Chapter 22
The evening was crisp, the lamps already lit along St. James’s as Sebastian and Edward strode side by side, canes in hand, their boots striking the pavement in easy rhythm.
They had been in town only a few days, yet already the city seemed to hum with curiosity over their first appearance as husband and wife. He wondered if she sat at home this very hour, fretting over gowns, over every detail that could be picked apart by a hundred sharp-eyed matrons.
He hoped not. He hoped she knew she needed none of it—no gilding, no armor of fashion—to stand beside him.
Still, her face rose before him unbidden, her laugh brighter than the lamps, her unease a thing he longed to shield her from with his own hands.
Edward tipped his chin toward a passing carriage. “I swear every hackney in London rattles louder after dusk. Must be a conspiracy against conversation.”
Sebastian huffed a laugh. “More likely the drivers know their audience and prefer to drown them out.”
Edward flicked a glance at him, then toward the familiar glow of White’s across the way.
“Shall we? A bottle of claret, a hand or two at cards, and perhaps…” Edward’s smile carried its usual wicked promise. “The sort of diversion you’ve been too virtuous to name these past few days.”
Sebastian hesitated, adjusting his gloves, eyes briefly tracing the glow of White’s before flicking back to Edward. “Not tonight,” he said simply, though the words lacked the edge of irritation they might once have carried.
Edward stopped, raising a brow. “Not tonight, or never?”
Sebastian’s boots struck the pavement in deliberate rhythm, the sound echoing in the quiet evening. “I have no taste for it. The wine is sour, the company tiresome, and the… diversions… are tedious and no longer necessary.”
It is not because of any rule Margaret might have set, he thought, nor out of fear of disapproval. I simply do not want them. The wine, the cards, the diversions… none hold the slightest appeal anymore.
Edward’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “You used to call that tedium the breath of life. Since when, pray tell, does Ravenscourt turn virtuous on the eve of his first appearance with a wife?
Sebastian let the remark pass, the corners of his mouth tugging in the faintest acknowledgment.
“Since now. There are better things to want.” His eyes, despite himself, lifted to the darkened windows of the houses they passed, thinking of Margaret.
How she would feel, poised for the eyes of all London.
The thought of her there, anxious or brilliant, made every claret, every card, every laugh of idle men seem meaningless.
Edward slowed half a step, turning his head to study him. “Better things,” he repeated. “Such as?”
Sebastian only adjusted his gloves and kept walking, refusing him the satisfaction of an answer. But Margaret’s face had already risen in his mind, unbidden, bright as firelight.
Edward glanced at him again, this time quieter, sharper. “Ah. I see. Your mind is not on the wine… or the company.” He chuckled. “It is elsewhere, then. Worth a duke’s attention, I suppose?”
Sebastian met his friend’s gaze, tone low and steady. “It is worth all the attention a man can spare.”
Edward gave a low whistle. “Well, well. Hell has frozen. The rake has hung up his boots. If you tell me you’ve gone and grown sentimental, I shall—”
“Do nothing of the sort,” Sebastian interrupted, his voice firm, almost amused in its restraint. “I am not sentimental. I am simply… prudent.”
Edward stopped in mid-stride, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Prudent, is it? Since when does prudence look like brooding over a lady while the finest claret in London waits inside?”
Sebastian inclined his head slightly, letting the implication hang. No words were needed.
Edward’s grin widened, sharper, more mischievous. “Since you refuse to confess, I shall assume it is serious then. Tell me, Sebastian, does your prudence extend to being the perfect husband? Or merely the silent sort who broods in lamp shine and cobblestones?”
Sebastian’s eyes flicked toward the lamplit windows of a townhouse, dark but full of promise in his imagination. “The sort that matters,” he said simply, voice low. He did not elaborate, and Edward knew better than to press.
A carriage rattled past, the driver tipping his hat to a passing lady. Edward raised a brow. “See? Even London moves on while you stew in thoughts of virtue and… whatever it is you call your distraction.”
Sebastian let the words pass, boots striking the stones in quiet rhythm. The world outside White’s could have held a hundred temptations—gamblers, cards, wine—but his mind and heart were fixed. “I am going home,” he said finally, tone firm, “to my wife.”
Edward stopped mid-stride, studying him, eyes narrowing in both amusement and surprise. “Home to your wife, you say? Well, well… the city may be ablaze with diversion, but it seems Ravenscourt has found a far more enticing pursuit.”
Sebastian said nothing further. He adjusted his gloves, the click of his boots marking the certainty of the choice.
The lamps along St. James’s Street glimmered, the clatter of the city continuing all around them—but for him, the only place of importance lay just a short walk away, where Margaret waited.
At last, the night had come. Their first appearance as husband and wife—the moment London society had been waiting for, and it would be beneath the glittering chandeliers of the Duke of Aylesford’s ballroom, the most coveted stage of the Season.
Her room glowed with candlelight, each flame mirrored in the gilt frames and polished walnut. Outside, carriages rattled past on the cobblestones, a steady reminder that London was awake, watching, waiting.
Margaret stood before the long mirror while her maid adjusted the final fall of silk.
The gown—pale ivory, faintly luminous in the light—whispered as she shifted.
Its cut was modest, the neckline demure, yet the lines of the bodice had been sewn with such precision that the whole effect was one of quiet elegance rather than simplicity.
“You will turn heads, Your Grace,” the maid said with a quick smile, fastening the last pearl at her throat. “And the rose water—it suits you.”
