, something she couldn’t understand. The pleasant affection she’d always felt in Sebastian’s presence was growing hotter, making her skin tight and her head spin. It frightened her a little even as she moved toward it.
Within a moment, he stood before her. Collecting herself with the staunch reminder that this was all part of the plan to find her a suitable husband, she straightened her spine. Then he held out his hand, and she took it, before he settled his other hand on her waist.
“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he asked. His eyes gleamed and his chest rose and fell in an elevated rhythm.
“Must be,” she mumbled, but the fire wasn’t lit, and clouds dampened the sunlight coming in through the windows.
“Mr. Scarpelli, if you please.” The duke’s voice sounded leagues away.
Music started up again, jarring her thoughts.
Sebastian murmured, “Ready?”
She could only nod.
They danced. And suddenly she understood why, not so long ago, the waltz was considered a sinful, wicked dance unfit for polite assemblies. As she and Sebastian turned around the ballroom floor, she felt him everywhere. At the sensitive point where their hands touched, at the burning site where his hand rested on her waist, and all the other places within her. The dance was a shared pulse, his heartbeat becoming hers, their bodies synchronizing.
He was solid and hot and so very large. How had she been able to recognize this for four years and yet not know it in the receptiveness of her body?
“Don’t forget to look at each other,” the duke instructed. “Gaze into each other’s eyes.”
She tugged her attention up from the knot of his neckcloth, up higher, until his gaze secured to hers. Thoughts scattered as she spun in the blue of his eyes because the way he looked at her . . . as though she was adored, desired beyond reason . . . beyond sense . . .
But it was a performance, wasn’t it? He was merely pretending to feel these things for her, as the role of rake and admirer demanded.
Surely he could hear the pounding of her heart, so much louder than Mr. Scarpelli’s playing.
“Excellent work, both of you,” Rotherby said above the music. “You’ve got me convinced—and I believe nothing.”
The duke’s voice fractured the spell surrounding them. They pulled apart, staring at each other, and she imagined her
bewildered expression mirrored his.
“Do I keep playing?” Mr. Scarpelli asked.
“That’s enough for now.” She could not stop looking at Sebastian.
His brow furrowed. He visibly seemed to collect himself, and then, to her relief and disappointment, donned his coat.
“Now,” the duke said, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Holloway. Your wardrobe.”
Sebastian glanced down at himself. “What I wear is serviceable enough. I’ve had this waistcoat for years.”
“And it deserves some rest to repay its decade of valiant service,” Rotherby noted. “A rake is never dressed in clothing that’s old enough to marry.”
“After paying my rent, what’s left goes mostly to books.”
Rotherby snorted. “You must have a sizable library, then.”
“It’s not the size,” Sebastian replied drily. “It’s what I do with it. Very thick volumes.”
Fire danced along her cheeks as she caught his implication. He was much more . . . ribald . . . than she’d realized. And she recognized then that Sebastian possessed a great deal of knowledge about the world’s sensual side. He was a bookish man, and shy, but he was also vigorously hale. Surely, he had sexual appetites.
Surely, he had lovers.
She started at the acidic bubble of jealously rising within her. But she couldn’t feel that way about him. He wasn’t hers, never had been. Never would be.
“We need to outfit you, Holloway,” the duke said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You can’t be a rake in ill-fitting, superannuated garments.”
“Perhaps it escaped your notice because you could lend money to God,” Sebastian replied, “but a wardrobe is a considerable expense. One I can’t take on.”
“I’ll supply the funds,” Rotherby said.
Sebastian scowled. “Absolutely not. I won’t have anyone pay for my clothing.”
“Don’t be an ass, Holloway,” the duke said impatiently. “Get yourself some new rigging.”
Shaking off her unexpected—unwelcome—possessiveness, Grace noted the volley of words between the two men. Neither seemed inclined to budge, but both were too prideful to make any concessions.
“You can always sell the clothes when this is over,” she suggested. “One could buy quite a lot of books from the sale of a waistcoat alone.”
Several moments passed. And then Sebastian let out a long, rough breath.
“All right,” he muttered.
The duke clapped his hands together once. “A decision you won’t regret. I’ll take you to my personal tailor this afternoon.”
“But,” Sebastian continued, “consider it a loan I intend to repay.”
Grace opened her lips to argue, but Rotherby shot her a quick look that advised her to remain silent.
Men were ridiculous sometimes.
“You’re ridiculous,” Seb grumbled.
“Common knowledge dictates that a man needs no fewer than seven waistcoats,” Rotherby fired back. His reflection appeared beside Seb’s in the floor-length mirror. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ruis?”
A measuring tape draped around his neck, the tailor spoke around his mouthful of pins. “Indeed, Your Grace. Appearing in the same waistcoat twice in one week is gauche.”
“It’s excessive,” Seb said. He shifted as Mr. Ruis held the measuring tape up to his back. “Calculated display to create a societal impression of wealth and prosperity—which is a fallacy because everyone knows that wealth doesn’t equate with happiness.”
“We aren’t talking about happiness.” Rotherby folded his arms over his chest. “We’re trying to impress London Society, and it doesn’t care about whether or not you feel any sense of personal fulfillment. It merely wants to know if you’ve got a carriage and a country estate. Sod happiness.”
Surely volumes could be written about the inherent delusions and problematic values of the British elite.
