My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  What the deuce is wrong with me? I’m getting what I want.

  A thrum of excitement went through the room, and while the music and conversation didn’t stop, there was a brief pause as though the guests awaited something truly incredible.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Rotherby. Mr. Sebastian Holloway.”

  She slowly turned to face the entrance to the ballroom. True to the butler’s announcement, there stood the duke, who was, she supposed, absurdly handsome. But she barely spared Rotherby a glance. Instead, her gaze fixed on Sebastian as if the possibility of looking anywhere else was unbearable.

  And there went her heart, pounding as though it meant to leap from her chest, while she nearly stumbled from the force of pleasure at seeing Sebastian in his stark, almost severe, evening attire. His coat was a green so dark as to be nearly black, while the rest of his ensemble was a symphony of cream and white.

  I wish he’d stop doing this. Making me giddy just from looking at him.

  If he felt any anxiousness from being at the ball and being amongst so many strangers, his expression gave none of that away. She hoped he felt calm and relaxed—most especially for his own sake. She didn’t want him in distress.

  “A good chap, that Holloway,” Mason said, clearly unaware of the direction of her thoughts. “Saw him yesterday at the Imperial Theatre and we had a fine chat.”

  So. That’s where Sebastian had gone rather than be with her.

  And why shouldn’t he have a night out? He had every right to enjoy the fruits of his labors. To be a true rake.

  Perhaps the fears that had held him back for so long no longer shackled him. Perhaps he could break free of them, even for a little while. A blossom of delight opened in her chest that, if he wasn’t entirely liberated from his anxiety, he knew better how to navigate life with it. That was truly something to be celebrated.

  Happiness in his achievement made her eyes misty. She was so glad for him, so proud that he’d made that happen for himself.

  “Are you all right, Lady Grace?” Mason asked with concern.

  “It’s rather warm in here,” she said. “It’s making my eyes water a little.” She quickly used her knuckle to wipe away any incipient tears before they could fall.

  Just then, Sebastian’s gaze found hers.

  She froze, torn between pleasure and apprehension. Did her face betray the cyclone of emotions within her from merely looking at him?

  “How delightful,” Mason said cheerfully beside her—though his voice sounded miles away to her. “He’s heading in our direction.”

  Trepidation and hesitancy fell away the second Seb saw her. Until that very moment, he’d been uncertain about coming to the ball. Now, all the anxiety, all the doubt—they meant nothing to him to see Grace shine like a beacon of spring beneath the massive crystal chandeliers.

  The low scooped neck of her pale green dress highlighted the elegance of her collarbones and the hollow of her throat. Between the bottom of her short, puffed sleeves and the top of her long white gloves, he could see delicious bands of bare skin, which had until this night been hidden by pelisses or spencers. She’d done something to her hair, too, so that it piled atop her head in the kind of fascinating curls that jumbled masculine thought. All he wanted to do was wrap those curls around his fingers and, with the lightest urging, pull her head back so he might bring his mouth to hers as he’d done before . . .

  Objections rose up like flecks of foam upon the waves. He shouldn’t, couldn’t, think of her this way.

  And yet. He did.

  Rotherby said something to him but Seb couldn’t hear a word, his ears full of the sound of his thudding pulse.

  His body moved without thought. All he knew was that he needed to shorten the distance between them. He had to inhale her fragrance and watch the air vibrate around her from the force of her unbreakable will.

  He cleaved a path through the room, barely remembering to skirt around the dancers. A few more yards, and he’d be near her.

  Too late, he realized that Fredericks stood beside her. And that the other man looked warmly at Grace.

  The best thing to do was stay away. After all, she’d gotten what she wanted. Fredericks seemed enchanted. Seb’s presence wasn’t necessary—might actually impede the progress of Grace and Fredericks’s burgeoning attachment.

  The hell with it.

  He didn’t stop or divert his path. Not being near her was an impossibility. All he could do was heed the wordless demands of his body.

  “Lady Grace.” He bowed, and his chest swelled to see a stain of pink rise in her cheeks. “Fredericks,” he added, because he wasn’t entirely a churl.

  “Holloway, a pleasure to see you again,” Fredericks said with hearty bonhomie.

  “Yes,” Grace added, her voice breathy. “A pleasure.”

  The opening bars of a waltz curled through the ballroom. Couples positioned themselves on the floor, readying for the music to truly begin.

  “This dance is promised to me,” Seb said. He held out his arm.

  For a moment, Grace merely looked at his proffered arm, her expression alarmingly blank. God, had he put her in an uncomfortable position? Making her do anything against her will or wishes was intolerable.

  “Unless,” he continued, trying to give her an exit, “you are feeling fatigued or—”

  “We can dance if we want to.” She rested her hand on his sleeve, and though she’d done the same thing countless times before, seeing her gloved fingers atop the dark fabric of his coat sent a hot bolt of desire through him.

  He guided her onto the dance floor, hardly sparing a thought or glance for Fredericks. All that mattered was Grace, shining and vivid beside him. Her gaze clung to his. They took their positions for the waltz—his right hand upon her waist, hers upon his shoulder, and their left hands clasped—and when the music began and they moved in the dance, everything melted away.

