by Eva Leigh
“It’s appreciated. Truly. But your efforts to form a romantic attachment between Grace and myself are misguided. She and I will remain friends. Only friends.”
“I still hold out hope,” Rotherby said with a wry smile.
Seb patted Rotherby’s shoulder. “This will be the first time in your charmed life that you’ll be disappointed.”
Chapter 10
Grace stared at the preserved African chameleon floating in a suspension within a thick glass jar. All its beauty, its shifting-hued skin, its life essence—all of it was gone. Now it floated in a permanent life-in-death within the upper-floor exhibition at the British Museum here in Montagu House.
She sighed.
“Why must men kill a thing in order to study it?” she said wearily.
Standing beside her, Jane made a soft noise of disgust. “Because that’s what men do. Capture a creature and either bend it to their will or end its life. Nothing can exist independent of them, or else they fear their cocks will fall off.”
A thickly whiskered gentleman standing nearby made a startled cough as he glared at Jane and Grace. When Jane merely glared right back, the man trundled off, muttering under his breath about indecency and proper female behavior.
Grace smothered a giggle behind her fist as Jane winked at her.
“Of course,” Grace said once she’d collected herself, “your husband is the exception to that rule. Hasn’t put you in a cage. Or a jar.”
“Not yet,” Jane said. “But one never knows. Men can be so irrational and unpredictable.”
Grace and Jane moved on from the case full of its reptile specimens, walking slowly through the chamber. Perhaps she and her friend ought to study the fossils rather than take in the melancholy collection of dead, stuffed, and preserved animals. She was always torn about coming to the British Museum—it held such vast repositories of knowledge, yet everything came at a price. Even the friezes from the Parthenon had been ripped from their homeland and brought to England. It hardly seemed right.
Did Sebastian ever come here? Surely he’d find exhibits of interest—but maybe he, too, thought the museum to be a highly problematic space. She ought to mention it to him this afternoon when they’d meet for their next session. A thoughtful man, Sebastian. And . . . appallingly attractive.
“How fares your transformative project?” Jane asked, as if reading Grace’s thoughts. Hopefully, her friend couldn’t read all of Grace’s thoughts.
“We’re still in process.” Grace stopped in front of a case holding a number of geological specimens. The solidity of the rocks and minerals brought comfort. They reminded her that while the forces of her own life sometimes felt wildly unpredictable, the Earth would always go on. “Three more days until Lord and Lady Creasy’s garden party, when Sebastian makes his debut.”
Despite the comforting nature of the rock specimens, the thought of Sebastian appearing with her before Society’s elite made her heart pound. They’d soon discover whether or not all their preparation was for nothing, and whether or not they had consigned Grace to permanently remaining merely a colleague to Mason—as well as consigning Sebastian to a lifetime of derision.
“Judging by the wobble in your voice,” Jane said, lifting her eyebrow, “you’re not precisely looking forward to tea and sandwiches en plein air.”
“We’ve asked a lot from him,” Grace admitted.
“More than he can provide?”
“Difficult to ascertain at this stage. But . . .” Her pulse fluttered. “He has potential.” Hidden beneath his ill-fitting clothes and gentle manner, he’d the body of a mythical hero and a surprising seductive allure. Her hands still radiated warmth from where she’d touched his body during their waltz, and she’d never forget the intensity of his gaze as he’d looked at her while they danced.
Jane tilted her head. “Much as I adore the man, I’m afraid I’ll have to see his metamorphosis in order to believe it.”
“Not much faith.” Grace gave a rueful chuckle.
“We’re women of science.” Jane shrugged. “Visual proof is always necessary.” She turned to survey the room, and then straightened, her eyes going wide. Jane whispered, “Remember to act nonchalant.”
“What? Why?” Grace eyed her friend with puzzlement. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” She exhaled. “I told you already, I don’t want to see the secret collection of stone phalluses.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fredericks,” Jane said.
