Chapter Twelve
Sebastian gazed around the ballroom. He felt dazed, and his eyes scanned the space, searching for a blue dress and the sweet, dark-haired lady who wore it.
From the moment he had seen her on the stairs, his breath had caught in his throat.
She was beautiful—every bit as lovely as the way he had imagined her when he had ordered the dress.
He could not get her out of his thoughts.
“I say, old chap!” a man beside him exclaimed, dragging him back to the present. “Hot in here, is it not? Horridly hot.”
“Yes, it is,” Sebastian replied mildly.
“Not like the East Indies, old boy. Not like the East Indies,” another man added. Sebastian nodded and attempted to follow their conversation about the Ascot races and betting prospects. But his thoughts wandered—again—to Evelyn. He longed to speak with her, to feel her hand in his.
The music of the waltz still thrummed through him, stirring an inferno of emotion.
He could not stop thinking about her. He recalled the soft feel of her fingertips brushing against his, the silk cool; the way that her body moulded to his.
He had felt an overwhelming desire to draw her against him, holding her in his arms and feeling her sweet, sensual body touch his.
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly. Gemma was attempting to catch his eye—an excellent excuse to escape discussions that held no interest for him.
He crossed the ballroom toward her. Nicholas stood beside her, along with a young lady whom he distantly recalled having seen at the previous ball.
He recalled that she was an acquaintance of Evelyn’s.
He bowed distractedly to her and turned to Gemma.
“Is aught the matter?” he asked her.
“Is aught the matter?” he asked.
“I wished to ask if you knew where Evelyn had gone,” Gemma said softly. “I saw her slip through the ballroom in some distress. We thought she might be unwell.” Her brow creased with worry.
Sebastian’s heart lurched. “Where did she go?”
“In that direction,” Nicholas told him, inclining his head.
Sebastian thanked them and moved at once, his gaze already sweeping the room for a flash of blue silk and dark hair.
He did not see her among the group near the doors.
He hesitated only briefly before stepping out into the night.
Cool air met him, sharp after the heat of the ballroom, and he breathed deeply.
For a moment, the quiet soothed him. He drifted toward the terrace railing, taking in the shadowed garden below.
Bushes rustled. A faint breeze moved through the tall trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves and dewy earth.
“I need a moment,” he murmured to himself.
He could not see Evelyn, and he intended to find her, but the soft, sweet-scented garden was exactly what he needed to calm his confused, troubled senses.
He looked around, making sure that he could not spot her, then hurried down the stairs into the garden.
The night air drifted past, enticing and mysterious, and he could hear the dripping of a fountain.
He followed a path, heading down to what he assumed was a water garden.
The sound enticed him, and he stopped at the edge of a pond, staring in awe at the beauty of the dark water that mirrored the lights.
It was a small pond at ground level, paved around the edges, and surrounded by a low wall, perhaps three inches high.
Lilies floated there, dark shapes on the black surface that shimmered in the light from the distant windows.
Water played into the pool from a tall fountain that sent up a single, slow plume of spray.
He breathed in the cool, sweet scent of the damp air, and the sound of the trickling water soothed him.
As he stood there, he paused. Someone was speaking nearby.
It was not a loud voice; the words were little above a whisper. He froze, then began to walk slowly towards the sound, his inquisitive mind overcoming him.
He reached a hedge and stopped at the edge of the path that led through it. Whoever was speaking was in the space beyond the hedges, and he paused there, listening to what they had to say.
“It’s not fair,” a woman’s voice hissed. “It’s not. My grandmama…” The voice faltered, then continued, choked with tears. “Grandmama was the daughter of a marquess. And even if she wasn’t—what she said was cruel. She’s so cruel!”
Sebastian took a step to the opening in the hedge and stopped. He could see the figure who was speaking. She stood against the dark hedge behind her, the moonlight pouring down onto her and making her pale skin glow whitely in the dark.
She was a tall, shapely woman, and she was crying, and in an instant, he knew why the voice had sounded so compelling to his ears.
“Evelyn!”
The woman turned towards him and gasped, her hand lifted to her lips. It was Evelyn, her dark hair coming somewhat loose from her chignon, her pale face lit by the moonlight and seeming distressed. He made a gesture to calm her.
“Shh,” he murmured. “I did not mean to intrude. I heard that you were distressed.”
“Sorry,” she whispered, turning away, but he could hear the misery in her voice. “Please pay me no heed.”
Protective anger surged through him.
“I will always pay you heed,” he said quietly yet firmly. He approached and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She turned back toward him, eyes shimmering. “No,” she murmured. “No, you should not.”
