Chapter Seven
Sebastian drifted down the hallway toward the breakfast room, his thoughts in disarray—pulled back, again and again, to the memories of the previous night.
He recalled the young lady’s firm, sweet form pressed briefly to his during the turn of the waltz, the thrill of that fleeting contact sending heat into his cheeks.
She had a beautiful figure—soft and lovely—and the gentle pressure of her curves against his, the enticing swell of her bosom brushing his chest, stirred a longing he could not pretend away.
She was an excellent dancer, graceful and assured, and the pleasure of moving with her still hummed through him.
“Miss Caldwell,” he murmured to himself, a smile tugging at his lips. It had a bookish sound to it that was entirely at odds with her voluptuous beauty, and somehow that delighted him. Miss Evelyn Caldwell, he added silently in his mind, and his smile deepened.
He walked slowly towards the breakfast room, the smell of toast wafting, appetising and delicious, from the doorway. As he neared it, he paused. He could hear voices through the open door—raised and angry. He tensed.
“...it will not do! He will ruin us, I tell you,” Mama said harshly.
“Mama. Don’t you think you’re being a little pessimistic? I mean...” Nicholas began.
“Pessimistic? Nonsense. How could there be any outcome but that?” she snapped.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He would not allow Nicholas to be scolded on his behalf.
He stepped into the room, drawing himself to his full height.
Years of fencing and friendly boxing had taught him how to appear formidable, and he summoned that imposing stillness now.
Even his mother fell silent as he stood in the doorway, posture steady, gaze level.
“Mama. Nicholas. Good morning,” he said mildly.
Nicholas exhaled, visibly relieved. His mother said nothing.
“Good morning,” Nicholas offered, a touch stiff. “Come and sit. I—”
He reached for the newspaper, attempting to sweep it out of sight, but before he could move it, his mother spoke.
“Did you see the papers? It is disgraceful! How could you make such fools of us and blacken the family name?”
Sebastian’s expression snapped into a narrow, wary look. “To what do you refer?” he asked coolly.
“To your foolish, wild indiscretion last night. At Lady Evandale’s ball! You must recall it—unless it was so lightly done you have no memory of it?” Her icy blue gaze pinned him.
Sebastian raised a brow. Inside, he was furious, but his many confrontations with his father had taught him that rage, hidden, was a handy weapon that could not be turned against one.
“I recall nothing wild, nor foolish, Mother. I danced one dance, drank lemonade, ate sandwiches, and spent a considerable time speaking with Captain Rawlings—an elderly gentleman newly returned from his last campaign in the Peninsula. What, precisely, is scandalous in that?”
“You danced one dance,” she retorted, voice tight. “And that with that woman—whose name is already dragged through the muck! I shall not have it. You must show some sense of propriety!”
His composure cracked.
“I behaved with propriety by acknowledging her in public,” he said, voice low with restrained fury.
“That young lady did nothing but save my life. Even those contemptible scandal-sheets were forced to admit as much—should anyone bother to read more than their wretched headlines.” His gaze held hers, cool as steel.
“I do not care to know,” she raged. “And neither does society. What they will see is a young woman of tarnished reputation, wholly without fortune, and—if the papers are to be believed—burdened with debts. They will relish it. And it will stain our name.”
Sebastian blinked. Debts? He had not known that. His mind flicked guiltily to the Shakespeare volume he still possessed. He must return it.
“Debts?” he asked sharply.
“Yes—debts, Sebastian! Their entire estate could apparently not be sold to pay them off.”
He said nothing for a long moment. An idea, wild and dangerous, was taking shape—one that sent a hot, reckless spark through him. He schooled his features, uncertain whether his thoughts showed.
“She is more than unsuitable,” his mother pressed on. “She ought never be included at balls or parties. I cannot fathom how she secured an invitation to so illustrious a house as last night’s.”
Sebastian looked directly at her. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her stiffen; her own gaze flickered downward for a heartbeat before she met his again. The point had been made.
“I do not think it is necessary to censure those who are plainly in difficulty,” he said tightly, then continued: “I have no appetite for breakfast. I must attend to estate records.”
“Son—” she began, startled by his abruptness. But he said nothing more and walked out of the room and into the hallway.
