Chapter 2
Sebastian’s left hand twitched, so he clenched it into a fist and then forced it to relax. It was a trick he’d learned to deal with the spasms.
Meanwhile, his right hand clutched a glass so tightly, there was a chance it might shatter.
But that wasn’t due to a spasm, just sheer anger. With himself, of course.
But really. He’d had one rule going into this evening. Do not interact with the girl.
He was here to watch. To protect. To swoop in if she was in danger. But he wasn’t supposed to talk to her. And it went without saying that he shouldn’t touch.
His fingers clenched again, and he fought the urge to give his left hand a good shake.
It had a tendency to spasm like this when he’d spent too long gripping his horse’s reins or writing at his desk.
And now he could add to that list. The nerves in his hand reacted violently to the merest touch of Estella Hale, which only served to prove what he feared.
He'd held her for too long.
Sebastian stood at the far end of the ballroom and replayed the last thirty seconds, dissecting his own failures.
Three seconds. Perhaps four. That was how long his hands had remained on her arms after he'd caught her. Long enough to feel the delicate bones of her shoulders beneath the fabric. Long enough to catalogue the exact shade of blue her eyes turned when they went wide with surprise.
They were darker than he'd expected. They’d appeared almost violet in the candlelight.
He’d held her long enough to notice that she smelled of soap and rosewater, and, more importantly…
That the gown she was wearing didn't fit.
It was made of pale green silk, which did little for her complexion, and was clearly altered.
But what had made his anger spike was the fact that the bodice sat too loose, which meant she'd lost weight since the last fitting.
Which meant she wasn't eating enough. Which…
He already knew because he'd made inquiries with the Langley housekeeper not three months ago and had been informed that Miss Hale frequently skipped meals when the household budget grew tight.
She skipped meals so Charlotte wouldn’t have to go without.
His jaw tightened. There was no reason she ought to be going hungry, not when he’d found ways to fill the kitchen’s coffers. But he supposed her blasted father had gotten wind of that coin too.
It seemed no matter how subversive his tactics, the old man could sniff out funds like a money-hungry bloodhound.
He toyed with the glass in his hand. Or perhaps one of the servants had told their master. His eyes narrowed. If that was the case, he’d have to find a way to get them out or on his payroll.
“Faithful servants are rare,” his mother used to say. Well, it turned out, faithful spies were even more uncommon. He’d have a word with the housekeeper about who had access to the kitchen funds.
He took a sip of his drink and accidentally caught the eye of a matron.
He looked away from the older woman who had fixed a smile on him, just waiting for the slightest opening to spring herself on him.
He knew the type. She’d sniff out any hint of gossip or scandal like a fortune hunter sought out heiresses.
Speaking of fortune hunters…
He eyed the crowd, seeking out the cad who’d approached Miss Hale. He’d lost sight of them both thanks to his rapid retreat.
Lord and Lady Tidewaters’ ball was the usual crush. Three hundred guests pressed into a space designed for two hundred, the air thick with candle smoke and competing perfumes.
He'd been here for nearly an hour before she'd arrived. He'd watched her come through the door on her father's arm and had felt the impact of it like a blow.
Two years of preparation, and he still hadn't been ready. He’d seen her over the years, of course, but only from a distance. He’d never been close enough to talk.
Never close enough to touch, either.
She'd walked into the ballroom with her chin up and her shoulders set, a smile firmly in place. Then he'd watched her father abandon her for the card room. Twelve minutes. He'd timed it.
He was long past anger with the man. Anger implied the expectation of change, and Sebastian held no such illusions. The viscount had been deteriorating since Andrew's death. The gambling, the debts, the slow retreat from every responsibility he owed his daughters…
Sebastian could hardly look at him without choking on a wave of disgust. If the old man had been looking after Estella properly, Sebastian wouldn't have to.
The chaperone he’d arranged, a distant cousin of her mother's, elderly but respectable, was currently dozing in a chair near the refreshment table.
Sebastian made a mental note to find someone more alert.
Someone who would actually notice if Estella was left standing alone in a ballroom with no one to speak to. For twenty minutes.
Twenty. Minutes. He'd watched her study the wall sconce with an expression of determined pleasantness that was so brave it made his chest ache.
He'd watched her smile at the woman in primrose, and he'd watched her take a hopeful step forward, and he'd watched the smile collapse when she realized the greeting wasn't meant for her.
He'd very nearly crossed the room then. That would have been a catastrophe of the first order, but his feet had moved before his brain could intervene, and it had taken a physical act of will to stop himself.
She didn't know he was here. She couldn't know. The plan depended on her never knowing—never suspecting that the paid debts and redirected suitors and anonymous financial arrangements were anything other than coincidence or providence.
