Chapter Eight
“Look at this beauty,” Paisley called out, holding a dripping hare by the ears.
Sebastian winced in disgust. He’d taken the only seat in the brewery that was not a hay barrel, a three-legged stool that he was sure had been there since Thomas’s grandfather’s time.
However, he’d much rather be in a snow fight than in the presence of this blackguard.
“Get that out, Paisley,” Thomas called. “You’re dripping on my floor.”
“It’s filthy already.” Paisley had only come to show his hunting loot; why else would he have entered the brewery if he deemed it for staff only?
“That’s hay. You are spilling blood on it.” Sebastian rolled his eyes, and Thomas shook his head in disgust. Why did he always have to insert himself in their lives? Title certainly shielded the undeserving sometimes.
The brewery, at least, was one of Sebastian’s favorite places.
So many memories with his friend.
Thomas’s great-grandfather had built it when he was the Earl of Linsey.
Sebastian remembered when he and Thomas sneaked in and took a few sips of liquor from a cabinet his grandfather kept hidden from them.
Or so he thought. He couldn’t even remember what liquor it had been.
Cognac probably. It had been their first time trying spirits and they got so drunk that they lay flat on their backs in the drawing room later, laughing at the chandelier’s crystals sparkling in the light of the fireplace.
That was before Thomas’s father had renovated the castle and introduced gas lighting in every room. A big investment, and an admirable step toward modernity.
Thomas plopped onto a hay barrel and rubbed his thighs. “He’s tirelessly efficient and skilled at any task he sets his mind to. He’s gotten four hares, two foxes, and a deer today.”
“Just perfect, isn’t he?” Sebastian mumbled, picturing the servants skinning the poor animals that the duke had killed. Thomas caught his understatement and suppressed a grin.
“You are just jealous that you missed the hunting trip, Cambridge,” the duke said. A stable boy appeared and caught the rabbit carcass in a chipped porcelain bowl and carried it off. “We won’t be dining on anything you’ve caught tonight, hm?”
“At least we won’t be stuffing the heads of innocent animals as wall decoration either, Paisley.”
“Ah, well, you know I like to have some trophies to remind me of the fun we’re having.”
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it without regard to the quality of the carefully aged liquor. Sebastian noticed that Thomas put on a placid face, ignoring that his guest completely failed to savor the expensive drink he’d so generously put out for Sebastian, not Paisley.
“Killing isn’t a sport; it’s not fun.”
“You speak like someone who can’t stomach the fowl, Cambridge. Sluggish appetite, eh?”
“I’m just saying that killing for sport is not—” but Thomas shook his head and Sebastian swallowed his words.
They’d had this exchange time and again back at Oxford.
It was no use arguing with the man. The duke hunted and engaged in every other sport that the men might admire, most garish as far as Sebastian was concerned.
Also, Paisley was one to seek women out as a sport, burning his coin at the most expensive establishments in town.
None were activities that Sebastian could ever favor.
“Now that you are walking down the aisle with a pretty blonde, maybe it’s my turn to find a trophy of my own,” Paisley said to Thomas.
“Lady Ashley is not a trophy. Watch your words,” Thomas barked. Was he defensive of his betrothed? How odd.
“I never thought you liked her,” Paisley muttered.
“You know nothing,” Thomas snarled.
“Why are you harping on the past?” Sebastian jumped in. “Like follows introduction follows love.”
“Always the romantic, Cambridge. You are too soft-hearted.” Paisley poured himself a second glass.
Sebastian wrapped both hands around his dimpled mug with a nickel plaque of Thomas’s crest. There were only three of these left, one for Thomas, one for Sebastian, and one locked away in the spirits cabinet for his late grandfather. Thomas’s father never had a sense of the brewer’s art.
“He wants to marry for love, like I am,” Thomas said dismissively. “Some of us have more than a title to give.”
“He’s read too many books; they made him soft.” Paisley hmphed.
“As far as I can remember, I outran you as a boy, Tom. I raced you on horseback and you were but a speck of dust behind me, Paisley. And I’m younger than you both.” Sebastian crossed his arms and stared at his friend.
“All I’m saying, Cambridge, is that you have to guard your heart. Those girls may look harmless, but they steal your heart and crush your bones.”
“Nonsense, Paisley. Not every girl wants to marry out of spite,” Sebastian spoke to the duke but Thomas ought to know the reproach had been directed at him.
“Well, gentlemen, short of compromising a beauty, there is no sure way the woman of your heart’s desire will have you, is there?” Thomas said.
“I don’t want a woman to feel coerced into a union. If she wants me, she has to make it known,” Sebastian spoke before he filtered his words. He really sounded like a weakling. Plus, it would take years to find such a woman. Decades. Centuries. Unless…
“You want perfection, Cambridge—always have,” Paisley said, sloshing his drink as he leaned back. “But if you ask me, imperfections are far more accommodating. Give a little praise, and they’ll give you everything. No chasing required.”
The words sounded hollow.
Across from him, Tom gave a low chuckle and raised his glass. “There’s truth to that. The ones who don’t expect much rarely ask for anything in return.”
Revulsion curled in Sebastian’s stomach. He might be tired, still shaken from the lingering ache of his cold, but he wasn’t so far gone as to stomach this line of thought.
