Chapter 2
“Sebastian, do stand still for a moment, won’t you?”
His mother always found him. She’d spent twenty years teaching him that no door was shut tight enough if she wished it open.
Sebastian, Duke of Ravenscourt, was already regretting the brandy he hadn’t yet poured when her voice floated across the crowded drawing room. He had tolerated exactly forty minutes of the Wrexford Ball before deciding he’d need two more brandies to last the hour his mother demanded of him.
He hated this sort of crush—too many people pressed shoulder to shoulder, too much heat under too many candles. It was only slightly tolerable because the host was his friend, the Duke of Wrexford.
He had scanned the room he entered immediately, half-listening to names drifting behind fans, alliances, debts, whispered threats dressed as gossip. Wrexford’s ballroom was good for that, at least—everything you needed to know about England’s polite rot in one gilded hall.
He turned to find her gliding toward him, all silken authority in dove-gray satin, her expression as perfectly arranged as the diamonds in her hair.
“Mother,” he said, the smile in place, his mask polished to match hers.
Beside her stood a slip of a girl, too pale for the Season’s fashion, clutching a fan like it might fly away. Just behind her, her mother stood, a thin woman in stiff silk, eyes darting between mother and son.
“Your Grace,” the Dowager Duchess said, her smile enough to make a grown man flinch.
“Mother,” Sebastian replied.
“Really, Sebastian,” Honoria murmured, “must you look as though you’ve been dragged here at gunpoint?
May I present Miss Arabella Worthing and her mother, Lady Worthing.
They have come up from Surrey for the Season.
Her father’s shipping business does rather well.
Quite remarkable, in fact, given these times. ”
Sebastian inclined his head to the girl first, catching the faint scent of violet powder drifting off her gloves.
“Miss Worthing,” he said, voice smooth enough to coat a blade. “An honor. I trust the ball has not bored you to tears yet?”
The girl’s eyes fluttered—blue or gray, he couldn’t tell under the light—and she dipped a curtsey that nearly swallowed her whole.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” she squeaked. “It is… it is all very grand.”
“Arabella plays the harp delightfully,” his mother added, her tone breezy as if they were discussing the weather. “A most sensible young lady, don’t you agree?”
Sebastian nearly laughed, but caught it before it slipped out. A harp, a fortune, and a womb. The three requirements for sensible, apparently. He inclined his head at Miss Worthing again, offering a smile that felt like it might crack.
Sebastian felt the corner of his mouth twitch and buried it under the polite curl of a smile. “Sensibility is the finest virtue.”
“Quite so,” Honoria replied softly enough that only he heard. Her fingers brushed his sleeve as if she were trying to warn him. “It is the only virtue worthy of a title such as yours. Miss Worthing’s mother is quite taken with you already. I trust you will not disappoint her expectations.”
Lady Worthing’s polite smile didn’t quite mask the appraisal in her eyes.
“Your Grace is… most gracious,” she murmured. Her voice was meant to sound demure, but was warmer than she realized. She cleared her throat softly.
Sebastian arched a brow. “I live only to meet expectations.”
“Yes,” Honoria murmured, ice smooth. She turned to Arabella. “Miss Worthing, perhaps you would honor His Grace with a piece on the harp later this evening? I am certain he would find it soothing.”
He could see the blush creep up her throat.
“Does your harp obey you well?” Sebastian asked, his tone still velvet soft. “Or must you coax it a little, linger over a note until it surrenders what you want?”
She gave a startled laugh, her fan trembling at her wrist.
The blush that rose up Arabella’s neck this time was near crimson. Her mother’s lips parted just once, then snapped shut again as she shot a startled glance at Honoria.
“I… I do try to play properly—” Arabella stammered.
“I’ve no doubt,” Sebastian murmured, eyes lingering long enough to make her mother shift at her side.
“Your Grace is too kind,” Lady Worthing said tightly. “Arabella’s talent is… quite suitable for very refined company.”
“Ah,” he said lightly. “Then I must count myself blessed to stand so near refinement tonight.”
