Chapter Seven
The sun had just risen over Elysian Fields, casting a soft, pinkish-orange glow over the freshly fallen snow.
Sebastian groaned as he pulled his scarf over his riding gear, already regretting every decision that had led to this exact moment.
His boots were polished, his coat pressed, and his bones aching.
He knew Thomas wouldn’t let him skip the morning’s activities—not without reading disapproval into his absence.
And if there was one thing Sebastian despised more than social obligation, it was being misunderstood.
Especially now, when he didn’t even understand himself.
Sick as a dog, his misery felt prophetic. His head was heavy, his mouth dry from sleeping with it open, and his nose—well, better not to speak of it.
The cook’s black tea had done little to soothe the raw sting in the back of his throat. Black tea, no matter how elegantly poured, couldn’t hold a candle to the minty, lemon-laced magic Miss Madeleine had left for him the day before.
He hadn’t tasted anything so gentle in years. Or been looked after quite like that, either.
He made a mental note to ask her what she’d put in it, the very next time he saw her.
Which he hoped would be soon. Imminent. Preferably now.
Sebastian didn’t have a hat fit for the snow, but Thomas’s staff had seen to his boots and coat. The beeswax on the leather gave off a faint scent of honey. He didn’t feel good, but at least he’d smell good. Small mercies.
He stepped into the foyer and pulled on his gloves—then stopped short.
A delicate hand, gloved in dove gray, reached for the brass door handle. Soft, slender fingers curled with quiet purpose, so at odds with the sturdy metal.
Then she turned.
Miss Madeleine.
“What a lovely day,” she said brightly, as if snowflakes weren’t actively trying to murder his lungs. “Perfect for gathering pine tips. Honeyed tea is best when brewed fresh.”
He stared. Was she truly venturing out into the ice for tea? For him?
She stepped into the snow, her boots leaving neat little impressions behind. Her hunter green pelisse swayed with each step, trimmed with rabbit fur at the collar. Wind tugged a curl loose from her bonnet, and she didn’t fix it. That wild, unbothered curl undid him completely.
“Come on, Lord Cambridge,” she called back, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t just warm him. It dared him to follow. “Isn’t the fresh snow wonderful?”
Sebastian exhaled. His breath steamed in the air like a dragon’s sigh.
Wonderful? No. Misery, yes. But then again, if she was the reward…
He tightened his scarf and followed.
Never too sick to follow such a pretty lady.
She blinked into the sunlight like a girl from a painting—half innocence, half temptation—and he wanted, quite suddenly, to be the man who made her smile that way every morning.
She held a silver traveling flask cupped between her palms, the kind hunters used to carry hot cider. Steam trailed from the spout. The scent of cloves and cinnamon curled through the air like an invitation.
“I didn’t bring any for you,” she said, clearly unrepentant.
“Cruel,” he murmured. “But fair.” He stepped beside her and leaned down slightly. “Will you share this one?”
She looked down at the flask, her cheeks turning pinker than the sunrise. Then—still watching him—she unscrewed the cap and held it out, the steam rising like a secret between them.
Interesting.
“The cold doesn’t bother you, Miss Madeleine?”
She inhaled deeply and his eyes fell to the buttons of her pelisse, stretching the delicate but lush bosom he now knew was tucked away in there. He’d fallen asleep to the memory of her cleavage in her dress at dinner last night and the things he’d like… where was his handkerchief?
Sebastian blew his nose and pulled the door shut behind them with one hand.
“You like the cold, don’t you? Well, I didn’t expect Tom to pair us up at dinner, I thought it was a fortuitous arrangement only.” Fortunate actually, but he didn’t dare voice his hope.
“Thomas—Tom? You mean, the Earl of Linsey?”
“Yes, Tom and I have known each other for a long time.”
She crinkled her nose adorably, seemingly considering her response. “Well, I do prefer winter over summer.”
“I daresay you’re the only one.”
“Nonsense,” she murmured, then paused. “Do you know much about the Duke of Paisley?”
“I do not know much beyond his reputation from Oxford.” It was after their studies that he showed how truly vicious he is.
But Sebastian didn’t want to worry her. She’d already obsessed over the duke last night.
Sebastian didn’t like it. Not one bit. Not that he had any interest in challenging Paisley for Miss Madeleine, but he suspected she possessed a bit more depth than merely angling for a duke.
Call it a hunch.
She seemed displeased with his answer, too. Had he gone too far to ask her to call him by his first name? She’d seen him in a state that only Thomas had, sick and sniffling as he wallowed in self-pity for having caught a chill.
