by Eva Leigh
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter what the woman in question wants.” Rotherby paced over to Seb and stared down with an expression that was both angry and sympathetic. “Women don’t have an easy go of it. It falls to us”—he knocked his knuckles into Seb’s chest—“to protect them. Even when the woman outranks us, we’re still men, and that makes us more significant in the eyes of the world. A damned shame, and unfair, but that’s the way of it.”
God above, they’d been too mad with desire to think logically. He felt like the veriest bumbler.
“Don’t you want to marry her?” Rotherby asked softly.
“Of course I do,” Seb answered automatically. And then, “Christ. I do.” He shot to his feet.
Become Grace’s husband . . .
The moment the thought entered his mind, all the jangling pieces of himself fell into place. He was both deeply calm and wildly excited. To wake beside her every morning and hold her in his arms every night, each day to hear her fascinating thoughts, to share her joys, and to help her weather sorrows . . .
That was exactly what he wanted. All this time, the hours and days he spent with Grace were simply for the pleasure of her company. Because every part of him came alive whenever he was with her. Because he craved nothing more than her happiness.
Yet . . .
“If I went to her father,” he said, pacing, “asked for her hand, and he accepted, but she didn’t want to marry me, wouldn’t she feel trapped? She wants Fredericks, after all.”
Anguish sat heavily on his shoulders, because she hadn’t corrected Seb when he’d said she continue to seek Fredericks. She’d been eager to put their lovemaking behind them and progress toward her goal.
Rotherby crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn.”
“Precisely.” Seb raked his hands through his hair. “I like her too much to force her into something she doesn’t desire. I won’t do it, Rotherby.”
His friend looked at him for a long moment, the expression on his face faintly wondering.
“What’s it like?” Rotherby asked lowly. “To feel that way about someone? Knowing that they want nothing from you? It’s so . . .” He shook his head. “. . . impossible.”
The bleakness in Rotherby’s eyes was a vise around Seb’s chest. He’d known that his friend was a man much in demand, a person that other people sought because they believed he could do something for them. But at that moment, Seb finally saw how impossibly isolating that could be, and how lonely Rotherby truly was.
Seb began to speak, but Rotherby cut through the air with his hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. Bloody foolish question.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose then that the next step is to go to Grace and offer to make her your wife. If she agrees, then you’ll have my felicitations. And if she doesn’t . . .”
“If she doesn’t . . .” Something wintry and cutting lanced Seb, and he rubbed the spot over his heart. It was as though he performed a vivisection on himself. “Another one of my wanders might be on the horizon. Maybe I’ll hie off to the Outer Hebrides to nurse my injured heart.”
“You wouldn’t be the first heartbroken man to run to an island.” Rotherby walked to Seb and placed his hand on Seb’s shoulder. “I hope she says yes, my friend.”
Seb tried for a smile, but the attempt was a dismal failure. “As do I.”
Despite the fact that she’d gone to her bed weary beyond imagining, Grace barely slept. Whenever she managed to doze, she dreamt of ballrooms and torchlit fields and hay-strewn barns, and no matter where she found herself she kept feeling as though there was something she ought to do or say, but she’d no idea what.
And everywhere in those dream spaces, she heard Sebastian telling her to fuck him, followed immediately by his assurance that he only considered her a friend, and she ought to run to Mason. It was as mystifying when asleep as it had been when she was awake, and it made her head throb with frustrated confusion.
When she finally woke, her eyes felt like balls of woolen yarn and her body ached with unalloyed weariness. Judging by the light creeping around the curtains, it was much earlier than she had hoped it would be. But falling back to sleep was impossible, her dreams too tormenting, and so she sat up groggily and rang for Katie.
Grace’s toilette was minimal—enduring Katie’s hands on her made her already frayed nerves stretch even tighter. And part of Grace still wanted to cling to the lingering sensation of Sebastian’s touch, even if the pleasure and happiness she’d experienced from it merely reinforced her foolishness.
