Chapter 1
Chapter One
Sebastian spotted his quarry across the spacious ballroom and began to move.
Tonight was the final night of the house party he’d been throwing in the wilds of Lincolnshire, which meant a ballroom flowing with champagne and laughter, packed with aristocratic and local bodies alike swathed in superfine, silk, and diamonds—bodies sheened in the perspiration specific to a lively late-summer gathering.
Navigating the room, all eight chandeliers lit to rival the heavens, Sebastian’s usual opaque smile remained firmly affixed to his mouth as he kept the lord who had been pointedly avoiding him all night in his sights.
This smile of Sebastian’s happened to be his mouth’s natural resting place.
It also happened to be a smile that was expected of him.
The ton would be sorely disappointed if the Duke of Ravensworth suddenly threw a jolly laugh up to the chandeliers and sprayed joy all over the gathering.
He was the Duke.
And he was more than that.
He was the very image of a duke that people formed in their minds when they thought of a duke—serious-minded…not easily amused…not an ounce of frivolity on him. Which wasn’t to say he was a dour, humorless piece of work, but the world he inhabited had taught him one very important lesson.
Everyone wanted something from a duke—his attention…his approval…his smile.
But here was what he knew.
He didn’t have to give them any of it.
Although what the man he sought—Viscount Wakeley—wanted from him was to be left alone.
A chuckle escaped Sebastian, which the lady he happened to be slipping past at the moment—the newly wed Countess of Bridgewater, who had promised ￡200 for the new arts building in London this house party was in the service of funding—must’ve thought was for her given the saucy flash of the eye she tossed him over her shoulder.
Sebastian kept moving. That particular lady’s husband was known to have been deeply possessive of his mistresses. Sebastian assumed a wife would be no different. Nothing he wanted to get tangled up with, anyway.
Most—lords and ladies alike—vied for his attention, albeit usually for differing reasons.
The lords were generally easier to manage than their ladies, who viewed the imminently eligible Duke of Ravensworth’s unattached status as invitation or challenge for conquest. In general, he’d learned early to steer clear of such entanglements, leaving him with a reputation more salacious than his lived reality.
The fact was he wasn’t a licentious or idle duke.
Instead, he maintained tight control of every aspect of his life, as many depended and relied upon him.
Yet over the years, the image and truth of the Duke of Ravensworth had become so intertwined, he wasn’t sure if at this point in his three and thirty years even he would be able to separate them—if he felt the urge.
Which he didn’t, for the record.
Ahead, Wakeley made a mistake. He allowed his wife to pull him into conversation with a large group.
Sebastian saw his opportunity and seized it, efficiently cutting across gleaming mahogany and only stopping once he reached the periphery of the loose circle, which parted in an instant to allow him a place.
In truth, he appreciated the way people responded to his presence.
Expectations were set and clear. All who attended a soirée, house party, or ball thrown by the Duke of Ravensworth knew why they’d been invited, and if they accepted the invitation—which, of course, they would—they’d end the evening lighter in the pockets.
Such was the price to attend this duke’s gatherings, for Sebastian didn’t invite just anyone.
Meticulous curation went into his lists.
Some nobles he invited because of their freedom with their purses—whether by true wealth or credit wasn’t his concern.
Others were motivated by appearances—to be seen at a duke’s ball.
He was more than happy to emblazon their names on a building for a generous donation.
“Ravensworth,” said one lord in greeting. Mossdown. He’d pledged ￡500 a few months ago.
Sebastian gave a nod. “I must offer my appreciation for your generous promise of a donation last spring.”
“’Twas nothing, Your Grace,” said Mossdown, a crimson blush creeping above his cravat.
Appreciation from a duke… It was a coveted thing.
Yet another power Sebastian was able to wield.
“True,” he said, nodding, “your promise was nothing.” A few lords shifted uncomfortably on their feet, and a few ladies tittered nervously behind their fans.
“But your fulfillment of the promise was much appreciated.” Even as tension released from the group, Sebastian caught Wakeley’s dodgy eye.
“If only everyone delivered on their promises.”