Grace whirled around to find herself staring like a mooncalf at Mason Fredericks, who stood just a few feet away. Spots of color appeared on his cheeks as he struggled to pretend that he hadn’t heard Grace bleat the word phalluses.
She wasn’t much given to thoughts of a religious or spiritual nature, but at that moment, she prayed to any available deity to strike her down with a convenient bolt of lightning.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Argyle,” Mason replied.
Jane curtsied in response, but Grace saw in the way her friend kept her lips glued shut it was all Jane could do to keep her laughter in check.
“And, Lady Grace,” Mason continued, turning to her, “it’s always gratifying to see you.”
“You, as well.”
They stood together in silence, and Grace fought to keep from shifting from foot to foot. Strange—now that she’d determined a path to attract Mason’s romantic notice, she could hardly put together a sentence that didn’t include dull inanities.
“Do you enjoy visiting the museum?” Jane asked in an overly loud voice.
Mason smiled, revealing the dimple in his left cheek, and Grace’s insides somersaulted. “It’s impossible not to appreciate the breadth of this collection. I’ve been coming here since I was a lad. Much to the disappointment of my sport-loving father,” he added with a wry grin.
Don’t sigh like a ninny, Grace reminded herself sternly. But it was a struggle.
“However,” he continued, sobering, “there’s something so disheartening to see this many animals robbed of their lives for the pleasure of mankind. The world is magnificent enough without anyone trying to drive a stake through it.”
Grace beamed. “That is my belief, as well.”
“Is it?” He smiled again, and when his gaze met hers, she barely sensed the floor beneath her. “How wonderful. You understand me perfectly.”
This was her chance. She could impress upon him that they loved the same things, and that their hearts and minds were perfectly aligned, if only he could think of her as a woman. “Yes, I—”
“Ho, Fredericks!”
Mason lifted his hand in greeting as a gentleman with gingery hair hailed him from across the room. “Aldwich! What a pleasure to see you. I meant to ask—” He took a step toward the redheaded man before hastily bowing to Grace and Jane. “Ladies, do excuse me.”
And then he was gone, already halfway across the chamber before Grace could formulate a reply.
Grace’s body went leaden with disappointment. She fought to keep her head upright, and a pleasant look on her face, as if she hadn’t had her heart crushed beside the display of rocks and minerals.
“Ah, hell,” Jane muttered. She took Grace’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry, my love.”
“It’s all right.” Her gaze followed Mason as he and Aldwich strode from the room, talking animatedly.
“It will be different when he sees you with Mr. Holloway,” Jane said, her voice encouraging. “He’ll finally realize what a gem you are.”
“Rather irritating that men seem to only value what other men possess,” Grace muttered.
“They’re simpler beings,” Jane said. “They haven’t the finer powers of discernment that women have. Even Mr. Fredericks is, at heart, merely a man. Douglas, too, has limits on his imagination.”
“And yet,” Grace said on a sigh, “we want them, anyway.” Sebastian’s face flashed in her mind, and her body heated to recall the way she’d felt waltzing with him. More. She wanted more.
&nb
sp; Jane grinned. “Someone must be responsible for the continuation of the species.”
“Rather noble of us to shoulder that responsibility.”
“’Twas ever thus.” Jane looped her arm through Grace’s. “Come. Let us seek out two things that never fall short of our expectations.”
“Books and cakes?”
“Precisely.”
Anticipation coursed beneath Seb’s skin as he climbed the stairs to the ballroom. It took sizable effort to keep from taking the steps two at a time. And while the prospect of yet more instruction on how to become a rake didn’t give energy to his limbs, the expectation of seeing Grace did.
He smiled to himself when he heard her voice float out from the ballroom. He couldn’t make out her words, but Rotherby’s reply was a low chuckle. Seb had witnessed the alluring effect of his friend’s deep laughter on women—and a few men—but Grace had given no indication that she found Rotherby attractive. Thank God.