He strode through the hallway, anger propelling him, and climbed to his study.
The room still felt too much like his father’s domain rather than his own, despite the furniture he had changed.
He dropped into the chair and shut his eyes, exhausted.
It was scarcely nine o’clock, and already he felt more worn than he had the night before.
He recalled the waltz—the intoxicating energy of it—and the clarity it had given him then, so unlike the heaviness pressing on him now.
His thoughts shifted to the idea that had sparked earlier. He did not allow himself to examine it closely—not yet. It was too bold. Too perilous. He pulled an account book toward him instead.
Columns of figures swam into clarity. He scanned them, mind calculating, reviewing the income from various ventures, already considering new investments.
A knock interrupted him.
“Who is it?” he called.
“William,” came the reply—Lord Chelmsworth, his brother-in-law.
“Come in,” Sebastian said, surprised. William rarely sought him out in the study.
The door opened. William entered, looking relieved.
“There you are. Geraldine asked me to ensure you were not unwell—she heard you had not eaten breakfast.” A small, fond smile touched his face.
“I am well,” Sebastian replied, though a frown creased his brow. He gestured toward the chair across the desk from him.
“I see that you are,” William said, settling into the seat, though concern lingered across his square features.
“I am well,” Sebastian repeated. He was not accustomed to others checking on him, yet he could not fault the good intention behind William’s intrusion.
“I know,” William said carefully. “But—is something amiss?”
Sebastian exhaled. He had not realised how deeply his mother’s outburst had unsettled him until the question was posed aloud.
“Perdition take those papers, William,” he said at last. “Those scandal sheets that half of society pretends not to read—yet consumes greedily the moment no one is looking.”
William gave a short laugh. “Well put, Sebastian.” He hesitated. “It does trouble your mother greatly, though. And I suppose she is not wrong that such whispers could touch the family.”
Sebastian sighed again. William’s tact could not disguise his concern—concern that undoubtedly originated with Gemma. Sebastian sat straighter.
“I have a plan, William,” he said slowly. “But I can confide it in no one save you and Gemma.”
“You may speak freely. I shall repeat nothing,” William assured him.
Sebastian drew a steadying breath. The idea had come to him barely an hour earlier, and it still felt wild—reckless, even. Yet something in him urged him to press on.
“I intend to approach her with a proposition,” he said carefully.
“I will offer her my hand. It will silence the scandalmongers and restore her reputation. And it will release the funds my father tied up in that cursed clause. With those, I may even be of assistance regarding her debts. I owe her my life,” he added, voice faltering.
“I think that is a…” William paused, frowning in thought. “A good notion.”
Sebastian stared at him in surprise. Oddly, he had expected to meet with a stone wall. He had imagined that nobody in his family could approve of such a wild idea. And yet William did—or at least, he said he did.
“A good notion?” he repeated, incredulous.
“Yes. It would secure respectability for the young lady—an honourable act.” William inclined his head. “And your sister would be very pleased.”
Sebastian’s heart pinched. Of course Gemma would approve—she would see only a young woman in distress whom he might help.
“My sister is a kind woman,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” William replied, a fond smile lifting his features.
Sebastian fell silent, letting William’s ready acceptance settle over him while he considered his rash idea more soberly.
He had conceived it partly out of practicality.
Yet its appeal to him had very little to do with convenience—and everything to do with the lovely face and enticing figure of Miss Caldwell.
Having met with no resistance whatsoever, he was forced to examine the notion in earnest. The very thought made a bead of sweat trail down his spine. He had spent so long avoiding intimacy of any real sort that the idea of entering into marriage—of forming an attachment—unnerved him profoundly.
“I will have to apply for a license, and…” he began, grasping at practical difficulties. “Her father or her brother must approve, and—”
Nicholas cleared his throat softly. “Her father passed some time ago. Only her brother remains—and I am certain that both of those matters will resolve easily.”
Sebastian tensed. Oddly, that was not what he wished to hear. He had almost hoped for obstacles—something to halt this headlong plunge into madness.
“Mayhap,” he muttered.
“I will do whatever I can to assist you,” William added gently. “Geraldine would be relieved to see the business settled promptly.”
Sebastian stared at him. “I thank you,” he murmured.