Chapter Four #2
The air here was warmer, but not cloyingly so. Sebastian strolled past the stalls until he spotted the Duke of Rotheworth beside the sleek chestnut form of Lady Swift.
Right. The very horse Thomas had compared him to.
“She bites, you know,” Sebastian said, his voice just rough enough to betray his lingering cold.
Rotheworth glanced over his shoulder, one brow rising. “She has excellent taste, then. You look like you should be tucked in a bed, Cambridge.”
“Why, thank you,” Sebastian replied dryly. “Just what every man wants to hear.”
“I meant it in the most affectionate sense,” Rotheworth said, turning back to Lady Swift. He patted her neck. “She’s in fine form.”
So he kept hearing. “I heard she won the Brighton run.”
“Cleaned the field,” Rotheworth said with a nod. “Even outpaced Paisley’s stallion. Won me quite a bit of money.”
Sebastian scoffed—then coughed. He leaned against a post and rubbed his nose with his handkerchief. “I hope he’s still licking his wounds.”
Rotheworth chuckled but didn’t comment for a moment.
“You don’t care for the duke?”
“Absolutely not.” Sebastian didn’t elaborate. Paisley had nearly forced Thomas into a marriage of convenience. Fortunately, Ashley had had other ideas. “I heard you’re engaged. Congratulations.”
Rotheworth turned, a smile playing on his lips. “We’re married. Eloped.”
Sebastian blinked. That had not made it into any letter. “Well then. Congratulations on your union.”
“Thank you.”
“Does anyone else know?” Please let the answer be yes. Ashley’s pregnancy was more secret than he wanted to keep.
“I believe the whole of England knows,” Rotheworth said dryly. “Except you.”
What a relief. Still, something tight lodged in his chest, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was the cold.
Married. Rotheworth. Thomas. Expecting.
It felt as if the entire world had taken a step forward while he stood still, pages missing from his story.
“I seem to be surrounded by people who catch wedding fevers,” he muttered.
“Better than catching colds and real fevers,” Rotheworth replied. “You sound like a man who’s never considered it.”
Sebastian shrugged. “I have. But I’ve yet to meet the right woman.”
“Ah. She must be calm, gentle, and fond of silence, I take it?”
“No harridans, certainly.” He glanced at Lady Swift. “Not the sort to gallop into storms or throw teacups.”
“I can’t claim to know many ladies who fit that bill. They sound fictional.”
“And yet I live in hope.”
Rotheworth chuckled, patting Lady Swift once more. “What you need, Cambridge, is a holiday from your expectations.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “Doctor Rotheworth, prescribing rebellion?”
“Worked wonders for me. Too high expectations make for too high disappointment.”
“I’d rather risk disappointment than settle.”
Rotheworth huffed a laugh. “You won’t heed it. I can see that.”
“Expect nothing, and you’ll get exactly that.”
“Some people find that comforting.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I’m not one of them.”
“Suit yourself. What works for one doesn’t always work for another.”
“I still don’t envy you,” Sebastian muttered. Though perhaps he did. Just a little.
“You sound like a man convincing himself,” Rotheworth said, giving him a knowing look.
Sebastian said nothing. Something had shifted in him—some quiet storm building since Thomas’s courtship, the engagement, the announcement. A restless discontent he couldn’t name.
Rotheworth clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. Enjoy the countryside. Focus on your health, not your heart.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes, but Rotheworth was already walking off. Lady Swift tossed her head as if amused by the whole exchange.
“I hope you bite him later,” he told her.
The mare blinked, entirely unbothered.
He should head back to his room. Rest. Drink something scalding and restorative. But still, he lingered, breathing in the quiet snuffling of the horses.
Too peaceful.
With a huff, he pushed away from the post and wandered farther down the line of stalls, pausing beside an old dapple-gray gelding. Half-asleep, the horse twitched one ear in acknowledgment. Sebastian scratched him behind it, then leaned against the stall.
Everyone’s glowing, he thought. Everyone’s changing.
He didn’t want to change. Didn’t want to glow.
But he did want something.
Someone.
To love, perhaps.
Yes.
He exhaled a long breath, one that fogged the air in front of him. The warmth of the stables clung to his coat, a lingering comfort he already missed. The scent of hay and hops still threaded through his senses, grounding him in something simpler, something real.
But he turned toward the castle anyway.
Up there, dinner awaited along with the carefully folded expectations of good breeding and even better behavior.
He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and trudged up the path.
Maybe it was time to loosen his grip on some of those expectations.
Maybe not everything had to be done the way it always had been.
Maybe there was still time for him to change his heart? Or for someone to do that for him.
The thought unsettled him. But oddly, it didn’t seem like dread. It felt… like hope.
So he entered the castle, almost ready to change and face the formal dinner.
He was halfway up the grand staircase when a blur of motion collided with his shoulder.
“Oof—!”
“I’m so sorry—!”
He blinked.
No. It couldn’t be.
It was her. The woman he’d sneezed on—repeatedly, and to his eternal shame.
She gasped. “You!”
“Yes, me.”
“You sneezed on me.”
“And you fled like I’d grown pustules before I could apologize.”
“I had just been sneezed on. Several times. Your blasts nearly unpinned my hair!”
He tried not to laugh. “Exaggeration.” But very nice hair indeed.
“You were a menace.”
He bowed slightly. “A recovering menace. The pleasure is all mine.”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed from exertion or mortification—or both. “I didn’t see you there.”
“You didn’t see a man halfway up a staircase?”
“I was in a hurry.”
“To trample someone?”
“I didn’t trample you.” She lifted her chin, and all he could see was her perfect neckline.
Someone as sweet as you has permission to trample me, he thought, but pinched his lips flat so he wouldn’t accidentally say it. New man, new expectations, less calloused behavior perhaps.
“My shoulder says otherwise.”
She huffed, then narrowed her gaze. “You look dreadful.”
“Charming,” he muttered. “Do you insult all strangers, or only the ones you collide with?”
A twitch tugged at her lips. “Only the ones with handkerchiefs permanently affixed to their noses.”
He lowered the linen in his hand. “As you might have noticed, I’m recovering from a cold.”
“You should try to recover harder.”
Her gaze swept over him again, slower this time. “You do look marginally more human.”
“Why, thank you,” he said dryly. “A compliment. I shall treasure it.”
“I wouldn’t,” she replied, eyes dancing. “You’re still clutching that wretched handkerchief like a weapon.”
He stuffed it into his pocket. “I promise not to sneeze on you again. Unless provoked.”
“Then I’ll try not to provoke.” She turned, ready to dash.
He couldn’t stop himself. “Try not to knock down any more invalids.”
“Try not to sneeze on any more innocent bystanders,” she called back.
And then she vanished—up the stairs, a hurricane in a breathtaking gown.
Sebastian stood frozen on the step, blinking after her.
Well.
He really had to stop meeting people like this.
But at least he wasn’t cold anymore. But was she truly just an innocent bystander now?