Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Next evening
To say the summer had gone well would be understatement.
To say it ranked amongst the happiest of Sebastian’s life would be hitting closer to the mark.
Even if he was presently shimmying on his belly across a beam that spanned the width of the stage fifteen feet below, toward the pulley that was causing all the trouble with the raising and lowering of backdrops.
Soppitt ever gave him the least appealing tasks, and Sebastian never complained.
He simply grunted his assent and set to.
He’d been educated at Eton College and then Cambridge.
He understood the many forms hazing took.
Although, a week ago, Soppitt had offered an explanation.
“Here’s the thing, Seb.” He held up his calloused hand worn with decades of rough work and begin ticking off points with his fingers.
“You’re new. You’re on the younger side.
You’ve got muscles under them clothes. And your face is too pretty for your own good.
The way I see it you need some adversity to make a proper man of you. ”
Sebastian responded in his usual manner. He gave a nod and a grunt and set about his task, which that day had been to dig the bog for the new camp. He would wager he was the only duke in history to dig a bog.
So, here he was, body draped over a beam, replacing a pulley wheel with about five minutes until the start of the night’s performance.
Task completed, he shimmied down and spotted Delilah on the other side of the stage.
His first instinct was to go to her, his feet already on the move, and tell her she had this well in hand.
But he stopped. She was concentrating, entering into the performance in her mind before she did for the audience.
He would leave her be—for now. He would have her all to himself, soon. The summer had taken on the glow of perfection—of them being with each other, laughing, touching, making love… She felt it, too. She must.
Only two people made for each other could experience this.
So, he left Delilah to her performance and made his way around the perimeter of the audience. Slouch hat pulled low, he found a three-hundred-year oak to prop a shoulder against and unobtrusively watch the panto.
From the moment she stepped on stage as Amelia in the Lover’s Vows scene, she held the audience’s rapt attention. On that stage, she contained and embodied multitudes of human experience.
Pride swelled within Sebastian. A particular sort of joy, too.
She’d pursued and achieved this. And why shouldn’t she have?
Why was it only gentlemen who could pursue their true interests and passions?
No one had ever stood in the way of him and what—or who—he’d wanted.
Let them try. Why shouldn’t Delilah have the same freedom?
Halfway through the scene, a voice rang out from the audience, clear as a bell, “Lady Delilah?”
Every muscle in Sebastian’s body went suddenly tense, and on the stage, Delilah froze, all the color draining from her face.
Sebastian’s head whipped around, and he began scanning the audience.
It was composed mostly of local families out for a night of entertainment. No one who should recognize Delilah.
“Lady Delilah Windermere, it is you!”
Sebastian knew that condescending, unctuous voice before his gaze, at last, landed on its owner. Mr. Oliver Quincy.
Sebastian didn’t hesitate, springing into motion before the man could open his mouth again.
As he wove through the crowd, the murmurings grew into whispers and then into open speculation as the audience began connecting the dots between the vocal gentleman amongst them and the actress frozen on stage.
Perhaps they thought it part of the performance.
Perhaps this night could yet be salvaged.
Sebastian jostled his way into the row of benches where Quincy remained seated, apparently oblivious to the ruckus he was causing. His eye lit on Sebastian and brightened. “Ravensworth!”
And Sebastian realized in his rush to confront Quincy, he hadn’t properly considered the consequences of that action. All eyes swung around and landed on them, eager to follow this new development.
“I hadn’t the least prospect of sharing the same air as the illustrious Duke of Ravensworth when this night began!”
That well and truly put the final nail in the ruse.
The jig was up.
Quincy’s eyebrows drew together in sudden befuddlement. “But why are you dressed like a…like a…”
Sebastian silently willed the man not to speak whatever nonsense that was poised on the tip of his tongue.
“Like a peasant.”
If anything could turn a village crowd, it was that word.
Right. Looks turned dirty and jeers grew louder as Sebastian grabbed Quincy by the arm and marched him out of harm’s way.
Once safely beyond reach of a potential mob situation, Sebastian released the other man, who didn’t seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation.
Well, he would.
“Quincy, what are you doing here?” It had to be asked. Was no corner of England safe from this one supercilious nitwit?
Quincy tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat and rocked onto his toes.