“Your mother’s had her breakfast and is in the parlor,” Katie informed her.
Grace had no appetite, but she’d gladly sit for hours at the breakfast table if it meant she didn’t have to pretend for her mother that everything was perfectly fine.
She crept down the stairs, trying to make her sluggish body as light as possible. But reaching the breakfast room meant she’d have to walk past the parlor. From the hallway, she heard the crackle of the fire and the papery sound of pages being turned.
She tiptoed past the parlor—or she tried. She’d taken two steps past the door when her mother called out, “Grace?”
“Yes, Mama.” She closed her eyes and sighed quietly, but there was no help for it.
Pasting on a smile, she entered the parlor. Her mother sat on a divan, an open book spread on her lap. Grace pressed a kiss to her upturned cheek, and her mother peered at her with concern.
“You’re looking pallid, dear. Does your head still pain you?”
It’s not my head that hurts, it’s my heart. “A little,” Grace said instead.
“Then sit, my girl.” Her mother waved toward a nearby chair. “I’ll ring for beef tea.”
“Perhaps later.” The thought of food, even something as innocuous as beef tea, made Grace’s stomach roil.
Her mother clucked. “As you like, but I do insist that you at least have some barley water.”
Before Grace could answer, Grenville, the butler, appeared in the doorway with a tray bearing a calling card. “My lady,” he intoned as he held the tray out to her mother.
“It’s too early for callers.” Her mother picked up the card and used her lorgnette to read it. A smile spread across her face. “But in his case, we’ll make an exception.”
Grenville bowed and retreated.
“In whose case?” Grace asked, her head truly starting to throb.
“Mr. Fredericks,” her mother answered with a pleased smile.
Oh, God. Grace’s stomach plummeted. She did not want to see Mason today. She still hurt from Sebastian’s insistence that they were to remain friends, and to attempt coherent conversation with Mason—when she herself had no understanding of what she felt for anyone—seemed an impossibility.
“This headache is quite severe,” she said weakly. “Perhaps I should go back to bed.” She rose.
“Mr. Mason Fredericks,” Grenville announced as Mason strode into the parlor.
In the bright light of day, Mason appeared just as handsome as ever, and he greeted Grace’s mother with a respectful bow. “Lady Pembroke. Thank you for agreeing to see me at this somewhat unfashionable hour.”
“You are always wanted in my home, Mr. Fredericks,” her mother said warmly. She sent Grace a look of indulgence, as if she believed she was doing her daughter a favor by welcoming Mason.
“I trust you are feeling better today, Lady Grace,” Mason said with concern.
She didn’t have to feign her wince of discomfort. “In truth, I was—”
“Just about to read to me,” her mother said, holding up her book. “But we can set that aside for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Fredericks.”
Saints preserve me from mothers who think they’re being helpful, Grace thought, attempting to smile.
Mason bowed again. “You are very kind, my lady. I shall confess that I am here with a specific agenda.”
“Oh?” her mother asked.
“My lady, and Lady Grace, might I invite yo
u to join me this morning for a visit to a friend’s botanic garden? It’s an exceptional collection of plants seldom found within Britain. He opens it once a month to a few esteemed individuals.”
“And you are one such esteemed individual?” Grace murmured.
A flush crept into Mason’s cheeks. “His words, not mine. In any event,” he added, “while I know your field focuses on amphibians and reptiles, I thought you might find Mr. Campbell’s garden a worthwhile object of study. He has a Spondias mombin, which is seldom cultivated outside of Brazil.”
In spite of her discomfort, Grace’s interest was piqued. Wild plum was one of the favorite foods of Iguana iguana, and to have the opportunity to examine the plant would be extraordinary. But she couldn’t accept Mason’s offer. Not today.
He seemed to sense her hesitancy, so he quickly said, “I hoped, Lady Pembroke, that you’d accompany us. It’s quite a lovely place, regardless of whether one dabbles in the sciences.”
