Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
She extricated herself from the blankets and stood up in the middle of the bed, her hair flying wildly about her, seized a pillow and hurled it in his direction, screeching, “Out! Get out this instant!”
He caught it with ease.
This was an evil dream. He was here. He truly was. In her bedroom.
Aghast, Viola rubbed her forehead. “What are you even doing in my house?”
He strolled forward to the bed and placed the pillow on it. “I beg to correct you. This is my house.”
Viola’s legs gave way, and she dropped. “No, it’s not. It’s Nana’s house.”
He tugged on his cravat. “Correct. Which she then left to me. I have her testament if you’d like to verify the truth of my statement.”
“But you are supposed to be staying at the house in St James’s Square. It’s the family residence.”
“It’s under renovation.” He pulled off his cravat. “And presently entirely uninhabitable.”
Confound it! Why hadn’t the butler mentioned that? She scowled. “Very well. Then sleep in the guest room.” She waved a hand toward the door.
“There is no guest room.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it aside.
In truth, she had no notion at all of what this house looked like beyond her bedchamber.
It was a modest townhouse, designed to offer comfort to a single dowager who wished to live apart yet close to her family while in London.
When Viola had arrived, she had merely followed the maid, who had led her directly upstairs and into this room.
She had not explored the house. There had been no time for it, and afterwards she had been far too flustered and agitated to care to ask for a tour.
“Then sleep in the drawing room. Surely, there must be a drawing room?”
“On that small, uncomfortable fauteuil, where my legs will be left dangling off?” He gave her a wolfish smile. “Not in your dreams. However, if you feel so strongly about us sharing a bed, I invite you to leave and sleep there instead.”
She was about to retort that he could go to blazes when she noticed his face was pale, drawn, and the lines around his mouth spoke of utter exhaustion. She shut her mouth.
He took out his fob and his watch, placed them on the dresser, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
“What are you doing?” Viola demanded, alarmed.
“Getting ready for bed.” He walked into the dressing room, still unbuttoning his clothes.
Viola yanked the blanket over her head.
She heard him moving about, the rustle of discarded clothes, water splashing as he washed. Then footsteps. She lowered the blanket and peered out. He was wearing a nightshirt and carrying a candle.
He pulled back the blanket. The mattress dipped beside her.
Viola leapt out of bed, went to the curtains, and tugged at the tieback, cursing under her breath until she finally worked it free.
Sebastian had reclined, his arms folded behind his head, watching her.
She returned and laid the cord straight down the middle of the bed between them. “This is the border. Do not, under any circumstances, cross it.”
His lips curled. “I would not dream of it, ma’am.”
Then he blew out the candle.
Pitch black.
Viola yanked the blanket to her chin and turned her back to him.
“You are taking all the blankets,” he informed her.
“Be quiet and go to sleep,” she told him crossly.
The silence between them was heavy and loud.
She was acutely aware of him. His warmth. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing. The mere inches between them. It was a familiar, devastating presence that had haunted her for nine years.
If she reached out, her hand would brush him.
She kept her eyes pressed shut. Sleep, she willed herself. Sleep.
It was hopeless.
Her hand slowly, traitorously, inched forward.
Viola had had the oddest of dreams.
She’d dreamt that Sebastian had come strolling into her bedroom, as if no time had passed at all, and that they had resumed exactly where they had left off upon their wedding night. It was the most nonsensical, vexatious dream to have!
For surely, that would never happen. She would never allow it to happen!
And the evidence, of course, was that he wasn’t there.
She lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, pillows on the floor, blankets bunched in the middle. This wasn’t unusual, for she was a restless sleeper and had a tendency to flop about in bed, her limbs in all directions, tossing pillows and blankets to the ground during the night.
She shot up in bed, and her head whipped to the side, searching for his presence, but both bed and room were empty.
The dresser was bare. No coat on the chair.
There was no sign of him ever having been in the room.
The rope she’d laid out in the middle of the bed was gone.
The curtain! Her head whipped to the side and saw that the curtain was tied back neatly.
She fell back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
How could a dream be so real!