The sum Wakeley owed was a mere hundred pounds. But that was beside the point. He must pay. What was the point of an honor system without honor? Society would crumble on its ear.
Wakeley swallowed.
“Some don’t?” asked one lady with surprised lift of an eyebrow.
“You’d be shocked,” said Sebastian, refusing to release Wakeley’s gaze.
“But it’s for the arts,” said another lady.
“Does anyone have suggestions for collection?” asked Sebastian, lightly. Conversations about money weren’t the done thing in his circles, but here they were and he had a point to make to one specific lord. “I can’t very well send a burly Runner out for collection.”
This got a laugh from all. Wakeley swallowed, again.
“Oh, I think a public shaming would do nicely,” said yet another lady.
“Interesting,” said Sebastian with a cock of his head. “Do go on.”
What was truly interesting was that it was Wakeley’s wife making the case for a public shaming.
Her face lit with an idea. “You could call him on it at a party.”
“A party such as this one?” asked Sebastian.
Wakeley turned an unhealthy shade of chartreuse.
“Exactly,” said the man’s wife without the faintest notion of her husband’s suffering at her side.
Sebastian bowed to Lady Wakeley before shifting his gaze toward her husband. “A suggestion I’ll take under advisement for my next party.”
Wakeley wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and released a long, slow breath. He seemed to have gotten the message that Sebastian wouldn’t be exposing him tonight. But he wouldn’t be so lucky in the future.
Sebastian had a feeling he would be receiving the ￡100 within the week.
Of course, he could endow a new arts building in London from foundation to roof and everything in between without blinking an eye, but that was beside the point.
It was vital that the ton threw their money at it, too.
With financial investment came emotional investment, and as a duke of considerable wealth and influence, Sebastian was just the duke to shame the ton into financing their entertainments.
If they wanted the pleasure of the arts, they must invest in them. He saw this as his duty, obligation, and life’s work.
And if he sometimes grew weary of all the duty and obligation he’d carried with him since the moment of his birth—his father had perished in a boating accident a month before he was born—he kept it to himself.
For he understood his place of entitlement.
The price for the privileged life he led was small.
The simple fact was he’d shouldered responsibility from the day he was born, and he didn’t mind those responsibilities. He was good at being a duke—he liked being a duke.
But after Cambridge, he’d taken a long look at his life and the lives of the aristocratic men around him and noticed something.
His interest in the arts afforded him a view of life beyond his title.
A life that provided spaces where he could flirt with freedom and taste a life altogether different from his.
The sort of life he could never immerse himself fully within, but those with the talent, will, and drive could.
Each partnership was as unique as each artist. An opera singer would have a different set of goals from a sculptor or a composer from a poet.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said on a shallow bow, “I must ensure the champagne flows until dawn.”
He knew it would, of course, but he’d found that particular excuse to be the most effective. The champagne must flow in an endless stream. And the crapulence and aching heads on the morrow… Well, that was better left to tomorrow.
His mission complete, he pointed his feet in the direction of his study, where he kept a careful log of all the promised—and fulfilled—donations.
He had a few to jot down from tonight, and he couldn’t very well have his private secretary following him around at parties and transcribing every pledge. That would spoil the illusion a bit.
“Ah, if it isn’t His Grace himself,” came a broad, brandy-soaked voice that veered a mile wide of aristocratic.
Sebastian schooled his features before turning. “Mr. Shaw, how good of you to attend our little soirée.”
Mr. Shaw was a manufacturer of steam engines who was looking to use his recently acquired wealth to gain a foothold in Society and perhaps a title along the way, either through service to the Crown—the hard way—or through a daughter’s marriage—the more achievable way.
There was always a down-on-his-luck young buck looking to recover the family’s fortunes through a marriage to an heiress.
And Sebastian was more than willing to aid this endeavor for a little quid pro quo.
For the fact was he didn’t give two tosses about titles, though he wouldn’t confess as much to a soul in this increasingly sweat-soaked ballroom.
These particular souls’ primary concern was of title and status.
It would be insulting to their view of the world if he scoffed that it was all silly vanity and pretense.
So, he also courted men like Shaw—those with first-generation wealth.
They were usually the most eager to give to his causes, anyway.