  As they turned, their left hands clasped overhead, and their bodies were brought close together. They’d practiced the steps before. But this dance was new and different and seductive beyond all reason. She swayed with him, responding to his gentle guidance.

  She looked up at him with an expression bordering on wonderment, as though discovering something that defied logic yet existed, anyway. He was pulled in by her tide, yielding to the gravity that drew them closer, and closer still. Her loamy, floral scent teased him, and the heat and softness of her body roused his own to acute awareness. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day or winter or spring but he knew with absolute certainty that the silk of her gown had taken on the warmth of her flesh, and that same warmth flowed into him like a torrent.

  There were cultures that used dance as a means of prayer or summoning magic. He understood that now, more fully than he ever had before. Because what else were he and Grace doing if not weaving a spell that bound them together and filled the ballroom with enchantment? It would not have surprised him to look up and find the coved ceiling replaced by the branches of ancient oaks.

  I’ll give her anything she wants.

  The thought didn’t frighten him. It filled him with certainty and purpose.

  He couldn’t recall any of the reasons why he needed to keep himself at a distance, why he couldn’t adore her with his mind and his body. He couldn’t remember much of anything, his thoughts hazy from having her in his arms. The kiss they’d shared seemed long ago, too long, and demand to repeat it and taste her once again roared through him.

  When they’d practiced this dance, he hadn’t known what it was to kiss her. Now he did, and their movement across the dance floor became tinged with erotic potential.

  Her cheeks were flushed, and she moved her gaze back and forth from his eyes to his mouth, as if she, too, was brought back to that sunlit field where the air had been ripe with the whirring of insects, the smell of grass, and sensual possibility.

  You aren’t supposed to want her, a faint voice in his mind pointed out.

  But why?<
br />
  He had no answer. Not when they were entangled together like this.

  And then, too soon, the music ended. She blinked—he probably did, as well—and, several moments later, stepped back.

  He remembered he had some kind of role or function to serve. It took him a few seconds before he recalled what he was supposed to do. He held out his arm, and she took it. His whole body protested as he walked her back to the side of the chamber, where Fredericks waited. The naturalist appeared slightly puzzled, but Seb didn’t give a fuck about that. He only cared about the moment when Grace’s touch disappeared.

  Taut as a pianoforte string, he bowed, despite wanting to hold her tightly. He made himself smile. “It was my honor.”

  She stared at him, her eyes brilliant, her cheeks still pink as peonies. Then she turned and hurried away.

  The corridor to the ladies’ retiring room stretched before Grace as though it was miles away, but she had to reach it. Had to get to someplace secure and safe.

  She felt curious looks from other guests as she walked quickly. Managing a distracted smile, she nodded at a few people she vaguely recognized before—at last!—the door to the retiring room appeared before her. She pushed it open and dashed inside.

  She sank down on a low tufted stool set before a mirror. Similar arrangements of furniture ringed the room, and other ladies made use of them, patting their hair into place or checking if their cheeks were too flushed. A few women chatted, but all of them cast assessing glances in her direction.

  “May I assist you, my lady?”

  Grace started and stared at the maid’s reflection as the servant stood behind her.

  “I . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted from the maid.

  That wasn’t true. She wanted to pour out her heart to the servant. I have feelings for another man, someone who thinks of me only as a friend. I thought I wanted someone else, but I don’t know if that’s true anymore. Please help me make sense of myself.

  “No, thank you,” Grace said instead.

  The servant curtsied before moving on to a duo of women who entered the retiring room, both of them fussing with their gowns.

  Grace gazed into the mirror, but she didn’t look at herself. Instead, she stared hard at the reflection of a window, its curtains open to reveal dark panes of night. The view itself was of the mews.

  None of this calmed her or helped her to make sense of the riot going on inside her mind or her body. Something had happened when she and Sebastian had danced, his arms around her, something that built upon the kiss they’d shared. He wasn’t merely a friend to her, not anymore. She desired him. The realization had made her flee the dance floor.

  What the deuce am I supposed to do?

  One thing she couldn’t do was stay in the retiring room all evening. Although the idea had merit . . .

  Grace took a breath to gather her thoughts and calm her sensitized body. She rose, and, after handing the attending maid a coin, emerged from the retiring room. She took measured steps back toward the ballroom, the music growing louder and louder as she walked, and heat spilling out like its own tropical climate.

  She paused at the side entrance to the ballroom. Dancers were going through the forms of a quadrille, moving in the patterns that had been ingrained in her since girlhood.

  Her heart clutched. Mason and Sebastian stood together at one side of the ballroom, neither speaking, although it appeared a relatively friendly silence. Both of them looked in her direction.

  Both men smiled and moved toward her. At the sight, the breath that she’d caught in the retiring room fled.

  What woman wouldn’t adore being the object of two very handsome men’s attention? Who wouldn’t swoon with delight at such a prospect?

  But the reality of her situation was far more complicated and confusing than delightful.

  “I trust you’re feeling better,” Mason said with a small bow.

  “Better?”