There was a perfectly logical explanation for it all, of course. That headstand must have overstimulated her brain to such an extent that it imagined it had manifested Sebastian walking right in upon her—when of course he hadn’t—and that he’d slept in her bed. Which, of course, he hadn’t.
Why would he?
He was sleeping soundly in his bed in St James’s Square at this very moment.
Contradictory feelings flooded her, so that she couldn’t interpret them. Relief. Disappointment… longing. Always, always this infernal longing…
It was because she’d seen him at Almack’s, of course. It must have stimulated the memory of the last time they’d been together.
The last time she’d seen him.
Sleeping peacefully in bed.
Her heart clenched at the memory.
That must be it, of course. There was a logical reason for everything.
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Pull yourself together, Lola.”
This meant that her headstand experiment must have been successful. She was eager to try writing again to see whether it translated to her work. Indeed, she had a busy day ahead.
She rose, washed her face, grabbed her pencil, journal, and a book. Her stomach growled.
But first, breakfast.
She didn’t bother with slippers; she loved the feel of bare feet on cool wood.
Nor did she reach for her shawl or morning gown.
One need not bother with those unnecessary things, for they were forever in the way.
She kept losing them, and besides, she was all alone in the house, after all, and she refused to dress to impress the servants.
She trudged down the stairs in her nightgown and open hair, searching for the breakfast room.
She wrinkled her nose. There was a decidedly delicious smell of coffee and fresh bread coming from beyond yonder door.
She opened it.
And froze.
Sitting there at the breakfast table, impeccably dressed and calmly eating his eggs and reading a newspaper was, of course, Sebastian.
He glanced up briefly. “Good morning.”
Viola stood in the doorway as if lightning had shot through her system. Her book and journal fell out of her hands and came crashing to the floor.
She opened and closed her mouth several times, but only a croak came out. She cleared her throat and tried a third time.
“You are here.”
“Naturally.” He raised his eyebrow. Those eyebrows!
Sharp and black like apostrophes, framing those wonderful fey eyes.
She could wax poetic about them. She did wax poetic about them.
In fact, she’d written not one, but half a dozen love sonnets about his eyes alone.
Amongst other features of his body. But of course, he didn’t know that, and she prayed he never would.
She should, heaven help her, collect her scattered wits and finally snap back to reason! She was behaving like a love-struck girl fresh out of the schoolroom, and that wouldn’t do at all.
She bent down to pick up the book and the journal.
He watched her, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the chair across from him.
Thoroughly put out, Viola dropped into it.
“Why are you here?” she blurted out.
“I thought we’d discussed that last night. Because this is my house and I live here.”
She huffed. She opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. Ah yes. They did have this discussion. What happened now?
Sebastian ate on as though nothing extraordinary had happened, cool, collected, every bit the man she remembered.
He was harder, edgier somehow. His high cheekbones were angular and more defined; his entire profile was more chiselled. There was nothing soft about him at all.
Except those lips. Sensuously curved, unsmiling. But when they did smile…
She shifted restlessly in her chair.
A footman appeared and poured her tea.
Sebastian was drinking coffee, strong, black, and surely so bitter it would make her toes curl. Ah yes. She remembered. She’d taken a sip from his coffee once at Westwood Hall, when he wasn’t looking. She’d nearly gagged, for she preferred her tea weak, with a good dollop of milk, and very sweet.
This was only one of many, many differences they’d had.
She reached for the sugar receptacle and picked a big lump of rock sugar and popped it into her mouth. Then she picked up her teacup and slurped from it. The hot, sweet liquid calmed her nerves. It was good.
Sebastian lowered the newspaper and watched her with an odd expression on his face.
She tilted her head sideways inquisitively.
He cleared his throat. “You still do that.”
“What?”
He made a motion with his hand. “Eat the sugar instead of putting it in the tea.”
“Well. Yes? I happen to like it that way. Is that a problem?”
“No, no. By all means. Do continue. Eat all the sugar pieces you want. The entire receptacle, if you please.” He retreated behind his newspaper, stiff and unapproachable as always.
Baffled, she pulled out her own book and began reading.
It was a hopeless task, of course. Because she felt tempted to sneak glances at him, she had great difficulty focusing on her book. That was always the game they’d played. Pretending to be occupied with their books when they were not.