My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  Another fillip of pleasure moved through her. Their conversation wasn’t nearly as horrendous as it had been the other day. Perhaps there was hope for her and Mason, after all.

  “Where is Lord Pembroke?” Mason asked, glancing around. “He usually accompanies you to this event, and I’d looked forward to talking with him.”

  Yes—the very reason why she’d undertaken this enterprise in the first place. The mention of her father helped bring her careening emotions under a degree of control. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but my father is recovering in the country from an illness.”

  A fold of concern appeared between Mason’s brows. Earnestly, he said, “My apologies if I spoke too lightly.”

  “No need for contrition,” she assured him. It gave her great joy to say, “We’ve heard from him only this morning and he’s rapidly improving. He ought to be fully recovered by the middle of summer.”

  “Do give him my best wishes for a rapid convalescence.”

  The sincerity in Mason’s words warmed her. “I shall. I’ll write to him this very day and describe the gathering, down to each blade of grass and glass of sherry, and will be certain not to omit your good wishes.”

  Yet as she reveled in the smile she shared with him, feeling the first real rays of optimism, Lord Creasy stepped forward.

  “Mr. Fredericks,” their host said, “I have no fewer than three young ladies who are requesting the pleasure of your company. Three marriageable young ladies.”

  “Excellent,” Mason said cheerfully. “As a rapidly aging bachelor, I can’t miss an opportunity to meet marriageable ladies. Lady Grace, my lord and ladies.” He bowed smoothly, a consummate gentleman. “Do excuse me.”

  The viscount led an eager-looking Mason away.

  Grace’s shoulders slumped and she let out a long exhale. As soon as she began to entertain hope, it was dashed apart by a handful of careless words. Was it even possible to have Mason consider her as anything other than a colleague?

  “I’m sorry, dearest,” her mother said in a kind and warm voice.

  “It was merely an oversight on his part,” Anne added. “I’m sure he thinks of you as an eligible woman.”

  “The rotter,” Charlie muttered.

  “It’s fine,” Grace said, holding up her hands in a silent plea for silence. “I’m truly fine. Thank you,” she added sincerely. She was grateful for her family’s support, truly grateful, but even their words of balm stung like vinegar.

  Those glasses of sparkling wine looked awfully tempting right now.

  She lifted her hand to signal a servant to bring her one, but an excited murmur rose up from the guests and she froze.

  Someone new had arrived.

  Lord and Lady Creasy hurried through the crowd, quickly making their way along the lawn and up the terrace steps to greet the arrival.

  The Duke of Rotherby stood at the top of the wide stairs, wearing a polite but somewhat disinterested smile as the viscount and viscountess welcomed him.

  “Well, well,” Charles said quietly. “I hadn’t expected him to actually show.”

  Anne lifted up on her tiptoes. “Someone’s come out with him. The iron magnate’s son. And . . . oh, my gracious.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Grace’s mother seconded.

  Grace caught sight of Sebastian, who came to stand beside Rotherby.

  She didn’t have much experience with conducting experiments around the phenomenon of electricity. She knew almost nothing about it, other than it could be generated using special pieces of equipment, and that it was frequently bright—and used on the dead to induce spasms that resembled life. It was a potent, powerful force that the scientific community was only just beginning to understand.

  But as little as she knew about electricity, she felt it now shooting through her, crackling with energy and fire as she beheld a transformed Sebastian. Never in her life had she been so astonished, so utterly robbed of logical thought. As empty as her mind had become, her body roared to life at the sight of him. She sensed every nerve, every one of her breaths and heartbeats.

  He was and was not the same man. It was as though the shape and color of him had been polished to gleaming perfection, more brilliant than any diamond.

  “Ahem,” Charles grumbled. “Your husband’s standing right here, Anne. No need to devour the bloke with your eyes.”

  If Anne made any reply, Grace didn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the pound of her pulse and the rasp of her breath.

