by Eva Leigh
“Holloway, isn’t it?” Mason looked at Sebastian in the way that all males within breeding age did when meeting one another—assessing whether or not the other male was a threat, or could be dominated. “We’ve met a time or two at the Benezra Library.”
“Fredericks,” Sebastian said. The word itself was genial enough, but the stony look in Sebastian’s eye told another tale.
Both men wore smiles, but the glints in their eyes—as well as the way they both sat up straighter and broadened their chests—spoke of animosity.
She bit back a laugh. How very typical they were being. Even men who were scholarly and progressive couldn’t seem to stop themselves from reverting to such primal behavior when competing for the attention of a viable female.
Dear God, they’re vying for me. It wasn’t as flattering as novels and poems seemed to think it was. No wonder she read so few novels and poems.
“Lady Grace,” Mason said, “I’m glad to see you here, but Hyde Park isn’t the best location for observing wildlife.”
“It depends on what you define as wildlife. Besides, you never know what you’re going to find out in the field.”
“Very true.” He brought his horse closer to the curricle. “Only the other day, I observed a pied flycatcher that was very far from where it’s typically seen.”
The name meant little to her—she guessed it was a variety of bird—but she nodded. “How surprising.”
“There’s nothing more exciting,” he said brightly, “than discovering something out of the ordinary. Or a known entity reveals itself in a new way.”
“It is one of my favorite things about the natural world,” she said honestly. “We keep expecting it to behave in a certain manner—”
“Yet it doesn’t,” Mason said, completing her thought.
His gaze met hers, and she found herself staring into the green depths. There was understanding there. She couldn’t suppress the sensation of triumph that surged through her. This was precisely what she’d hoped for.
“If you’ve need of company in the field,” Sebastian said, his voice breaking the spell that had fallen over her and Mason, “you have but to whisper the word and I will make myself available to you.”
“Thank you.” She came back to herself, but she hoped her bonnet hid the blush that washed across her face when she recalled the kiss she and Sebastian had shared in the field.
Mason coughed once. “I hope to see you at the Viscount and Viscountess Marwood’s ball in two nights.”
She lifted her brows in surprise. He’d never mentioned socializing with her before.
“It’s my intention to attend,” she said.
“Do save me a dance.” He flashed her a bright smile.
It seemed so easy for him, this charm, this comfort with banter, and while she instinctively warmed to it, she couldn’t help but think of how hard Sebastian had worked to achieve the same effortlessness.
“I will attempt to do so,” she said, “but I cannot make a promise.”
Yes, that’s the way. Make certain he has to work for it.
“I’ll be sure to seek you out,” he said, his dimple winking, “so that I get that dance.”
“Provided it isn’t the waltz,” Sebastian said. When she pulled her gaze to him, he appeared relaxed and carefree, his body long and loose, but there was that steel in his eyes. “That’s already been promised to me.”
“Oh,” Mason said offhandedly. “You’ll be at the viscount’s ball?”
“As the Duke of Rotherby’s guest,” Sebastian answered the way a man might draw a sword.
“How fortunate you have such distinguished friends,” Mason said with hard cheerfulness, “that you might gain entrance to such exclusive galas.”
“Wasn’t certain about going.” Sebastian shrugged. “Balls can sometimes be tedious, but I always have a good time, and,” he added with a smile aimed at her, “the possibility of seeing Lady Grace is the greatest inducement, of course.”
“Of course,” Mason said, also sending her a smile.
It felt so peculiar to have two exceptionally handsome men smile at her as if they would do anything to gain her favor. Again she felt the strange double sensation of pleasure and annoyance.
But then, men often engendered feelings of pleasure and annoyance.
“I will see you soon, Lady Grace,” Mason added. His tone was far cooler when he added, “A pleasure seeing you, Mr. Holloway.”
Sebastian grunted Mason’s name.
After giving Grace a small bow, Mason touched his heels to his horse and then trotted off. She was careful not to follow him with her gaze.