Difficult enough to know that Fredericks was Grace’s ultimate goal. Seb didn’t need to feel any resentment toward Rotherby, one of his oldest friends.
As Seb neared the ballroom, his steps slowed. What the deuce? Numerous voices murmured within the chamber, talking softly, and beneath their conversation came the sound of clinking porcelain.
Frowning with puzzlement, Seb entered the ballroom. A table stood near the farthest window, around which sat five people enjoying tea and cakes. The three women wore aprons over serviceable, sturdy clothing, and they all wore caps covering their hair. Maids? One of the men wore the family’s livery, and the other man had tucked his buckskin breeches into very worn boots. A footman and groom.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.” Rotherby approached Seb. He looked pleased with himself, but Grace, who followed, appeared more uncertain.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said in a voice calculated to calm someone—which only made alarm prickle along his neck. “These are our servants who’ve been generously compensated for their time. We’re going to go slowly.”
“Go slowly with what?” Seb demanded.
“Today,” Rotherby announced, “you’re going to practice talking with strangers.”
True fear slicked coldly down Seb’s back. He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry, making him cough.
“Steady there,” Rotherby said, thumping Seb between his shoulder blades. “Soldier on and you’ll triumph. Push through any fear that’s holding you back. That’s how you win the day.”
“I thought military strategy was McCameron’s bailiwick.” Seb hated the tremor in his voice, and pushed against the dizziness that darkened the edges of his vision.
“This isn’t battle,” Grace said, sending Rotherby a sharp look. “Simply telling Sebastian to push on won’t help him feel comfortable around people he doesn’t know.”
He thought he heard her mutter, Men.
It was a measure of Seb’s anxiety that he barely noticed when Grace took his hand and led him away from the servants, Rotherby following. She stood directly in front of him, and held his gaze with her own.
“Let’s keep you tranquil,” she said in a mild voice. “Can’t talk to strangers when you’re already overwrought, isn’t that so?”
He managed to nod.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued in that same, soothing tone, “about when animals are chased by predators. They burn energy as they flee for their lives. And then, when the chase is over, and they’ve survived, that energy has been released. They can be calm.”
He rasped, “Because the danger has passed and they don’t need to run any longer.”
She nodded. “Perhaps that fear you feel when you talk to people you don’t know is akin to what animals feel when threatened by a predator. But if we can get that energy out of you, out of your body, it’s possible that your mind will realize that there’s no danger.”
“What do you suggest?” Rotherby asked with a puzzled frown. “We get a lion from the Tower of London to chase Holloway?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be absurd. But running is an excellent idea.” She smiled up at him, and the fretful thudding of his heart quietened. “Our garden isn’t vast, but I warrant a few laps around the perimeter should do the trick.”
Seb stared at her. “You propose that I’m to run around your garden like a racing hound? And that will make me calmer.”
“Precisely.”
Seb rubbed at his chin. “Thinking on it, I always feel tranquil after galloping up and down the football pitch. Sleep well afterward, too.” As theories went, hers had considerable merit. There was only one way to put it to the test. “Which way to the garden?”
She beamed at him, and the jolt in his pulse had nothing to do with fear. “I’ll show you the way. Rotherby, make sure the servants have enough to eat and drink.”
Rotherby scowled, evidently displeased that he was to see to the servants’ refreshments, but other than a grumble, he didn’t object.
Grace guided Seb out of the ballroom and down a set of stairs that led to a salon facing the garden. She opened French doors, letting in the soft spring air, and they both stepped onto the terrace. Espaliered trees lined the brick walls surrounding a wide lawn, with hedges containing beds of sweet-scented flowers peppering the expanse in a neat pattern. At the very back of the garden was a glass house. Without his spectacles, Seb couldn’t be quite certain if anyone was inside, but he hoped it was currently unoccupied.
She nodded toward a path covered with crushed shells. “Will that suit?”
