Chapter 6
The promenade was most definitely not going well. But it couldn’t be said it was for lack of trying.
If good intentions mattered one whit, Sebastian could have earned some sort of medal. He had prepared for this outing. Most thoroughly. He'd selected his route through Hyde Park with care, visible enough to be noticed, but not so crowded as to require excessive social interaction.
He'd even timed their arrival for maximum exposure to the ton's afternoon promenaders. Embarrassingly enough, he’d even rehearsed, for heaven’s sake. Somewhere in his study there lay a list of acceptable topics of conversation suitable for a brotherly guardian escorting his late friend's sister.
The list was hardly lengthy, but it was thorough. He’d listed topics ranging from the weather to the architectural design of the neighboring estates, assuming that would be sufficient.
It was not.
They had exhausted the weather in approximately ninety seconds.
Charlotte's wellbeing had lasted slightly longer, but only because Estella had given him a detailed report of the girl’s latest stomach illness.
Her narrative had trailed off when she’d seemingly become aware of the inappropriateness of the particularly revolting symptom she’d been describing.
Not that he could blame Estella. She’d clearly been working hard to fill the silence. Which was more than he’d been able to manage. No, Sebastian had apparently forgotten how to form complete sentences in the presence of this woman who smelled of rosewater and whose arm was resting on his.
Her arm. On his. It was the lightest possible touch. Her gloved fingers barely grazed his sleeve, and yet he could feel the precise weight and position of each one as though they were branding irons.
He stared straight ahead, his mind a horrifying blank.
"It is a pleasant day," Estella ventured. Again.
"Yes." Had he said that last time she’d mentioned the weather? He added, "Indeed."
Silence.
A pair of ladies passed them, openly curious. He knew what they saw. The scarred marquess and the unknown young woman on his arm. By evening, every drawing room in Mayfair would have a theory.
Good. That was the point. Of course, they’d be all wrong, but it was worth it if it meant every fortune hunter in London thought twice about approaching Estella.
"The Serpentine is lovely at this time of year." Estella looked around her with a determinedly cheerful smile as she took in the path around them.
"Yes."
A gentleman of his acquaintance passed on horseback and tipped his hat to them. Sebastian returned the gesture with a nod.
Estella's fingers twitched on his arm. He glanced down. Her expression was still pleasant but there was a spark of challenge in her eyes that had him stiffening in apprehension.
"Forgive me if I've misunderstood." Her tone was still light, but there was now an edge to it. "I was under the impression that the purpose of this promenade was to present me to the ton with some measure of…appeal."
He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"Appeal," she repeated. "As in, the appearance that I am a young woman worth knowing. Sponsored by a duchess, escorted by a marquess, and generally not someone to be pitied or avoided."
His frown deepened as he waited for her to go on.
"As it stands…" she continued. And now there was a definite tartness to her voice that he'd never heard before. "I'm afraid any gentleman in the vicinity will be convinced I'm the worst conversationalist in London. Perhaps even a horribly offensive one."
His brows came down as he glanced around them, ready to call out any cad who’d suggest such a thing. "Why would they think that?"
"Because you've been glowering at me since we left the carriage, and this"—she waved a hand between them—"this is the most either of us has spoken since we arrived."
Sebastian opened his mouth, but not even a “yes” found its way out. He took stock of his features and forced his scowl to subside into something slightly less grim.
Truthfully, he'd been so focused on maintaining his composure, he hadn’t realized how he might look to passersby.
Turning to look straight ahead, he saw two ladies whispering as they gaped at him. They weren’t staring in fascination. No. No, that was definitely fear he saw in their eyes when he looked their way.
Or rather…when he glared in their direction.
He just barely held back a huff of annoyance. She was right, of course. He was supposed to be making her look appealing to potential suitors. Instead, he was making her look like a woman being escorted to the gallows by a particularly displeased executioner.
"Do you see what I mean?" Her tone was adorably pert, her chin tipped up in that brave way of hers.
"I'm not glowering," he said. Which was a lie.
"You are," she said. "You've been glowering since the duchess's drawing room." Under her breath, so soft he nearly missed it, she added, "Possibly since birth."
Then it happened. A strange tightening in his chest, almost like—
No. He would absolutely not laugh. He cleared his throat instead. "My apologies." His words came out more droll than apologetic. "I’m afraid I don't have Fairchild's gift for idle chatter."
She was quiet for a moment, but then that tart tone was back, albeit under her breath. "He is quite the gifted storyteller."
Irritation rose up quickly. "Yes, well, I am sorry to say I don’t have a humorous goose tale to regale you with. We’ll have to find another way to pass the time."
Silence. He inwardly cursed himself. After two years, he had the chance to speak privately with the woman who’d occupied his thoughts every day and every night, and he…
He’d chided her. About a goose.
"Actually…" she started.
Something in her tone had him glancing over. He nearly wished he hadn’t when he caught the way her lips struggled to contain a smile and the laughter dancing in her eyes. "I believe you do."