Honoria’s fingers found his sleeve with two fingertips, polite as a pistol pressed to his ribs.
“Sebastian,” she murmured, her tone low, edged with steel. Then, to Lady Worthing, “My son is dreadfully fond of teasing. Forgive him, the hour is long, and the brandy scarce tonight.”
He turned to Arabella, voice low enough to earn a look from both mothers.
“I look forward to your music, Miss Worthing. If it pleases you, perhaps something soft.”
Arabella’s blush climbed to her hairline. Lady Worthing’s eye twitched.
Sebastian dipped into a slight bow, courtly, flawless, and polite as sin. “As you wish, Mother.”
He rose just enough to catch his mother’s narrowed eyes. The look he gave her was all polite courtesy, but the edge beneath it gleamed. This is how easy it is—a smile here, a blush there, and no one’s the wiser. Is this really what you want? See, this is why this won’t work.
“Ladies,” he murmured, smooth as warm brandy. “Excuse me.”
Before Honoria could tighten her grip, he stepped back into the swirl of silk and chatter, the polite suffocation that never quite touched him if he didn’t let it.
He found Edward Pembroke by the far wall, Wrexford himself, half-buried by a knot of lesser lords and an abandoned glass of brandy.
“Wrexford,” Sebastian said, sliding in beside him like a blade. “Save me. Tell me you’ve hidden a bottle somewhere decent.”
Edward arched a brow, his mouth twitching. “You look like you’ve just eaten something sour. Who was the unlucky debutante?”
“Arabella Worthing. Sweet and harmless. No idea what to do with a man like me, which is precisely why I shouldn’t be near her. She’ll be telling her grandchildren one day about the dreadful duke who nearly ruined her nerves with a single wink.”
Edward gave a low, warm laugh. “Careful, Ravenscourt. Keep that up and half the mothers here will mistake you for a fox who bites as well as winks.”
Sebastian let out a sharp breath, his expression tired. “I’d rather spend an hour with your hounds than charm another trembling debutante. I hate playing at wolves when I have no taste for lamb.”
Edward raised his glass only to find it missing from his own hand. Sebastian had already tipped it back, draining the last drop of decent brandy.
“And here I thought you came for the dancing,” Edward drawled.
Sebastian wiped a thumb over the rim, handed it back with a crooked grin, the sort that made footmen scatter and sensible women look twice. “Not unless they serve the waltz with a bottle and a locked door. Which, incidentally, is my plan for the next hour, but with cards instead of coquettes.”
“Brooksley again?” Edward arched a brow. “You’re predictable.”
“No, I’m loyal,” Sebastian said. “Predictable is dancing attendance on mothers who pretend not to notice they’ve handed you a lamb to fatten for slaughter. Brooksley’s honest. If I lose there, it’s my coin, not my soul.”
Edward huffed a laugh. “You know, one day you’ll have to stop saying that. Sooner or later, the hounds won’t be enough.”
Sebastian flicked him a look, all mock horror. “If you start talking about marriage, I’ll start talking about your poetry. I know you write it. Don’t lie.”
“Verse is respectable,” Edward protested.
“So is fun if you do it properly.” Sebastian’s grin slanted into that rakish tilt that always made people whisper. “At Brooksley, there’s no gossip, only grown men, cards, and a fair chance of walking away lighter than you came in. Which is how life should be if you ask me.”
“You do realize you sound like a scoundrel, don’t you?”
“Better a scoundrel than a liar. I never promise what I won’t give. I leave that to half this room.”
He flicked a glance over his shoulder at the swirl of silk, the hush of whispers still drifting through the chandeliers. His mother would be watching somewhere behind some smiling mask.
“You know what the trouble is with these girls?” Sebastian added, leaning in a fraction like he might share some wicked secret.
“Do tell,” Edward said, deadpan.
“Too many rules. Too many fathers with ledgers for eyes. Too many mothers who want a title for Christmas. You kiss one in a dark garden, and suddenly, there’s a bishop waving a license at your throat.”
Edward’s laughter cracked out, quick and warm enough to feel like air in the heavy room. “God help you, Ravenscourt, one day you’ll kiss the wrong girl and find yourself reading the banns on Sunday.”