“How absolutely charming,” her mother exclaimed. She turned her attention to Grace. “We would be delighted to see the garden. Isn’t that so, Grace? I’m sure a bit of fresh air would be endlessly beneficial.”
Pinned between her mother’s pointed look and Mason’s eager regard, there seemed no choice in the matter, not without causing Mason discomfort and embarrassment.
“I must grab my bonnet and spencer.” Grace feigned a smile. “Shan’t be a moment.”
She left the parlor quickly. As she climbed the stairs, she couldn’t help but think that the plan with Sebastian to secure Mason’s attentions had worked—and she had no idea how that made her feel.
Edginess chased Seb all the way to Mayfair. He’d dressed with extra care that morning, trying on all his waistcoats and jackets in an effort to look like someone Grace would want to marry. Surely the valet Beale would be horrified to see the mountain of garments Seb had thrown onto the floor as he’d tried every permutation of clothing. But Seb didn’t care about the fate of his clothes. He’d wear a flour sack if it meant securing her hand as his wife.
My wife. Despite the long, cool shadows thrown by Mayfair’s enormous homes, warmth flowed through him at the thought of those two words. Grace as his partner. His companion. A lifetime together of learning and discovery and passion. It sounded . . . Perfect.
All she had to do was say yes.
He didn’t want to think about her saying no. If he did . . . he’d likely crawl beneath a night soil collection wagon and never come out.
But he’d spent the rest of last night and into the early morning planning out precisely what he was going to say. He was no poet, but he hoped that his words professing his adoration and his intent to spend the rest of his life making her happy would be enough. They had to be enough.
He turned onto her street, his heart pounding with each step. Halfway down the block, he noticed the Pembroke family carriage waiting outside their home. If Grace was about to leave on some errand or outing, he ought to hurry to catch her before she departed.
Yet he slammed to a stop when he saw Fredericks emerge from her home, Grace’s mother on one arm, and Grace on the other. Fredericks was dressed smartly, and he wore an equally smart smile as he handed the countess into the waiting carriage. Then he helped Grace into the vehicle, gazing at her with respectful admiration. The brim of Grace’s bonnet hid her face, but Seb could well imagine the happy smile she must be wearing—she had what she wanted.
Fredericks climbed into the carriage, and a moment later, the vehicle drove off.
Seb occasionally practiced pugilism, but the invisible fist that now rammed him in his gut struck far harder than any of the other men at the boxing academy. He fought to keep from doubling over and gasping aloud.
Somehow, he managed to stay upright. But as he turned around to head home, he knew with certainty that if life was a pugilism match, he’d just been knocked flat on his back.
Chapter 22
“We’ll have a fine day for it,” Mason said as they drove toward the garden.
At his words, Grace snapped back to attention. “It will be lovely.”
“Mr. Fredericks,” her mother said brightly, “is it true that you dined with Wellington himself?”
“I did, my lady,” Mason said. “He invited myself and several men from the Royal Society to his home for a very lively discussion.”
“And what was he like, the duke?”
“Well, he . . .”
Grace’s thoughts drifted away again as her mother and Mason chatted.
She’d spent most of the carriage ride to Campbell’s garden swathed in restless contemplation. She ought to pay more notice to Mason as he engaged her and her mother in conversation, but how could she, when she kept revisiting that village barn, kept seeing the scorching passion on Sebastian’s face as he pleasured her, kept hearing his refrain again and again. “It was a onetime madness. An error in judgment.”
At least this jaunt to the private garden might distract her for a while. Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to join the conversation.
When the carriage stopped outside a tall iron gate on George Street, and Mason climbed down from the vehicle to wait for her, she forced herself to look animated and pleased. This was an exceptional opportunity to see plants she might never have the chance to observe. She ought to pay attention and bring herself into the present moment.
Once she and her mother had gotten down from the carriage, Mason approached the iron gate. A servant in livery waited on the other side.
“Fredericks,” Mason said to the man. He shot an excited look at Grace. “And two guests.”