“And in the case of capturing Mason Fredericks’s attention,” Rotherby continued, “you need to appear at your finest. Consider your book: you can’t analyze the courting customs of the ton if you’re excluded on the basis of your garments. If not on behalf of your work, then on Grace’s behalf,” he said, just as Seb was about to voice another objection.
Damn, but Rotherby didn’t play fair.
“All right,” Seb said, his words grudging. “For her sake. And the sake of my book,” he remembered to add.
“Maravilhoso,” Mr. Ruis said, somehow managing to smile without swallowing a pin. He patted Seb on the shoulder. “You’ll have no cause for complaint when you see what I make for you. And may I say, senhor, it shall be a pleasure to dress you. A man as tall and vigoroso such as yourself will show marvelously well in my garments. I seldom have such fine customers.”
Rotherby coughed loudly into his fist while glaring at the tailor.
“With the exception of Your Grace, of course,” Mr. Ruis added hastily. He busied himself with a bolt of muslin, holding it to Seb’s torso.
A moment passed, while Seb observed in the mirror the activity in the tailor’s shop. Men who radiated privilege and affluence strolled in and out of the elegantly appointed business, striking poses as they conversed with each other. They paid almost no attention to the shop assistants that hovered around them like hummingbirds, as if it was the height of indelicacy to acknowledge the labor involved in maintaining their appearance.
“You and Grace danced well together,” Rotherby said lightly.
Too lightly.
Seb narrowed his eyes. “We both received an education in dancing. Expected that we’d perform the movements with a degree of aptitude.”
“Aptitude. That’s what you’re calling it.”
“What else is there?” Seb moved to accommodate Mr. Ruis as the tailor took the measure of his leg.
“I’m no man of the sciences,” Rotherby said with a smirk, “but I believe in the parlance one might say you and Lady Grace wanted to take bites out of each other. Metaphorically speaking.”
“Senhor,” Mr. Ruis said with admonition, “please do not tense your body. You must be relaxed as I get your measurements.”
Seb forced himself to exhale, trying to loosen his muscles. “Whatever you believed you saw, it wasn’t there.”
“I thought you academic types put faith only in what you perceive,” his friend noted. “The veracity of observation, and all that.”
“The human machine is also a faulty one.” Seb turned as the tailor adjusted his stance.
“Appeared to me like your machine was steaming.” Rotherby picked up a newspaper from atop a nearby table, but it was clear by the speed in which he turned the pages that he wasn’t reading a bloody syllable. “Is there anything going on between you two?”
Seb’s jaw went tight. “I shall say it one last time. We. Are. Only. Friends.”
He had to keep telling himself that. If he let himself believe there was a whisper of true attraction on her part, he’d be in danger. Considerable danger.
Because these past mornings, he’d awakened with his body humming in anticipation of seeing her. Because he collected impressions of the world around him with the intention of telling her about what he’d seen. Because, even now, he drifted into fantasies of her staring up at him with a hungry gaze, and her hands sliding up his chest as she lifted onto her tiptoes.
“She didn’t look at you like one friend looks at another,” Rotherby said, peering over the top of the newspaper.
Within the confines of his chest, Seb’s heart pounded. Was it possible—she felt as he did?
“Everybody gets stars in their eyes when dancing,” he said, his dismissive tone more for his own benefit than Rotherby’s. “Blushing, breathing heavily—all typical for someone when they dance. I don’t study physiology, but I know that much.”
“Except,” his friend pointed out, “she didn’t blush or breathe heavily when she danced with me, and I’m a ruddy, good-looking fellow.”
The
re was truth to Rotherby’s words. Grace had appeared attentive but not enraptured in her dance with Rotherby. And women always looked at the duke as if he was the treasure of El Dorado, the lost city of Atlantis, and the open gates of Paradise all combined into one.
But Grace was a natural philosopher. Her values operated differently from the majority of the populace. The fact that she had a tendre for Mason Fredericks rather than some dashing rake was proof of that.
“I’m telling you,” Seb said tightly, “she doesn’t think of me in that way. I am merely a means for her to reach her goal.”
Rotherby rolled his eyes. “Even if you’re right—which you aren’t—what about your feelings for her?”
“Immaterial.”
“Oh ho! That means you do have feelings for her.” Rotherby threw the newspaper onto the floor, and an instant later, an assistant cleared it away.
“Senhor Holloway,” Mr. Ruis reprimanded, but Seb couldn’t help it. He had to move.
Seb paced away to busy himself with a stack of fashion prints. He sorted through them, seeing without seeing the images of men in Paris’s latest styles. What a simpler life the prints depicted, liberated of every concern except the need to be handsome. It was no wonder that the fashionable figures existed in a world almost entirely free of place or context. No one there struggled with uncomfortable, unwanted feelings.
“I may—may—find myself thinking of Grace as more than a friend, but I repeat, whatever I feel for her doesn’t matter. She wants Mason Fredericks. I can barely afford to feed and house myself, let alone two people. And I have no expectation that she will repay my years of friendship with her affections. Nothing can or will transpire between us.”
He had to keep reiterating this, as many times as it took.
“That’s a damned pity.” Rotherby sighed. “I’d hoped . . .”
Seb spun to face his friend. “You were late today on purpose.”
“Of course I was.” Rotherby threw up his hands. “Wanted to give you time alone with her.”
Even now, nearly two decades since they’d left Eton, Rotherby still looked out for Seb. He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.