  Sebastian’s mop of blond hair had been cut and styled into an artfully tousled arrangement that looked as though he’d been striding along windswept moors—or rising from his lover’s bed. His cleanly shaven jaws made hard angles above a pristinely tied neckcloth, drawing attention to the shape of his mouth.

  She would have gladly let her gaze linger on his face, but her interest kept venturing downward, drawn by the sight of his athletic body dressed in an impeccably tailored white waistcoat, and double-breasted ink-blue coat, both of which highlighted the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist. His long, leanly muscled legs were encased in buff breeches, which were tucked into lustrous Hessian boots.

  “That man is your friend?” Grace’s mother whispered. “I had no idea he was a such a splendid Corinthian.”

  “Neither did I,” Grace whispered back.

  Seb was certain he was going to pass out. Scores of eyes were all looking at him, assessing him, judging him. The urge to flee coursed through him, but he was too busy being light-headed and slick with sweat to move. If only he could be somewhere, anywhere, so long as it wasn’t here and he could hide himself and be safe.

  His hand drifted to his pocket, and unconsciously he reached for the gloves Grace had given him. The smooth leather was cool at first, but warmed beneath his touch. And as he ran his fingers over the glove, the whirling in his head began to subside. His breathing calmed.

  A breath in, a breath out. Slow and steady.

  “Welcome, welcome,” a man’s voice called jauntily. “Your Grace, an honor.”

  Rotherby murmured, “Lord Creasy, Lady Creasy.” He inclined his head slightly. “May I introduce my friend, Mr. Sebastian Holloway.”

  When the elegantly dressed middle-aged couple turned their attention to Seb, it took him half a second to remember he was supposed to bow.

  Bless the stars that Seb had practiced bowing over and over, because his body knew how to effortlessly execute the move without Seb having to think about the mechanics.

  Wasn’t he supposed to say something? Yes—he’d rehearsed what to say on the way over in Rotherby’s carriage. “My sincerest gratitude for receiving me in your delightful home.” He ought to speak more, shouldn’t he? Oh, right. Ask questions. To Lady Creasy, he inquired, “Is this charming garden your own design?”

  The lady pursed her lips in pleasure. “I worked with a very talented horticulturist, but much of the concept came from me.”

  “I can tell,” Seb said without thinking. “Remarkable originality. Some truly unexpected touches that delight the eye.” Good God, where had that come from? Seb didn’t know his way around a compliment if he’d been presented with a compendium of them. And yet, some part of him knew what to say.

  Lady Creasy giggled. Giggled. And fanned herself.

  Seb shot a look at Lord Creasy, worried that his host would be angered by his wife flirting with a stranger. Astonishingly, Lord Creasy beamed as if he’d earned himself a spectacular favor.

  “Come,” Lord Creasy said with hearty bonhomie, “let us introduce you to our other guests.”

  As Seb and Rotherby followed their hosts down the stairs, into the garden, Rotherby spoke under his breath. “Slight stumble at first, but first-rate recovery. Keep it up.”

  Given that Rotherby could be parsimonious with compliments, Seb couldn’t ask for a stronger endorsement. He might truly be able to do this. Might.

  Lord and Lady Creasy looked especially proud of themselves as they introduced
Rotherby and Seb to their guests. Seb continued to hold on to the gloves, using them like a talisman that adhered him into his physical body rather than spin endlessly in his mind. Yet he needed something, an idea or image to keep in his thoughts that took him to a place where he felt happy and comfortable and perfectly at ease.

  The reading tables at the Benezra was one of his favorite places in all the world. He pictured books spread before him, could smell the paper and leather, with all the time he desired to simply read. And . . . in this fantasy of the library . . . Grace sat opposite him, smiling as she wrote something in a notebook.

  He felt his lips curve into a small smile, one of private pleasure meant just for him and Grace.

  To his astonished pleasure, the guests he met seemed to think his smile was for them, and they returned it as though they and Seb were the only ones in on a secret jest. Incredible, but the elegant, powerful people he encountered were eager to find a reason to ingratiate themselves with him.