He frowned down at her. "I beg your pardon?"
She grinned, and his heart responded to it with a swift kick to his ribs. He swallowed hard and looked away.
"You do have a story about a goose," she said. "I remember it from one of Andrew’s letters."
He looked over so quickly, he nearly tripped over his own feet. Oh yes, she was beaming at him. And possibly…laughing at him.
Brave little thing. Foolish, but brave.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about." But even as he said the words, it came back to him. He was struck all at once by images from that ridiculous night.
"I remember it now." Estella’s voice was filled with laughter. "Andrew told me about how you and he and some of the other boys stole a goose from a neighboring farm and brought it into the headmaster's study. And it—what was it? It ate his wig?"
"It didn't eat his wig." The correction was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "It was sitting on his wig."
Her lips parted. She was clearly surprised and delighted. Which was the only explanation for the next words that came out of his mouth.
"And it wasn't a goose. It was a duck."
"A duck?" Her lips curved up in a dazzling smile.
"A very ill-tempered duck. Andrew insisted on naming it Wellington."
A sound escaped her. A small, startled snort that she immediately tried to cover with her hand. Her eyes went wide, as though the sound had surprised her as much as it had surprised him.
Sebastian couldn’t look away as his chest cracked in two.
He’d told himself he could do this for her, but only if he kept some distance. He should end this. Put a stop to whatever this was going on between them.
But she was grinning up at him with those blue eyes, and the afternoon sun was catching the loose strands of hair at her temple, and he…
He couldn't bring himself to do it.
"Andrew was terrible with animals," he heard himself say. "He once tried to befriend a swan on the river and it chased him halfway to the village."
Her laughter was bright and genuine. Two passing gentlemen turned to look.
"He never told me about the swan," she said.
"He wouldn't have. He was far too vain."
She laughed softly. "He was, rather, wasn’t he?"
He looked over to see that her smile had faded. She still looked pleased, but there was a sadness to it now. "He always told such amusing stories in his letters. He made it all sound like such an adventure." A pause. "I think he did that for my benefit. So I wouldn't feel left out, being at home."
Sebastian said nothing. His throat had closed. Andrew had done exactly that. He'd talked about Estella often at school. He’d laugh about her letters and her never-ending questions. “She's going to be cleverer than all of us, Seb.”
"He used to bribe me with lemon ices." He saw the surprise in her eyes, and heard it in her voice. It was how he felt when he recovered a lovely memory he’d forgotten about.
It happened when he and his mother spoke about his father.
It was an odd thing, uncovering a happy memory. Like finding a hidden treasure.
"Lemon ices?"
She smiled. "They were my favorite. So whenever he needed my help to get him out of trouble, or just to get me to stop following him around all the time, he’d take me into town for a lemon ice."
Her smile grew as she relived the happy memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he gazed at her, drinking in her wistful smile without her even noticing.
But then a cold drop hit his cheek and ruined the moment. Then another drop. And another. He looked up. The sky, which had been merely overcast when they'd set out, had turned dark.
"We should—" he started. But the sky didn't wait for him to finish. The rain came down all at once like a bucket being emptied on their heads.
Estella gasped. Her hand tightened on his arm. Around them, the fashionable promenaders scattered. Servants scurried to their employers with umbrellas.
Sebastian did not have an umbrella. He had, however, spent two years anticipating every conceivable threat to Estella Hale's wellbeing, and rain was well within his parameters.
His coat was off and over her head before she could draw breath to protest.
"Sebastian, no, you'll—"
He took her elbow and steered her off the path toward a large oak whose spreading canopy offered some shelter from the worst of it. The rain hammered the leaves above them and dripped through in scattered streams, but it was better than the open path.
Estella stood beneath the tree with his coat draped over her head, blinking up at him. Several strands of hair were clinging to her damp cheeks, and her lips were parted in surprise.
He was so struck by her beauty in that moment, he hardly realized how drenched he was getting.
But Estella did. "You’re soaking wet!" She pushed the coat toward him. Or she tried to. "Take it back."
"No." He held it in place.
"Sebastian—"
"No." The word came out sharper than he'd meant. He saw her flinch and his gut twisted with regret.
He’d been too harsh. He thought of Andrew, who'd been kind without effort, who'd known how to make Estella feel safe.
When she made another move to share the coat’s covering with him, he caught her wrist as gently as he could. "Keep it…Little Ella," he added.
That was what Andrew called her, and so he’d called her that too.
Her eyes grew wide and she went very still. "I haven't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "No one's called me that in years."
There was a hint of confusion in her eyes, but then she pulled the coat tighter around her shoulders. "Thank you."
They stood beneath the oak and watched the rain, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke, but the silence was not awkward. In fact, it was an oddly comfortable silence. With Estella. Which…
Well, that made him very uncomfortable. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he was not supposed to feel at ease around Estella Hale.