Chapter 20
Sebastian had a plan for the evening. It consisted entirely of standing against a wall in the ballroom, watching the party, and under no circumstances whatsoever engaging in conversation with Estella Hale.
Admittedly, it was a simple plan. But that did not mean it was easy.
A week had passed since Vauxhall, and he'd spent every day of it in careful retreat.
He'd sent his excuses for two morning calls.
He'd arrived late to a garden party and left early.
He'd communicated with the duchess through notes rather than in person, and the notes had been brief to the point of rudeness.
In his defense, he was doing all of this for Estella’s sake. He’d very nearly lost all control at Vauxhall Gardens. If the fireworks hadn’t started up when they had…
Well. He’d have ruined everything for Estella. He’d have kissed her in plain sight of all of society’s finest. And once he’d thoroughly ruined her, he’d have claimed her hand in marriage. Not out of obligation, but selfish desire.
And yes, perhaps she’d have agreed willingly—for now. But how long until she realized she was trapped in a marriage with a scarred brute? And the very same man who’d taken her brother from her and destroyed her family?
No, despite her twinkling eyes and pert words, he had to protect her from himself. Because heaven knew no one else would. Her father wasn’t around, and the duchess who was supposed to be looking after Estella had seemingly decided they’d make a fine couple.
That suspicion had been confirmed with the note he’d received from her this morning.
The duchess had responded to his last short missive with an equally frank response: Do stop sulking, Blackwood. It's unbecoming in a man your age. It’s high past time you do right by Miss Hale. Come to the ball tonight. And for heaven’s sake, ask her to dance.
He was not sulking. He was maintaining appropriate distance.
The problem was that appropriate distance from Estella Hale was proving to be an impossibility. Every event she attended became smaller, warmer, the air thicker. He could be standing in a ballroom the size of a cricket pitch, and the moment she walked through the door, there was nothing but her.
He took a measured sip of his whiskey and told himself that tonight would be different.
He would be civil but remote. Attentive but detached.
He would watch from a safe distance and ensure no harm came to her, and he would not, under any circumstances, think about the way the lamplight at Vauxhall had turned her hair to gold and her eyes luminous, or the way her voice had sounded sweet as honey as she'd called him out like a little warrior.
But in truth, he thought about all of it. Constantly. It was becoming a serious impediment to his daily functioning.
But that all would end soon enough, he promised himself.
The Lady Clarissa matter would soon be settled, and he would have a wife. One who was not Estella, and whose family he had not destroyed. And he’d find Estella a good husband, no matter how much he hated the idea of her being anywhere near another man, and—
And his next thought was cut off at the quick, because just then…
Estella arrived. She walked through the entrance, and Sebastian's vision narrowed to a single point.
The gown was ivory, shot through with gold thread that caught the candlelight. Her hair was swept up, a few pale curls loose at her temples. She wore pearls at her throat—the duchess's, most likely—and carried herself with an ease and confidence that would make any man stare.
She looked different. Oh, she had the same fine features, same pointed chin, same violet-blue eyes that still occasionally brought Andrew slamming into his thoughts like a fist. But there was a certainty in her demeanor that hadn't been there a month ago. Her spine was straight and her shoulders were back, and if someone had told him she was a queen visiting from a foreign land, he wouldn’t have doubted it.
The girl who'd studied wall sconces with desperate cheerfulness at her first ball was gone. The woman who'd replaced her moved through the crowd with quiet assurance, greeting acquaintances, accepting compliments, laughing at a remark from a passing gentleman.
She'd come into her own. The thought was tinged with pride and a deeper, more selfish ache. She didn’t need his help any longer. Not the duchess’s either, for that matter. She could have her pick of gentlemen, and she’d no longer be fooled by the Mr. Fairchilds of the world.
He tore his gaze away. The plan, blast it all. He had a plan. But a moment later, he sensed her approach before he saw it. And then she was in front of him, and all his plans dissolved.
Her smile was small and sweet. "Dance with me."
Sebastian blinked. He looked down at her—because he always had to look down, she was absurdly small—and her expression was bright and direct and faintly amused, as though she already knew what he was going to say and had prepared her counterarguments.