The servant consulted a sheet of paper before penciling a check mark next to what Grace presumed was Mason’s name. With the paper stowed in his pocket, the servant opened the gate. “Welcome, Mr. Fredericks. Ladies.”
Mason held out his arms for Grace and her mother, and they both took them. She felt the solid bunch of his arm’s muscle beneath layers of fabric—yet to touch him only made her think of how thrilling it was to touch Sebastian, how his body had felt against and inside hers.
“You are invited to sketch or look at anything you see here,” the servant continued. “However, you may not touch anything without one of the gardeners in attendance. Picking any plant is also forbidden. Do you accept these directives?”
“We do,” Grace said after glancing at her mother and Mason.
“Then please, enjoy yourselves.” The servant waved them into the walled garden.
They walked down a path of crushed shells, passing plantings that were enclosed by low metal fences. The garden itself was less than half an acre, but even that size in the middle of urban London was remarkable. There were tall trees as well as a wide number of bushes and plants, some of which were in full flower. Small groups of people as well as a handful of lone individuals wandered up and down the paths. Many of them carried sketchbooks and positioned themselves near plants as they drew.
Birdsong trilled over the garden, and the sun had peeked out just enough to filter through the tree branches, casting pale purple shadows onto the ground. The air carried a fresh, green scent, and the walls dampened much of the sounds of traffic.
“Beautiful,” Grace said sincerely.
“I thought you’d like it.” Shy pride filled Mason’s voice. “Shall I take you to see the Spondias mombin?”
The ostensible reason for being here. “Please do.”
“Go on ahead, children.” Her mother released her hold on Mason’s arm. “I’m keen on speaking with the gardener over there about how to tend roses. I do have the worst luck with my roses, you know.”
Roses? Her mother didn’t give a fig for that flower.
Grace shot her mother a wry look. I know what you’re doing.
Her mother’s glance spoke volumes. So?
A moment later, Grace and Mason were alone.
They strolled toward the eastern side of the garden. She tried to bring herself to the present moment by observing the a
bundant plants around them—most of which she could not identify, signaling that they were species that did not originate in England—but all she could see was the look of tension on Sebastian’s face, and heard his words telling her that he was all too willing to forget their lovemaking so she might continue her pursuit of Mason.
She squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to silence her mind. But it was no use. Her brain, which she’d always believed was a beneficial and blessed organ, couldn’t stop tormenting her.
“Here we are,” Mason said, coming to a stop. He nodded toward a tree that stood about ten feet tall—it wasn’t very mature—and had long, glossy leaves. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Quite.” She let go of Mason’s arm and rose up on her tiptoes to study the small yellowish oval fruit. “How fascinating it might be to see this growing in the wild, and observe the creatures that feed upon it.”
“So it would.”
The edginess in Mason’s voice dragged her attention away from the Spondias mombin. “You seem distressed, Mr. Fredericks.”
“Not a bit.” He flashed her a nervous smile. “You and I have not known each other for very long. That is,” he hastily corrected, “we’ve known each other in a professional capacity. My own foolishness kept me shrouded in a fog, rendering me unable to recognize that there was so much more to you.”
She couldn’t help it. She was too new at hearing herself complimented and a flush of pleasure rushed into her cheeks.
“Had I more time,” he continued, “I would spend a proper amount courting you. Wooing you. But, alas, I do not.”
“Oh, yes, you’re leaving on another knowledge-gathering excursion.”
“In four weeks,” he said. “There’s an expedition headed to Greenland. The purpose is to study Arctic species.” He swallowed. “Would you care to join me on that expedition—as my wife?”
“Oh.” No words or thoughts sprang into being. She felt as though she’d been dropped from a great height, and could only struggle to breathe. Her mind latched on to the only thing she could fully comprehend. “Are there many species of amphibians and reptiles there? I don’t wish to be without employment, in Greenland.” The Arctic wasn’t an especially hospitable environment to animals that relied on outside sources of heat.