Chapter 3 #2
“I was trying to fix my dress—”
“And now, I’m the fool locked in a room with you,” he shot back, arms flaring wide. “Marvelous. Truly, your timing is spectacular.”
“I thought it was empty!” She snapped her head up, cheeks burning. “And you, sitting there in the dark like some highwayman with a brandy glass—”
“Better a highwayman than a wallflower eavesdropper crawling under tables,” he shot back, voice rising.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping! I was…” She bit it back, dragging in a breath that only seemed to tighten her ribs. “If my aunt finds me here with you… if anyone finds me…” Her voice cracked. “Beatrice will never be rid of it. Cecily too. You don’t understand.”
“I understand ruin quite well, Lady Margaret.” His eyes narrowed, green and sharp even in the dim light. “Don’t flatter yourself that you’re the only one at risk here. I’m not in the habit of being caught behind locked doors with young ladies who can’t mind their hems.”
Margaret flinched like he’d struck her. “I didn’t ask you to stay!”
“And yet here we both are.” He gestured at the stubborn latch. “Unless you’ve some hidden trapdoor tucked under your skirts, too.”
“Do not talk about my skirts!” she shot back, voice strangled, hands bunching at the ruined seam. “God, this night couldn’t get worse. Unless the entire door comes off, and the whole ball parades in to watch.”
They glared at each other.
Margaret pressed her palms to her temples, breathing hard. “This is useless. We’ll be caught. They’ll find us in here like… like—”
“Like exactly what they’ll assume,” Sebastian muttered, scanning the shelves, the door, the dark corners that offered no salvation.
Then he spotted it, the tall window behind the desk, half shuttered, moonlight slicing through the crack like a plan he didn’t quite trust. His eyes narrowed.
It was not exactly hope, but close enough.
“Stay put.” He crossed to it, flicked the latch, and shoved the sash up. The rush of cold night air snapped her out of her spiral.
“What are you doing?” She hugged her arms tight, glaring. “You expect us to jump? You first, then. I’ll wave as you break your neck.”
“I expect us to be cleverer than a stuck door. There’s a ledge and the garden trellis beneath if you trust your slippers to hold fast.” He tested the frame with a quick shove; it was old but not rotten. Doable.
“I don’t trust you, never mind my slippers,” she snapped.
“Your slippers aren’t the problem,” he shot back. “The problem is we’ve six minutes at best before your dear aunt thinks you’ve fainted behind the orchestra. But if you’d rather wait here for your dear aunt’s discovery, be my guest.”
“I could faint right now, and it’d be preferable.”
He gave her a look, all lazy mockery on the surface, all coiled urgency beneath. “Be grateful I’m handy in a crisis. Most dukes would sit here waiting for the scandal sheets to arrive.”
“Most dukes have the sense to stay out of locked libraries…”
“And most nieces knock first,” he countered.
She sputtered. “It’s your fault for sitting there like a gargoyle in the dark…”
“You think I look like a gargoyle? I’m wounded.” He swept a bow so shallow that it only made her want to slap him.
“You’re impossible. And ridiculous.”
“Yes, I know, and you’re out of options.” He dragged a chair beneath the window with a harsh scrape. “Up. Now.”
Her eyes darted to the door, then the window, then back to him, a cornered animal deciding which hunter looked slower. “Fine. But I’m not climbing out like some… some gutter boy. I have a torn dress already. I’ll not ruin what’s left—”
“Then up you go.” He dragged a nearby chair across the rug with a loud scrape, planted it beneath the open sash, and turned to her. “Step up. I’ll boost you.”
“Absolutely not, I can climb perfectly well by myself.” She planted her hands on her hips, trying to look taller than she was.
“You’ll climb, rip your gown, and give Wrexford’s roses a scandal worth framing. Up you go.” He moved closer, and she braced back by reflex, bumping into the chair. He pressed a palm lightly to her waist, half guiding, half daring her to protest again.
“Don’t you dare touch me—”
“I’m not touching you. I’m saving you from having half the peerage see more than they’ve already imagined.” His tone dropped lower, teasing but edged. “Unless you’d rather I haul you up by your skirts. I promise you, the view would be memorable.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Practical,” he corrected. “One, two, lift.”
He caught her hips with his warm, solid arms, which was entirely unasked for, and hoisted her onto the chair. Margaret squeaked, a tiny, undignified sound that would haunt her dreams.
She stiffened so hard that she nearly knocked her head into his chin.
“Hold still,” he murmured, too close now, breath brushing her hairline. “If I tried to drag you up by your skirts, you’d be naked before you touched the window. And as much as I’m sure the roses would be grateful, I’d rather not be staked to them by your aunt’s hatpin tomorrow.”
“Don’t drop me!”
She braced a hand on his shoulder, solid—annoyingly solid—and he lifted her, not roughly but with too much ease for her dignity. She squeaked—actually squeaked—as the chair wobbled beneath her slipper.
“If I drop you, it’ll be on purpose,” he said cheerfully. “Hold still. And mind the hem. You don’t want to leave a bit of yourself for the next unfortunate who wanders in.”
“You make it sound like I’m shedding feathers—”
“Feathers would be simpler to explain,” he shot back, eyes glinting up at her. “Besides, if you’re caught half out this window and half in here with me beneath you, I’m fairly certain I’ll be forced to marry you on the spot. Which would be tragic for us both, don’t you agree?”
“If that happens, I’ll push you off the roof first.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, hands steady at her waist as she braced against the sill. “Now, up you go before I lose my last shred of dignity and toss you into the hedges.”
“I will haunt you if you do.”
“Perfect. I do like company at night, so I’d expect nothing less.”
Sebastian braced her higher, hands firm at her waist as she angled one slipper onto the narrow sill.
“Almost there, mind your head—”
“If I fall, I swear…” She gritted out, breathless, twisting awkwardly to shove at the sash.
“If you fall, I’ll—” he began, but the latch at the door behind them snapped with a loud, traitorous click.
The handle turned.
The library door swung wide with a long, painful creak that might as well have been a trumpet blast.
Margaret froze mid-twist, half-balanced, half in his arms.
Sebastian’s hands tightened reflexively to steady her, but it was too late. They were framed in lamplight, perfectly posed.
Her torn skirts bunched in his grip. Her hair fell in wild curls across her shoulder. His mouth was far too close to her ear.
The night air billowed the loose silk just enough to make it look worse than it was.
A small chorus of shocked gasps met them, three guests in full evening dress, one dowager’s hand flying to her mouth in horror.
Behind them, the sound of polite music trickled in from the ballroom, a cruel counterpoint to the gossip waiting in every single frozen stare.
Sebastian’s mouth curved in a grim, humorless echo of a smile.
“Well,” he murmured under his breath, eyes still locked on hers. “I suppose jumping would’ve been the better option after all.”
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut. It was too late to disappear, too late to fix any of it.
Her voice slipped out in small, broken, equal parts fury and mortification.
“I hate you.”
Sebastian’s grip steadied her anyway. “I know.”