"I don't dance," he said.
"Really?" Her tone was light, and the taunting so subtle one might miss it. "I've been told you were quite accomplished before you decided to be miserable."
A huff of amusement escaped him despite himself. She always had been brave. But she'd never spoken to him like this before. She’d never been this bold and teasing.
He hadn’t thought it possible for her to become any more beautiful in his eyes. But here he was.
"One dance," she said. "As my guardian, or as my brother's friend. Whatever you want to call it." Her shoulders squared. "But I should like to dance with you, and I believe you'd like to dance with me. And quite frankly I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
He really ought to refuse. This was precisely the sort of proximity he'd been avoiding for a week, and for very good reason, and—
"One dance," he said. The words came out before his brain could intervene. Some mutinous part of him that apparently had no interest in self-preservation had simply overridden all higher function.
She smiled. A real one, warm and bright. And it dealt a death blow to the last of his resolve.
The orchestra began a waltz. Because of course it did. A country dance would have been manageable. But a waltz meant her hand in his and his hand on her waist for the duration, and the universe was apparently not done punishing him for past sins.
Even through gloves, the feel of her hand in his sent a jolt through his arm that he felt in his teeth.
They took the floor and he placed his right hand at her waist and felt her fingers settle on his shoulder. Their free hands clasped together, and every point of contact was a searing heat through leather and silk.
She was light. That was the first thing he noticed. Light and responsive, following his lead with grace and…trust.
She trusted him to guide her, which was both gratifying and catastrophic, because the only thing he was likely to guide them both toward was ruin. Even now, in the midst of a circling crowd of dancers, all he wanted to do was tug her close and kiss her so senseless she forgot her name.
She didn't fill the silence with chatter but just looked at him. Her face, tilted up to his, was close enough that he could count the individual lashes framing those impossible eyes.
"You're staring," she said softly.
"You're staring back."
Her lips curved. "I suppose I am."
The music carried them. His hand tightened on her waist, and she shifted closer, her skirts swooshing and brushing against his legs.
"Sebastian." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Estella." A warning? A plea? He wasn't sure.
"Tell me something true." Her eyes were steady on his. "Just one thing. About you and me."
The ballroom was a blur as they spun, with people all around. But for Sebastian, there was only her. The feel of her in his arms, and the sight of those beautiful eyes, those soft lips…
"One true thing," he repeated.
She nodded. And truly, he might not have answered if he hadn’t seen it. The flicker of vulnerability. The heart aching fear and longing behind her brave mask.
The waltz was ending. He could feel it in the shift of the music, the approaching final measures. It was a mistake to answer, but…
She was putting her heart on the line, and he could not bring himself to hurt it. So despite the warning shout in the back of his mind telling him this was folly, that he really ought to stick with the plan… He rebelled.
"I think about you." The words came out low and rough. His voice, apparently, had joined the mutiny. "Every minute of every day. I think about you."
The music stopped.
They stood there for a beat too long. His palm still on her waist, her fingers still on his shoulder, their other hands still clasped. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Or perhaps that was only him.
Then he released her and stepped back.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. She was radiant.
"Meet me," she said quickly. "Later. The garden. I need to speak with you properly. Without—"
She gestured at the ballroom. The gesture encompassed hundreds of guests, a twelve-piece orchestra, and every social convention that stood between them.
He should say no.
"When?" he asked.
"After the supper dance. The east garden. There's a bench near the fountain."
He nodded, and then he walked away, because if he stayed near her for one more second, he was going to do something disastrous in front of three hundred witnesses.
He found a wall and leaned against it. It was possible the wall was the only thing keeping him upright.
I think about you. Every minute of every day.
He'd said that. He'd actually said it. Out loud. To her face.
Sebastian pressed his fingers to his forehead and fought the urge to groan.
The supper dance was in an hour. One hour until he met her in the garden, where he would say—what? What could he possibly say that would fix any of this? What could she say?
All of the reasons this secret rendezvous was a terrible idea raced through his mind. And yet…
He couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.
She'd asked him for one true thing, and he'd given it to her. And the truth of it was still echoing through him like a gong.
Every minute. Every day.