His brow furrowed, stung. “If you do not wish me to—”
“It is not that,” she interrupted, shaking her head. Her voice trembled. He reached for her hand. Her gloved fingers were cold.
“Whatever is the matter?” he asked softly.
“I can’t...” she began, then paused, shaking her head. “I am not suitable.”
Sebastian stilled. Given what he had overheard, he could guess precisely what—or who—had planted such a thought.
“Someone was cruel to you?” he asked gently. “Someone said something? Perhaps about that ridiculous article?”
“Yes. No… I—I do not wish to trouble you with it,” she whispered, faltering. Another tear slid down her cheek.
“I, for one, know that article was nonsense,” he said quietly. “I was in it too, after all.”
A breath of laughter escaped her, soft and fragile. Relief warmed him.
“I suppose…” she murmured.
“I know,” he said firmly. “You are never to feel ashamed. You saved my life. Hardly something to be ashamed of.” He offered a small, teasing smile.
“I suppose,” she said again, her voice barely audible.
He gazed into her eyes. She looked so sad and confused, and he longed to comfort her.
He lifted his hand, gently scraping back her hair where it brushed her face.
Her eyes widened and he breathed deeply, a fresh longing overtaking him.
He could feel the soft, silky texture of her hair and the scent of her—floral and delicate—wafted towards him.
He stared into her eyes, and his gaze locked on hers. Her stare was wide, and yet he sensed no fear in it. She was very close, her scent haunting him, that sweet gaze drawing him closer.
He bent forward and, almost without his meaning to, his lips descended onto her own.
Her sweet lips parted gently under his, and he could no longer resist. His tongue darted out, exploring the inviting warmth of her mouth.
Her lips were plump and full, parting for him, and her mouth was clinging and warm, setting his senses aflame.
He drew her closer, one hand sliding along her back, the other curving instinctively around her waist—lower still, to the sweet fullness of her hips.
She gasped, and the sound jolted him.
He pulled back abruptly.
“I—I am sorry,” he managed, breath ragged. Shock flickered across her face—or was it something else?—but shame surged through him all the same. What was he doing? What was he risking?
He turned aside, fighting for composure, cheeks burning.
“I should not have—” he began hoarsely. “I… I will make my way indoors. When you wish to come inside, please do so. It is cold, and I would not like to think of you lingering in this chill.”
He stepped back, unable to fashion the calm, unaffected expression he wished to present. He tried not to hurry, but his shame scorched him, and he longed for the shelter of a crowd—somewhere he could hide for a moment and gather his disordered senses.
The ballroom was a crush of bodies, a blur of colour and movement, and it offered a hundred convenient opportunities to go unnoticed. He made his way toward the refreshments table, rejoining the group of men to whom he had spoken earlier.
“Capital!” one of them exclaimed cheerfully. “We were just hoping you would return. What do you think about investing in ships?”
Sebastian forced himself to focus, shaking his head slightly as though clearing it of trivial distraction. But thoughts of Evelyn whirled unbidden—her soft, yielding form pressed to his, the sweet heat of her mouth clinging to his. It was torment to drag his mind away.
“Joshua here has a likely venture in mind,” the man continued. “We hoped you might give your opinion on its soundness. You have always had a fine sense for wise investment.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured, though the words barely registered.
His entire mind was outside with Evelyn, continuing what he had done.
He imagined drawing her close, her hips pressing to his as they moved together.
He longed to slip his hands over the silk of her gown, to discover the tender curves concealed beneath that modest neckline.
He tore his mind back from the images, listening to Joshua as he described the business venture he had in mind. It was hard to care about the cost of ships and the liabilities involved in sea voyages when all he wanted to do was run outside and kiss Evelyn.
“I think it sounds a reasonable prospect,” he said at last when Joshua finished.
“Capital!” the first man repeated with satisfaction. “Just what we thought. You see, Joshua?”
Sebastian inclined his head but turned away, feeling the conversation grate upon him.
The last thing he wished to consider was investment.
All he could think of was Evelyn—of her tears, her tremulous courage, the softness of her lips—and whether his loss of control had frightened her beyond forgiveness.
He drifted toward the refreshments table, where Nicholas stood.
The ballroom’s noise washed over him without penetrating, his thoughts caught between longing and fear.
Her sudden gasp in the garden—how sharply it had brought him to his senses.
If she had not tensed, he might have lost himself entirely.
And then… then he did not know what would have happened, only that he would never have been able to retreat into the safe distance he had promised himself.
He did not want to gamble with his heart. He could not afford to. And yet, standing there beneath the glittering chandeliers, replaying the sorrow in her eyes and the sweetness in her voice, he wondered—uneasily, helplessly—whether the gamble had already been made.