Margaret lifted her chin, catching the gleam of the pearls in the mirror.
She had chosen the gown not because it was bold but because it was not.
Ivory, pearls, a whisper of roses—all nothing that could be accused of gaudiness, nothing to give society’s hawk-eyed matrons reason to whisper.
Let them see poise, not desperation. Let them see a wife who knows her place.
The faint fragrance lingered as she drew in a steadying breath. She pressed her fingers together, as if the act might anchor her at the moment.
She stepped from her chamber, the soft sweep of silk following her into the hall. At the stairs’ head, she paused, fingers tightening against the balustrade. Below, Sebastian stood waiting, dark coat catching the lamplight, his posture easy yet somehow expectant.
Her pulse tripped. It was only a ball, she reminded herself. Their first appearance as husband and wife, yes—but merely another ritual of London society. She would walk down, he would offer his arm, and together, they would step into the carriage as if they had done so a hundred times before.
And yet when she began her descent—slow, measured, every rustle of her skirts loud to her own ears—he looked up at her.
The change on his face was unmistakable. He froze, as though the sight had taken him unawares. The silence deepened; even the clock on the mantel seemed suddenly too loud. His eyes moved over her, intent, searching, and Margaret’s stomach tightened until she felt she could scarcely breathe.
Heat rose to her cheeks. She forced her hands into a neat clasp before her waist, schooling her mouth into a polite, measured smile.
Perhaps he is nervous, she told herself, desperate to make sense of it.
Perhaps he wonders how I will reflect upon him—whether I will be judged a credit to his name or an embarrassment he must bear.
But still, he said nothing. Only watched her, as if he had been struck dumb.
“I am ready,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had thickened between them. The words were simple, but they carried a weight she could not entirely hide. Her voice did not quite mask the question in her eyes. Do you think I am enough?
Sebastian blinked, as though recalled from some reverie.
His hand moved to his waistcoat, smoothing it in a gesture too measured to be mere habit.
He was dressed to perfection—dark blue coat, ivory cravat tied in flawless folds, his boots polished to a mirror’s shine.
He looked every inch the man society expected him to be, elegant with the kind of ease that cost him no effort at all.
And yet, when his gaze returned to her, there was the faintest hesitation—as though he could not quite summon the words that should have come swiftly. His eyes swept over her once more, too intent, too searching.
“You are…” His voice caught, and the pause stretched long enough that Margaret’s breath caught with it. He cleared his throat lightly. “You are ready indeed.”
Margaret’s lips curved into a polite smile, but her thoughts moved far quicker than her outward composure betrayed.
She read and reread every flicker of expression, desperate to decipher whether he was merely being courteous or if something in her appearance had unsettled him.
She was determined not to ask—would not, could not invite an answer she might regret—but the impression lingered that his pause had not been born of doubt alone.
Something else stirred behind his eyes. Something she could not name.
And it left her both unsettled and… unwillingly curious.
Outside, the wheels of their own carriage rolled to the front. The butler appeared in the doorway, bowing. “Your Graces, the carriage is waiting.”
He offered his arm with practiced grace, his expression carefully composed once more.
Margaret placed her hand upon his sleeve, feeling the solid line of his arm beneath the fine cloth, and allowed herself to be guided down the steps.
The air outside was sharp, touched with the faint scent of rain upon stone, and the lamps cast their long glow across the pavement.
The carriage door was opened, the polished wood gleaming in the lamplight. Sebastian handed her up, and she settled against the dark leather cushions. When he joined her, the door shut with a muffled thud, sealing them into a silence broken only by the creak of harness and the shifting of hooves.
As the wheels lurched into motion, Margaret’s eyes followed the sway of the lantern light across the carriage paneling, her hands unconsciously touching the carved trim. The rhythm of the carriage carried them forward, each turn of the wheel pulling them closer to a hundred expectant gazes.
Sebastian sat opposite her, his long frame angled slightly toward the window, though his eyes returned to her often—too often to be accidental, not often enough to be spoken of. Shadows shifted across his face with every flicker of the passing lamps, obscuring what might have been written there.
Margaret lifted her chin. “We shall be late,” she said, her tone carefully even though in truth, she would not have minded if the horses slowed.
“The longer we delay, the grander our entrance. I’m doing us a favor.”
Margaret arched a brow. “Or giving them more to whisper about.”
He leaned back, unbothered, his mouth tipping into that faint, knowing smile. “They will whisper regardless. I may as well choose the moment they begin.”
The carriage jolted over a rut, and Margaret caught herself against the seat. She told herself it was only the motion of the wheels that quickened her pulse, not the quiet weight of his gaze in the shadows between them.
The carriage slowed, lantern light spilling through the window as the great facade of Aylesford House came into view—columns aglow, windows blazing, the hum of voices and the strains of a string quartet drifting into the street.
Margaret drew a steadying breath. This is it. The footman swung open the door, and Sebastian descended first, turning to offer his hand. The lamplight caught the dark gleam of his hair, the stark cut of his shoulders—unmistakably assured, as if he had never doubted his place here.
Margaret hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her hands gently in his palm. Warmth closed around her, firm and steady, and she let him guide her down to the waiting marble steps.
The murmurs began at once—low ripples through the line of guests waiting to be received.
Sebastian bent his head, his voice for her alone. “Smile, Margaret. Let them see exactly what they came for.”
Her lips curved, though her pulse raced. The moment of truth had come.