When she was certain Mason was out of earshot, she said to Sebastian in a gratified whisper, “You were amazing. It truly seemed as though you were being possessive. If anthropology doesn’t prove fulfilling, you ought to consider a career on the stage.”
“I’m not very skilled in that kind of performance.” His words sounded oddly tight, as if he was clenching his teeth.
“Today, you were.” She cleared her throat, wondering how to best approach what she had to say. “However . . . do you think . . . perhaps . . . you might behave a little less proprietarily?” When Sebastian frowned, she explained, “If Mason thinks that we’re truly a romantic couple, the greatest likelihood is that he’ll turn his attention elsewhere.”
“I’ll try to strike the right balance between interested and permissive,” Sebastian answered drily. He clicked at the horses, and they increased their pace.
In for a penny . . . “If I may be candid—”
“Please do.”
She turned to him, and though he continued to drive, she knew she had his attention. “Jealousy isn’t appreciated by women. We’re not things. There’s nothing flattering about being treated like an object.”
He gave a clipped nod. “Understandable, and understood.”
There was a definite chill in the atmosphere between them. Part of her wanted to say she was sorry, but then she reminded herself that speaking out on her own behalf wasn’t something she needed to apologize for.
As they continued their drive, passing more people who enthusiastically greeted them, she said in a low voice, “You said nothing to me before about attending the Viscount Marwood’s ball.”
“This was the first I’d heard about it,” he replied. He maintained his relaxed, almost languid air, though some tension remained in his voice. “Rotherby’s not particularly enamored of balls, but I’ll convince him to go so that I can be there.” He added, “We’ll make sure that Fredericks gets an eyeful of you.”
“Splendid.” Soon, she’d see Mason again. And . . . she would behold Sebastian in his evening finery. They would dance together.
Excitement tumbled within her.
Because of Mason . . . or because of Sebastian?
She had no answer for herself.
Chapter 15
Seb sat in his threadbare armchair as he studied the hastily written note.
Small soiree tonight at Viscount Ombersley’s. Perhaps we cross paths there? Make for a good show.
Yours, G
He tapped the paper against his lips. Since their drive on Rotten Row, two days ago, he and Grace hadn’t made arrangements to be seen together in public, not until the Marwoods’ ball tomorrow evening. This last-minute request posed a puzzle. He’d intended to spend the night catching up on his reading, which had been, of late, sadly neglected. An evening of solitude sounded rather welcome after the amount of socializing he’d been doing. Just him, a glass of whiskey, and several volumes about societal structures amongst nomadic peoples should be just the thing. Or he could write up his notes on his observations from the last week. That would be an excellent use of his time.
Yet . . . Grace needed him.
However . . . she’d asked him not to behave possessively, since it might deter Fredericks. Much as he knew logically that his role was to pave the way for Fredericks, it galled. Part of Seb wanted to brood and grumble and deny Grace her
request for no other reason than his wounded pride. Another part of him was eager to make her happy.
Spending more time with her, however, was a challenge—because each minute made him crave more of her, more of them, together. But that wasn’t what she wanted.
Goddamn it. This entire scenario was a hopeless tangle.
A forceful knock sounded on his front door.
“My God,” Seb yelled, “the building better be on fire the way you’re carrying on.”
Pulling open the door revealed Rotherby, dressed smartly for a night out. But the man standing beside Rotherby wasn’t Beale, here to scold him for his sartorial choices. Instead, Seb found himself looking at another of his oldest friends, Duncan McCameron.
“If the building is on fire,” McCameron said drily, shaking Seb’s hand, “I’m not carrying you out.”
“What if I’m overcome by the smoke?” Seb asked with a grin.
“Then I’ll grab your valuables and make my exit.”
Seb and Rotherby both chuckled. The likelihood that McCameron, a decorated veteran and one of the most principled men they knew, would do anything unlawful was patently ludicrous. One might as well believe that Wellington himself lifted pocket watches.