  Guests bowed and curtsied deeply when they greeted Rotherby, yet the men shook Seb’s hand vigorously and the women curtsied low enough to present views down the front of their gowns. Well.

  He recalled Rotherby’s lessons on confidence, and how it originated from within. The rake on Bond Street had inhabited himself so effortlessly, as though he had nothing to prove.

  Removing his own stakes wasn’t an easy task, but he tried to pretend that he was slightly amused by, nigh, indifferent to, the statuses of the people he met.

  Seb tried to greet them all with his half smile. He’d murmur, “My pleasure,” or “My honor to meet you,” and then immediately ask a question about something—anything. If they were enjoying their Season, or what part of the Creasys’ gardens they liked best, or even the name of the ladies’ mantua maker so he might tell his mother where to have her gowns made. Perhaps he was mistaken, but it appeared that the ladies batted their eyelashes while giving him sidelong, lingering glances.

  Did they . . . was it possible . . . they found him desirable? He smothered any sense of exultation—he couldn’t be confident. Not yet.

  His unease at being with strangers simmered beneath his calm, but rather than shove it aside, he mentally nodded in acknowledgment. Yes, I see you, anxiousness. That simple act of accepting his fear’s presence somehow lessened it, and he breathed easier and easier.

  He felt peaceful enough to quietly snicker as Rotherby looked bemused and then mildly annoyed that he was no longer the focus of everyone’s attention.

  Seb could not quite keep track of everyone he met, but the guests included an archbishop, several powerful MPs, and Prinny’s closest confidants. The company was indeed rarified, and yet no one mattered to him quite so much as one person in particular. Grace was here, somewhere, but he couldn’t try to look for her, lest he tip his hand too soon that they were acquainted with each other.

  This would be the first time she would see him in his new clothing, wearing the persona of the rake. And his anxiousness rose up again in an edgy surge, because of everyone’s opinions, hers mattered the most.

  Grace couldn’t stop looking at Sebastian, watching his progress as he moved through the party. Even if her fate wasn’t inexorably tied with his, not looking at him wasn’t possible. In his new clothing, he was magnificent, yet she also sensed from him self-assurance that increased from minute to minute.

  Apprehensive and curious, she glanced at Mason, standing beside a table of refreshments. Mason’s brow was furrowed with curiosity as he watched Sebastian’s progress through the party.

  Grace’s belly fluttered. This was precisely the reaction they wanted to engender in Mason.

  The trembling in her belly doubled when Lord and Lady Creasy guided Rotherby and Sebastian toward her family. Was this what actresses felt moments before they stepped in front of the stage lights? As if they might combust with nervousness and excitement and fear and hope?

  “Your Grace,” Lord Creasy said to Rotherby, “I believe you know Lady Pembroke; her son, Lord Wale, and his wife, Lady Wale; and her daughter, Lady Grace.”

  The duke bowed, and one couldn’t tell from his impassive civility that he and Grace and Sebastian had spent the last week in seclusion together. He was clearly an expert in navigating social waters.

  “A pleasure to see you all again,” he drawled. He tipped his head toward Sebastian. “This is my good friend, Mr. Sebastian Holloway.”

  “Honored to make your acquaintance,” Sebastian said. After bowing, he effortlessly bent over Grace’s mother’s hand, and did the same for Anne.

  His attention turned to Grace, and the world slid to a stop.

  She knew in her mind, she knew, that the look of deep, sensuous interest in his gaze was strictly for show. Her body, however, had not received the missive. Every nerve came alive. She felt the spring breeze across her face and upper chest, and sensed the sun’s warmth on her flesh—or the heat came from within her and she confused Sebastian with the sun. Easy enough to do, when staring at him dazzled her.

  He narrowed the distance between them and took her hand in his. Energy sparked at his touch. She couldn’t blink or breathe or move as he kissed the air above her knuckles, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “Lady Grace.” His voice was a seductive murmur, yet loud enough for everyone nearby to hear him. “A delight to find you here today.”

  “Mr. Holloway,” she managed to breathe.

  He didn’t relinquish his hold of her hand. Not for many moments. And when he did, it was with visible reluctance, their hands slowly sliding apart.