The plan.
He could have laughed if the sound wouldn't have alarmed the nearest guests.
The plan was simple. It had been simple for two years. Manage her circumstances from the shadows, ensure she was safe and provided for, and maintain clear distance between himself and Estella Hale.
And then, when the time came, he would ensure she found a suitable match. A good man. Steady, solvent, kind. The sort of man who would look after her and Charlotte and the hopeless viscount without requiring instruction or oversight.
The sort of man who would give her everything Sebastian could not.
He ignored the sensation in his chest. A tightening. A heat.
He'd dealt with her county suitors efficiently enough. The squire's son had required only a brief, pointed conversation. Mr. Ashby had been more stubborn, necessitating the creative deployment of a fictional inheritance. And Mr. Phelps—
Mr. Phelps had been the worst, because Mr. Phelps had been genuinely decent. A dull, kind man who would have made Estella a perfectly adequate husband.
Adequate, but not good. And Estella deserved better.
None of them had been good enough. That was what he told himself. None of them had the resources to manage the Langley debts, or the social standing to give Charlotte a proper future, or the temperament to handle a wife who was more clever than all of them combined.
No, she needed someone better. Someone worthy of her.
The fact that no man alive could possibly meet Sebastian's criteria for worthiness was a contradiction he chose not to examine.
He just hadn’t seen all the candidates yet, that was all.
Surely in London, he’d find the right match for her.
Someone with title and fortune and no alarming deficiencies of character.
He would find the man, arrange the introduction, ensure the courtship proceeded smoothly, and then he would leave London for the northern estate he'd been preparing for exactly this purpose.
He would leave, and he would not come back. And he would not think about the way she tilted her chin up when she was afraid, or the way her voice sounded when she laughed, and he would certainly not think about the way she'd felt in his hands when he'd caught her.
Fragile. That was what he'd thought. She had the sort of delicate frame that needed to be protected and cherished and—
And he was thinking about it again.
He took a healthy sip of his drink.
Better to think of that no-good Fairchild chap. Sebastian turned his attention back to the man who’d guided Estella through the crowd with a proprietary hand on her arm.
He'd clocked Fairchild the moment he'd approached her. Before that, actually. He'd been tracking Fairchild's circuit of the ballroom for the better part of an hour, watching him assess the room's offerings with the practiced eye of a man shopping for something far outside his budget.
John Fairchild. Second son of a baron with more debts than prospects.
No profession, no estate, no visible means of support beyond whatever charm could be converted to currency.
He dressed well and danced well and had the particular gift of making nervous young women feel as though they were the most fascinating creature in the room.
Sebastian had seen him deploy that gift on at least three heiresses in the past two Seasons. The first had been rescued by an alert mother. The second had come to her senses. The third had not been so fortunate.
And now he was smiling at Estella on the other side of the ballroom as if she were the only person in the room. And she…
She was smiling back.
Sebastian stiffened. Straightened. He took a step in their direction before remembering his one blasted rule.
But his heart slammed against his rib cage as he saw her face tilt up and that extraordinary smile flash. Not the one she’d aimed at the wall sconce. It was a real smile this time, warm and inviting and—
And Sebastian wanted to put his fist through something.
He’d only seen this particular smile a handful of times over the years.
Never up close, and never aimed at him. But he’d seen her smile like that at Charlotte when she led her by the hand into town.
Even that fool Phelps had garnered a smile like that when he’d brought her flowers before their chaperoned carriage ride.
And yes. Sebastian was well aware that those smiles hadn’t been for him, and that she’d likely be horrified if she’d known he’d been close enough to see. And yet…
And yet, there was nothing for it. To keep her safe meant to keep her close.
Guilt nagged at him, but he ignored it as he always did. What mattered now was the latest threat. And that was Fairchild.
And he would be dealt with. By week's end, if Sebastian could manage it. A word with the right people, a quiet mention of the man's debts and reputation. Nothing dramatic. Just the efficient removal of a threat, the same as he'd done with the suitors in the country.
He watched Fairchild lead her into the dance and told himself the sensation clawing at his rib cage was concern. Fraternal concern. The concern of a man who had promised a dead friend that he would keep this girl safe.
It was not jealousy. It was absolutely not jealousy. He was not jealous of a penniless fortune hunter with good teeth and a goose anecdote.
Snap!
Sebastian looked down with a frown. His glass might have cracked slightly in his grip.
The music shifted. Couples rearranged themselves on the floor. Sebastian made himself look away, and when he looked back, his gaze collided with someone else's entirely.
And it was enough to make his veins fill with ice.