“You’re looking . . . different,” McCameron said with typical concision. He glanced at Seb’s stylish wine-colored waistcoat. “Less vagabond, more Incomparable.”
“All thanks to the services of my valet,” Rotherby threw in.
“You can’t take credit for something someone else did.” Seb stepped back and waved his two friends into his rooms. “Especially if that someone else is a salaried employee.”
“I see you’ve made the place spotless for unexpected visitors,” Rotherby noted as he stared at a mound of papers heaped atop what should have been a dining table.
“The noteworthy phrase you’ve used is unexpected visitors.” Seb quickly collected sheaves of documents and armfuls of books to clear space on a pair of chairs and his sofa.
“Save your efforts, Holloway,” Rotherby said. “We’re not staying long.”
Seb set debris upon another pile of debris, which didn’t do much to actually tidy things up and, in fact, created a precarious tower.
“Off to prowl the docks in search of fistfights?” he asked.
To his chagrin, Rotherby walked right up to the tower of paper and books and tapped it, causing the whole structure to wobble.
“A night of gentlemanly pursuits,” Rotherby said, watching the effects of his mischief.
“How delightful for you.” Seb blocked Rotherby’s second attempt to topple the heap of debris. Rotherby tried to dodge around him, but Seb used his body to obstruct him.
Meanwhile, Grace’s note needed a response.
“How delightful for us,” McCameron said, stepping between Rotherby and Seb. There was no way around the mass of McCameron’s large frame. His athletic ability had seen him celebrated throughout his time at Eton, then made him much vaunted in his military career, and now easily prevented Seb and Rotherby from tormenting each other further.
“Explain.” Seb looked with confusion between Rotherby and McCameron.
Rotherby strolled from the chamber and into the room where Seb slept. When Seb followed, he found his friend digging through the small wardrobe. Rotherby pulled out an ink-blue jacket and held it up for inspection.
“Yes,” Rotherby murmured, “with the burgundy waistcoat this will work.” He turned to Seb. “Put this on. You’re coming with us.”
Seb put his hands on his hips. How like Rotherby to be so high-handed about everything. Sardonically, he asked, “The possibility that I might have other plans for the evening did not occur to you?”
“No,” Rotherby said.
“As it turns out, I do have somewhere to be this night.” He held up Grace’s note. “Grace has asked me to appear at Viscount Ombersley’s soiree, and—”
“You’re running off to do her bidding,” McCameron finished, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m honoring my obligation,” Seb fired back. “You of all people should understand the importance of that.”
Before McCameron could answer, Rotherby stepped forward, holding out the dark indigo coat. “You need not jump to oblige her every whim, Holloway. A little scarcity increases demand. Besides,” he went on as Seb sputtered his objections, “in order for her plan to fully work, you cannot appear only at her side. The ton needs to know that you are a rake without equal, and that for a woman such as her to catch your notice, it must be a most singular occurrence. It will also make for a good addition to your paper or whatever you plan on writing.”
“Therefore,” McCameron continued, “you are coming with us for a night on the town.”
Seb looked between Rotherby and McCameron as his thoughts spun. What Rotherby said made a kind of sense. He couldn’t exist in a vacuum. “Given the nature of how verbal information networks operate within this societal structure—”
“In other words, gossip,” Rotherby said.
“Given the nature of gossip,” Seb plowed on as he fought to work out the reasoning, “word would inevitably circulate back to Fredericks, who would then use it as basis for his continuing escalating valuation of Grace, thus achieving our objective.”
“Exactly so.” McCameron snorted quietly. “From a strategist’s point of view, you and Lady Grace are employing complex tactics. You both would’ve been assets during the War.”
“Except,” Rotherby said, “Holloway would be too busy asking the enemy questions about their use of verbal information networks to be much good on the front lines.”
“There’s always need for intelligence,” McCameron replied.
“Which would discount your contribution considerably, Rotherby.” Seb ducked as his friend threw his jacket at him. Straightening, he said, “Not certain what to tell Grace.”