Sebastian made a face. “Not if I die first. Which is why…” He tapped Edward’s chest with two fingers. “You, me, Brooksley. Tonight. Cards, brandy, and no talk of heirs. Come on, Wrexford, your house is grand, but your liquor’s dreadful.”
Edward rolled his eyes but pushed off the column. “If your mother finds me gone, she’ll set the hounds on me instead of you.”
“She’d never lower herself to chase a duke. I’m the prize pony in her stable. You’re the clever fellow she humors because you manage to keep me from throwing my rider.”
“My dearest friend,” Edward said dryly.
“The only one worth the trouble,” Sebastian agreed. Then he glanced once more over his shoulder.
“Let them whisper. We’ll be halfway to Brooksley before the strings finish their next waltz.”
“God help us both,” Edward muttered.
“God’s not invited tonight,” Sebastian said, grin sharp and easy now that the mask had slipped. “Bring your coin, Wrexford. You’ll need it.”
Just as Sebastian was about to nudge Edward toward the doors, he felt the group beside him shift, as if someone was stepping through their midst.
“Sebastian.”
He didn’t need to turn. His mother’s voice could cut through glass.
He turned anyway, mask back in place, only to find Honoria gliding toward him with another young lady in tow, this one pale pink from head to hem, cheeks already flushed.
“Miss Harbury would be so honored if you might spare her the next dance,” Honoria purred.
“Of course,” Sebastian said smoothly, catching Miss Harbury’s breathless curtsey and the way she glanced at him like she might swoon if he so much as blinked the wrong way.
“Your Grace!” Miss Harbury squeaked, dipping into a curtsey so low she nearly pitched forward.
“I was just telling Mama—oh, but isn’t this ballroom divine?
So many candles! And the Duke of Wrexford’s musicians!
Surely the best in London. Except perhaps Lady Ellison’s quartet last winter…
but you wouldn’t have been there, would you?
And the ices! I must tell you, the raspberry is heavenly.
Do you adore raspberries? I said to Mama—”
She giggled a high, nervous trill that made a passing footman flinch. Breathless, eyes wide, she spilled words as if afraid they might escape her.
“—and I told Papa, if only I might dance with the Duke of Ravenscourt just once, and now look! Here we are! Oh, it’s simply too—”
Edward snorted beside him. Sebastian’s smile tightened. Behind the girl’s shoulder, Honoria gave a tiny nod, her elegant hand smoothing her gown like she was pressing him into place.
Miss Harbury giggled again, cheeks pink. “And the flowers in the anteroom? Mama says they came all the way from Kent, can you imagine—”
“Miss Harbury…” Sebastian cut in gently, but she barely heard him. She’d already launched into a breathless story about her sister’s poodle and a new bonnet trimmed with peacock feathers.
He waited for a gap, but there wasn’t one. He manufactured one instead.
“Miss Harbury,” he said again with all the gentle force of a blade slipping under silk. She startled mid-giggle, blinking up at him as if he’d just dropped a crown in her lap.
“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, taking her hand gently in his and placing a light, chaste kiss on it. “I’ve just recalled, there’s a small matter I must see to. A guest, so to speak, to whom I promised a word. But you shall have my next dance. It would be my honor.”
Miss Harbury let out a breathless giggle that might have been a squeal. “Oh! Truly? Your Grace, that would be… oh, I shall tell Mama, she’ll be so—”
“I look forward to it,” he said, bowing low enough to catch Honoria’s narrowed eyes behind Miss Harbury’s ribbons.
Before another syllable could bubble from the girl’s lips, he slipped sideways into the corridor.
The hush in the corridor felt like stepping into a cool pool after standing too long under too many chandeliers.
The music faded behind him, the giggles, gossip, and clink of crystal dulled by thick doors and velvet drapes.
Sebastian loosened his cravat as he walked, the press of the crowd falling away with each step. All he wanted now was the quiet weight of a library, a decent drink in his hand, and no one expecting him to dance, flatter, or wed before midnight.