“Reasonably.” He tugged off his coat, and she gathered it in her arms. Grudgingly, he admitted, “Feel a bit foolish.”
“You look fine,” she murmured, her gaze on his shoulders.
The sight of her holding his coat hit him deep in his chest. It was a primal, instinctive gratification, a window into an intimacy that he hadn’t realized he craved until that moment.
He shook himself. She needed him to secure Fredericks’s attentions. The less he permitted himself to take pleasure in her, the better.
“Off to pretend lions are chasing me.” He gave her a small salute before trotting down the steps of the terrace. His boots hit the shell-strewn path, which crunched as he took his first strides. At first, running with no purpose felt ridiculous. But after jogging several paces, his body recognized the movement, and within minutes, he’d completed one lap around the garden.
Three times he made a circuit. Three times he passed Grace watching him from the terrace. He could admit to himself that when he passed her, he made certain to lengthen his stride. It was a timeless—shameless—display of masculine prowess, as if he said to her, Yes, Fredericks is wealthy and charming and learned, but can he do this?
After the third lap, he stopped at the foot of the terrace steps. He set his hands on his hips as he looked up at her.
“You don’t seem very winded,” she said with a raised brow.
A small gloss of sweat slicked his forehead, and he dragged the side of his hand over it. “The lions have been too indulged from their life in the Tower. Regular servings of beefsteak can take the fight out of a creature.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I feel . . .” He searched the jagged peaks of his anxiety—and was startled to find they’d been worn down into softer hillocks. It wasn’t as though he felt no unease at the prospect of speaking to strangers, but it seemed more manageable than before. As he climbed the stairs to her, he confessed, “Rather good, in truth.”
Her eyes sparkled as she handed him his coat. “The lions served their purpose, after all.”
Yet as they returned to the ballroom, and he heard the servants chatting over their tea, his jaw grew tighter and tighter. Before entering the large chamber, she stopped in the hallway and motioned for him to bend closer to her.
“Occasionally,” she said on a whisper, “when I get nervous, like when I have to go to a dinner and I’m certain all the other guests will be so much more sophisticated than me, I thi
nk about something that’s steady and constant, something that never varies. And I realize that my breathing is always there. So I just think about taking a long, slow breath. Then another. Then another. Try it with me?”
This seemed another strange, almost silly exercise—but she’d been correct about getting the energy out of his body. Straightening, Seb closed his eyes and breathed in, then let it out in a deep exhalation. He did it two more times
Peace settled over him.
He opened his eyes to find Grace gazing at him thoughtfully “Did you learn all this from studying amphibians and reptiles?”
“It’s quite amazing what one can learn from paying attention,” she said with a cheeky grin.
“Ah, there you are.” Rotherby strode toward them. He peered at Seb, but when he spoke, his voice was gentler. “Ready for your next task?” When Seb nodded, Rotherby said, “I’m going to break the servants into two groups so you’ll have more opportunity to practice.”
“Right,” Seb said, but even he could hear the thread of tightness in his words.
“Sebastian,” Grace murmured. “What are you afraid of?”
“That . . .” His mind ran through countless terrible scenarios, making his muscles go taut. “I’ll pass out or . . . say exactly the wrong thing.”
“In all your life,” she said softly, “tell me how many times that’s happened to you.”
“There was that time when . . .” He sorted through the catalog of his memories. He recalled innumerable instances when he’d panicked about losing consciousness or blurting something gauche, but as to actually doing those things . . . “I don’t know if I ever have.”
She tilted her head toward one of the maids, who stood with the groom. “Let’s see if it happens with these good folks.”
Taking another breath, Seb approached the maid and groom. Fear climbed up his spine as he neared the two people, and they observed him with a mild curiosity, but he reminded himself to remain focused on the in and out of his breath. Edged anxiety receded, so that by the time he joined the duo, he was able to say with some measure of calm, “Did you enjoy your tea?”