  “You . . . ran off. Looking a mite feverish, in truth.” Mason tilted his head. “Some punch might revive you.” He took a step toward the refreshment table.

  “Or a whiskey.” An inscrutable smile—the likes of which she’d never before seen him wear—curved Sebastian’s lips.

  Her heart set up an unsteady rhythm as she contemplated his mouth.

  Does he know? How he affects me? And what do I do about Mason?

  Whiskey unquestionably sounded more tempting than punch, but she said, “Neither, thank you. I’m quite recovered. A momentary giddiness from the heat of the room.”

  The quadrille came to an end, and the opening bars to a cotillion began. Mason turned toward her and held out his hand.

  “Would you do me the honor of joining me in this dance?” He added, “If you are feeling well enough, of course.”

  She stared at his hand. This was precisely what she’d wanted.

  Her gaze went to Sebastian, standing close by. While he retained a slight smile, his eyes were cool, and the whole of his expression was inscrutable and she couldn’t tell from it if he wanted her for himself.

  But they were friends only. He’d said so after they had kissed, and she feared the repercussions if she were to reveal to him that she wanted more from him than friendship.

  “Delighted,” she said to Mason, and placed her hand atop his. Mason’s gloved hand beneath hers felt warm and steady.

  She waited for her pulse to speed up or her mouth to go dry or some sign, any sign, that actually touching Mason moved her. But her body continued its normal functioning, and her feet were steady beneath her as he led her onto the dance floor.

  It took the effort of an Amazon to resist looking back at Sebastian. She didn’t, but she sensed his gaze on her as she took her place for the cotillion.

  She faced Mason, and he smiled charmingly at her while the other dancers moved into their positions. He truly was a very fine-looking man, and the intelligence and awareness in his eyes only heightened his attractiveness. And now, finally, she and Mason were about to dance with each other—the culmination of fantasies finally made reality.

  The music began in earnest, and the dance commenced.

  Seb’s work was done. He’d danced with Grace and now she danced with Fredericks. Deliberately, Seb avoided looking at the couple as they turned around the floor. Seeing her stare adoringly at Fredericks whilst the naturalist gazed at her with stars in his eyes wasn’t something Seb relished.

  Dark, primal urges demanded Seb tear Grace from Fredericks. He had to occupy himself, and find a means for distraction so that he didn’t yield to his instincts.

  He glanced around the room. The guests not dancing congregated in small groups, some of the same sex, some comprised of men and women. It struck him that, for all the fine clothing and jewels and glasses of expensive wine in their hands, the guests were no different from the people he’d studied in villages and rural towns. They assessed and flirted, they laughed and leaned closely to people they wanted to attract, they gave polite yet reserved smiles to those that they wanted to keep at a distance.

  Perhaps they considered the other person’s political and financial value, but, at bottom, most everyone hoped to find someone they could at least care for, if not love.

  Seb looked at Grace and Fredericks dancing. All he thought and felt was the wish to trade places with the other man—and that wasn’t what Grace wanted.

  The room became hot and choking. He couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. The darkness outside the ballroom beckoned, and, making certain not to glance in Grace’s direction, he headed quickly through the open French doors.

  Grace’s movements were rote. The cotillion was one she’d learned early in her preparation for coming out, so there was no question of whether or not she remembered the steps. They carried her as she turned and retreated, spun and promenaded. She and the other dancers were part of a clockwork mechanism, gears moving together.

  She felt mechanical, too. Remote from herself, even as she smiled back at
Mason. He was an accomplished dancer, evidence that he was no stranger to events such as this ball. He partnered her well, and when their hands met, he didn’t grip her too tightly or touch her too limply. Everything he did was correct. Everything was just as it should be, but it was merely pleasant. Nothing more.

  She chanced a quick look around the ballroom, but Sebastian was nowhere to be found. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t blame him for leaving. This part of his work was done. Now he was free to do precisely what he wanted, free from the obligation of her company.

  The music came to an end. She curtsied to Mason, he bowed, and then he guided her off the dance floor—toward her mother, who smiled to see her on Mason’s arm.

  This was what her father wanted, and what Grace had believed she wanted. But she didn’t know what she wanted anymore, and the idea of making conversation at that moment felt like a crushing vise.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Fredericks.” She came to a stop. “I feel I must take some air.”

  Mason frowned in concern. “There is a balcony. I will escort you.”

  “No. Thank you,” she added. “It’s much appreciated, but I need a moment to myself.”

  “As you like.” He inclined his head, but his tone was reluctant.

  She didn’t look back as she went quickly to the open doors at the farthest part of the ballroom. Outside, a handful of guests stood at the iron railing, fanning themselves and murmuring pleasantries about the evening, the ball, their host and hostess, and any of a hundred other topics she could not find the emotional wherewithal to discuss.

  Was there nowhere to be alone?

  The balcony was quite long, stretching the whole length of the ballroom and even a little beyond. To her relief, shadows engulfed one end and it didn’t appear as though anyone occupied the space, which made it the perfect place for her to seek solitude.

  She quickly slipped toward the shadows.

  The darkness enfolded her like an embrace. And then a pair of strong male arms encircled her in a real embrace.

  Chapter 18