“A-a-choo!” Not again.
“If you sneeze on me, I’ll pour this hot water right down your cravat before we even put any pine needles in it.”
Sebastian froze mid-sniff, leveling her with a dark look as he fished out his handkerchief. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Her smile widened, all sugar and mischief. “Try me.” She tilted the cup just enough to make a point, the fragrant steam curling between them.
He eyed the cup warily, then her, and arched a brow. “Would you at least clean it off after burning me?”
She tapped her finger thoughtfully against the rim of the cup, her grin turning wicked. “I suppose that depends.”
“On?”
“Physics.”
“You reference science, Miss Madeleine?” he tested the words. She couldn’t possibly think what he was… then why did she have this knowing grin?
“Yes, see, this liquid would cool and turn rather sticky. It’s sweetened wine with clove, anise, and cinnamon. So there’d hardly be any injuries and yet the stains may never come out of your bright white cravat and would never match your bright white smile again.”
Sebastian’s mouth grew dry. He wanted to speak but no words came out.
Bright smile.
Sticky sweetness.
No, no, rein yourself in.
“So it depends on physics,” Sebastian croaked like a green boy and he hated himself for it.
“And on how cooperative you are.” Her voice dripped with mock innocence, though her sparkling eyes gave her away entirely.
Sebastian sighed, smothering a laugh as he dabbed at his nose. “You’re a menace, Maddie.”
“And yet, you keep coming back for more,” she countered, taking a small, triumphant sip of her wine.
His lips twitched despite himself. Her charm was insufferable.
Sebastian had to defend.
“Back to Paisley. What was his reputation like back then?” She seemed more interested in the duke than the snowy path they set upon.
In one hand, she still held the flask of steaming mulled wine that Sebastian was now imagining she’d pour over him and clean off.
Dabbing him with the chemise he’d pulled off her.
Then kissing his torso to make sure he was clean.
And he’d most certainly return the gesture.
Sticky goodness.
No, be a gentleman! These are not Thomas’s wild horses and you’re not some stallion in the stables, he told himself.
But she held the flask so delicately, her fingers curved around the warmth, and he couldn’t help but envy the flask for the comfort it received. Foolish though it was, he found himself wishing she’d clasp him with the same gentle reverence, her touch soft and steady.
Sebastian held out his arm and she took it.
She felt nice. Her arm fit perfectly into the crook of his arm and he flexed his muscles.
Not handsome, she’d said.
He inwardly snorted. Was he not quite a catch himself? “His reputation, much like everything else about him, Miss Madeleine, is impeccable. On the outside.”
“So, you’d agree that he is perfect?” She sounded smug.
A lump formed in his throat. He hated discussing the qualities of the esteemed duke with this beautiful girl. For reasons he’d never understand, he much preferred to redirect the conversation.
“If externally perfect is what you desire, Miss Madeleine, like an empty urn.” He shrugged. “Then you can do worse than Paisley.”
“Desire? Why do you say it that way?”
He arched a brow. “What way?”
“So suggestive.”
Argh! If she knew.
Sebastian stopped. They’d arrived at a gazebo far enough from the castle to have a private conversation.
From here, the castle looked like a toy house in the distance.
Beautiful old oaks lined the path and even though they could be seen from the windows of the parlor, Sebastian knew that all the guests were otherwise engaged.
But still, he couldn’t help himself.
“Tell me, Maddie, what do you desire?”
She blushed and plonked down on the wooden bench in the gazebo, her back to the castle, her gaze cast down. She set the flask aside, seemingly forgotten.
And something inside of him stirred because he finally had her full attention.
And those beautiful green eyes looked at him in a way that made his stomach lurch.
“Will you stop saying it that way?”
“I’ll stop if you answer the question.
She turned to him, blinking bashfully.
Sebastian grinned, and sat the other way, facing the castle, but he was close to her.
Very close.
She emanated just the kind of warmth that he didn’t even know he’d longed for.
Ice crystals hung from tree branches like delicate jewels. The air was crisp, and Sebastian still saw his breath like a thin cloud as he spoke.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment, and said, “I want to prove my mother wrong. Beyond that, I wouldn’t know.”
“And to prove your mother wrong you must wed a duke?”
She cast him a glance. “Perhaps a duke. The perfect man for certain.”
“But is Paisley what you want?” He itched to ask her about her mother—Why do you want to prove her wrong? What happened?—but sensed she wouldn’t be open to discuss that topic.