  It was a miracle that she remained standing.

  “You’re him. Grace’s friend. She never said that you—” Her mother shot another look at Grace that indicated Grace had a considerable amount of explaining to do later.

  “I’m honored that Lady Grace considers me a friend,” Sebastian said.

  “We’ve been friends since Eton, Holloway and I,” Rotherby said, blessedly ignoring Grace’s mother’s reaction. “At Oxford, too.”

  “Is that so?” Grace’s mother let out a little hum, a sure sign she was pleased by the fact that Sebastian was close friends with a duke.

  “You’re a newcomer to the Season?” Charles asked, an edge in his voice. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  Grace fought a frustrated, frazzled sigh. Her brother might enjoy badgering her, but for all that, he never lost his protectiveness where she was concerned.

  “My circle of friends is a varied one, my lord.” As Sebastian spoke, his gaze never moved from her. “Perhaps our paths haven’t crossed until today, but I’m happy to remedy that.”

  Charles grumbled, but he subsided when Anne shot him a Keep quiet look.

  “Lady Grace,” Sebastian continued, “I look forward to deepening our friendship.”

  “As do I,” she said, her voice breathless. That, at least, wasn’t feigned.

  There was a brief lull, and the corners of Sebastian’s mouth tightened fractionally. She’d seen that happen before, when he had practiced talking with strangers. It was a sign of his discomfort. He struggled, internally.

  What should she do? Panic over his panic clutched at her. She had to help him in some way. Perhaps she ought to take charge of the conversation. Or she could spill wine on herself and create a distraction.

  Yet before she could speak or do something deliberately embarrassing, Sebastian said to her mother, “My lady, your daughter has spoken at length about your remarkable singing ability, particularly of traditional songs.”

  She had? Maybe once, ages ago, but surely Sebastian didn’t remember an offhand comment about her mother singing songs as she worked on her embroidery. It was simply part of ordinary life in her household, so she hadn’t thought anything of her mother’s habit.

  Clearly, however, Sebastian had been paying attention.

  “My singing is hardly remarkable,” her mother said, but her cheeks went rosy.

  He continued with an interested expression, “Which o
f those songs is your favorite?”

  “That is a difficult question, Mr. Holloway. But I would have to say that I love to sing ‘The Woods So Wild.’”

  “Byrd’s version or Gibbons’s?” Sebastian asked. “I do love Byrd’s interpretation.”

  Grace stared at him. They’d never discussed his interest in old English music—but today was one discovery after another.

  “Why, I don’t know which,” her mother confessed with an amused shake of her head. “You must call and we will sing both to see which I like better.”

  Grace glanced back and forth between her mother and Sebastian. Though her mother did enjoy company, she almost never invited anyone for a visit, preferring to make calls rather than take them. Sebastian might be a newcomer to implementing charm, but he seemed to be a natural.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said easily, as though he truly did want to pay a call. “I hope Lady Grace will join us.”

  Everyone looked at Grace, and every part of her flushed hotly. She’d forgotten that part of the plan was to aim attention in her direction. It was more than a little unsettling. The fact that Sebastian could move with such ease despite all the focus he drew, despite his shyness, was remarkable.

  “That would be . . .” She swallowed around her self-consciousness. “I’m not much of a vocalist, but I will do my best.”

  “Delightful.” His gaze transfixed her, and she forgot her awkwardness. She forgot almost everything except how wonderful it felt to be the center of his awareness.

  “Your Grace, Mr. Holloway,” Lord Creasy announced, and she briefly surfaced from the spell of his regard. “If you’ll come with me, there are many more of my guests who are eager to greet you.” He gestured for the two men to move on.

  Rotherby inclined his head at Grace’s family and turned to leave. Sebastian, however, remained—to give her one final, lingering look.

  Grace felt his look from the crown of her head to the very tips of her fingers and on to her toes. It was thrilling, and terrifying, and wonderful, and bewildering.

  It’s a performance, she reminded herself sternly.