“Interestingly, a third cousin twice removed purchased an estate in the area and is having a shooting party. My invitation must’ve been lost in the post, but I do enjoy a day out in the marshes, so I decided to take it upon myself to accept the undelivered invitation and—”
Sebastian held up a silencing palm both imperious and pleading that Quincy immediately desist. The man looked to be settling in for a long explanation, and Sebastian hadn’t the time. “What you think you saw here tonight,” he said, getting straight to the main point, “you didn’t see.”
Quincy nodded, slowly, as if in understanding.
Then he said, “What can you possibly mean? Of course, I saw what I saw. As a matter of fact, I’m seeing what I’m seeing right now.
There is nothing wrong with my eyesight.
” He puffed out his chest. “In fact, my eyesight is quite superior to anyone’s I’ve ever known.
Which is precisely why I would be such a valuable addition to the shooting—”
Sebastian’s palm lifted again. The man was indefatigable. “What you saw tonight mustn’t reach the ears of London.”
“Ah, but London hears all.” Quincy shrugged, resigned. “Not much can be done about it.”
Oh, that was where the man was wrong. “There are only three ways news of this night could reach the ears of London. Through Lady Delilah, me, or you. Lady Delilah won’t be speaking of it. I sure as hell won’t. Which leaves but one route.”
“Oh?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“You.”
Sebastian had drawn himself up to his fullest, most intimidating height, which was a good half foot taller than the man before him.
He might be clothed like a “peasant”—truly Quincy’s snobbery knew no bounds—but presently Sebastian was every inch the Duke of Ravensworth—with all the power and command the title conferred.
A man destined to have his way. “Do you enjoy Society soirées, musicales, supper parties, balls… What have you?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Do you enjoy being a member of the ton who receives invitations to such gatherings?”
“Of course.”
“I thought so.”
Sebastian smiled, but his smile wasn’t such that it invited Quincy to join in with him. Instead, the man gulped.
Still, Sebastian didn’t think he’d made his point sufficiently clear. “If news of this night reaches London—ever—every last invitation goes away. You’ll become a pariah, and you’ll never receive another invitation as long as I draw breath. Is that clear enough for you?”
Quincy nodded. “’Tis,” emerged like dust from the man’s throat. “Your Grace,” he added, ever obsequious.
Sebastian’s eyes wanted to roll toward the night sky, sunk low with a thick blanket of clouds. Rain was about to break upon their heads. But he kept them trained, unflinching, upon Quincy. The other man’s gaze slid away first.
Quincy taken care of, Sebastian’s attention shifted toward the stage. The performance had moved on to the terrier Queen Elizabeth—she answered to Bess amongst the company—who was presently delighting the crowd.
No Delilah.
A feeling of dread sank to the pit of his stomach, as he shouldered and pushed his way to the back of the stage.
Immediately, he felt the curious eyes of the theater company upon him.
He chose to ignore it. Explanations could come later, but first…
“Has anyone seen Lilah?” he called to anyone who would listen.
A beat of silence followed before Delilah’s caravan mate Dorie stepped forward. “Is that Lady Delilah Windermere you’re asking about?”
“Your Grace,” finished Delilah’s other caravan mate Flora.
Point made—and taken.
A few chuckles sounded around, but there was very little amusement in it. Instead, he sensed growing distance and no small amount of distrust. Delilah would’ve felt it, too. Seb and Lilah were the Duke of Ravensworth and Lady Delilah Windermere—nobs.
His feet kicked into a sprint as he made straight for Delilah’s caravan. He popped his head into the open doorway and found it empty.
And he knew.
She was gone.
And why wouldn’t she be? Everything had gone disastrously and publicly wrong for her…again.
But this time, everything had gone wrong for him, too.
Wasn’t he supposed to have had until the end of summer?
He could follow her. It wouldn’t be too difficult to track her down.
But what good would that do?
Delilah needed time and space to lick her wounds. And to think… Think about what was truly lost tonight.
No, he wouldn’t run after her. Not this time. This time, he would follow the advice he’d once given his good friend Rory.
Best to let a Windermere come to you.
This wasn’t about him being a duke and exerting a form of power.
This was about Delilah knowing her mind—and her heart.
And following it.
Back to him.