Rotherby plucked the note from his hand and waved it in the air. “Tell her that you’re busy tonight laying groundwork for tomorrow evening. And this is all part of your ongoing examination of the life of a rake. She’ll understand.”
It was an effort to nod in agreement, but Seb did so. What his friends said made sense. Yet the thought of disappointing Grace felt like the sting of hundreds of wasps. Perhaps that was precisely why he needed to not see her tonight. He had to remind himself that he was not the sought-after goal. It was Fredericks. And the more he made himself see that, the better—the safer—he would be.
Grace sat in front of her dressing table, watching Katie’s hands hovering over the lopsided mass of her hair. The maid plucked a pin from between her lips and used it to secure a lock of Grace’s hair into a loop, although the loop immediately unraveled and hung down Grace’s neck, with the pin dangling from the very end.
“I’m either the height of fashion,” Grace said with wonderment, “or I resemble the rubbish heap behind a peruke shop.”
“Apologies, my lady.” Katie grimaced. “It’s only that . . . well . . . you see . . . you go out so infrequently in the evenings and . . . there hasn’t been much call for me to dress your coiffure for a night out.” The maid picked up the illustration from La Belle Assemblée Grace had provided and eyed it doubtfully. “The style’s awful involved.”
Grace blew a strand of hair from her face. “Perhaps it’s a matter of adjusting our expectations. We were too ambitious.” She turned her head slightly as she studied her crazed and tangled mane. “I think it best if we begin again. And this time, we’ll set our aspirations toward something more achievable. Like this one.” She turned the page in the periodical and pointed to an image of a young woman whose tresses had been shaped into a simple but pretty arrangement.
“Yes, my lady.” With a defeated sigh, Katie plucked pin after pin from Grace’s hair.
It didn’t hurt to take extra care with her appearance—for no other reason than it gave her a measure of confidence. Not because she wanted Sebastian to look at her with admiration. The thought of watching h
is face light up with wonderment upon catching sight of her filled Grace’s belly with squirming tadpoles.
“Will Mr. Fredericks be at the to-do this evening?” Katie asked, adding yet another pin to the heap. Gracious, had the maid used most of the hairpins in London? “That’s who this is for, isn’t it?”
Grace started. She hadn’t discussed Mason with Katie, or the plan to win his attention. And . . . just now, she hadn’t considered attracting Mason’s notice. Only Sebastian’s.
Oh, rot. This was an unwelcome development.
“It’s all right, my lady.” Her maid made a soft clucking sound. “Hard not to notice how much you fancy Mr. Fredericks, given that your cheeks turn red as strawberries if he’s within fifty feet of you.”
“Yes. Ah. Well.” Heat spread across Grace’s face and, checking her reflection, she realized she did resemble a pot of strawberry jam with eyes. How utterly dispiriting. “I suppose he might be in attendance tonight.”
“Then we ought to make you look right handsome. Give Mr. Fredericks something to think about when he goes to sleep.” Katie winked.
It was for Mason that Grace wanted to look her best. Not Sebastian. The man whose friendship she valued too much to risk ruining it.
A tap sounded at the door, and Katie went to see who it was. There was a quiet exchange with a footman before Katie returned to Grace.
“Note for you, my lady.” The maid handed her a folded piece of paper that bore her name and address in a rather untidy but masculine script.
Frowning, Grace opened the missive.
Regrets, but I am engaged for the evening. No doubt you will do splendidly without me. Tomorrow?
Yrs, S
“A billet-doux from Mr. Fredericks?” Katie asked with a wink. “Hold a moment, my lady. I’m not done arranging your hair.”
Yet Grace stood and drifted away from her dressing table. “There’s no need to. I’m not going out tonight.”
“But—”
“Please tell my mother I’ll be dining in my chambers, and I won’t accompany her this evening.”
Katie opened her mouth to protest, but she must have seen something in Grace’s expression that would not accept arguments. She bobbed a curtsy and quickly left the bedchamber.