“That’s not something to be proud of,” he said quietly, but neither man seemed to hear. Or perhaps they just didn’t care.
They could keep their games. Sebastian had never found pleasure in the “easy”. There was no appeal in taking something not freely offered. It was the depth of a woman’s mind that intrigued him. Her fire. Her defiance.
Like the way Maddie Hunt had stood toe-to-toe with him in the snow, grinning as if she could topple him with a single look.
She probably could.
He lifted his glass and set it back down untouched.
“I don’t want perfection,” he said, this time loud enough to cut through the laughter. His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the conviction in it. “I want someone who sees the world with clarity. Who wants something real. And who won’t hand herself over for a compliment.”
The room quieted, slightly.
Paisley gave a lazy shrug. “To each his own.”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on the fire.
Let them think him stuffy or slow or overly principled. He didn’t mind. He knew what he wanted.
And somehow, despite all his rules and resistance… he had a sinking feeling she wore snow-dusted gloves and smelled faintly of peppermint and lemon balm.
*
My daughter,
I’ve been summoned to Lady Ashley’s wedding and can only speculate why it has been arranged nearly four months earlier than anticipated. Not that the short notice concerned me as much as your new friendship with a certain marquess. When did you decide that a duke was too high to reach?
Do write and explain yourself.
Mother
Viscountess Tisdale
Maddie folded the letter slowly, smoothing its crisp edges with more care than necessary. At least the paper was neat if not her nerves. She placed it beside the untouched cup of chocolate on Ashley’s vanity and took a calming breath.
The wedding was now just a few days away. Not four months, as originally planned. Mere days. And here she was, standing in Ashley’s chambers, staring at the wedding dress her friend held up with delight.
“I had it commissioned when I thought we had more time,” Ashley said with a soft laugh. “Now look—it’s nearly too fine for a rushed wedding.”
The pale-blue gown shimmered as it caught the light, the silk delicate as snowflakes and cool as Ashley’s glacier-blue eyes.
“It’s perfect,” Charlene said, reaching out to stroke the hem. “Like something out of a dream.”
Maddie nodded, though a strange tightness clutched at her chest. She should be overjoyed for her friend—truly she was—but still… a part of her ached. “You didn’t tell us,” she said, her voice low, nearly drowned out by the fire’s gentle crackling.
Ashley blinked and lowered the dress as she paled. “Tell you what?”
“That you were with child.”
Ashley’s expression faltered, and the gown slumped in her arms. “I’m sorry. I was afraid to.”
“Afraid?” Maddie asked. “Why?”
Charlene cut in gently. “You know what she means.”
“No,” Maddie said. “I don’t understand. Unless I’m missing some facts. Why would you be afraid to tell us? I mean, I came with you to the Royal Ascot with a stomach potion in my satchel, prepared to take down a peer of the realm for what he did to you.”
Ashley laughed, then quickly sobered. She looked down at the gown. “I know you wish to marry for love, and with all the things with your mother… I felt a little guilty.”
“To be happy?” Maddie asked, aghast.
Charlene snorted. “No, I hope not!” she teased.
“Well…” Ashley laughed when Maddie sent her a glare. “I was also afraid you’d be afraid your mother found out, and you wouldn’t be allowed to come. And I can’t tell Char and Sera without telling you.”
“Very well, I accept that,” Maddie said. She’d suspected the reason, too. “But throughout your adventures, I have kept my own, you know.”
Her friends nodded.
“And strictly speaking,” Charlene said. “You told us before Sera now. Just when is she arriving, by the by?”
“Oh, should be in a day or so. I haven’t heard anything to the contrary,” Ashley said. “So, am I forgiven?”
“Always,” Charlene said.
Maddie nodded. “I can defy my mother, you know. I’ve done it plenty. I might worry and be startled, but I do come around. So don’t ever hold back on my account.” She sighed. “You both have love, and I… urgh! I haven’t even been kissed!”
Ashley’s lips parted, but no sound came.
“I mean it,” Maddie added at their shocked faces.
“Not once. Not even a tiny stolen peck. I’ve read everything in this book,” she retrieved The Handbook on Seduction and Matters of the Heart from her reticule and flung it on the bed, “even your notes, and according to it, if you recall, a lady must never initiate a kiss. So then tell me, how am I to show a man he has permission?”
Charlene laughed. “That book is utter nonsense.”
“I know,” Ashley said. “But it works. I remember it said something about how a lady must always maintain mystery. ‘Only in the stillness of her virtue will a gentleman approach.’ What does that even mean?”
Maddie let out a short laugh. “Exactly. I don’t know how to be mysterious and still somehow make it clear I want him to kiss me.”
Charlene grinned and nudged her shoulder. “It’s not about being mysterious. It’s about… openness. You let your guard down, linger a little longer, give him reason to hope. No man wants to get slapped for leaning in.”
Ashley grinned. “You have more power than you think, Maddie. You don’t need to speak it. It’s all in the eyes. In the way you look at him.”
“Or in the way you smile at his terrible jokes,” Charlene added.
Ashley wrinkled her nose. “Or when you nurse him through a miserable cold and dab chamomile salve on his cheeks.”
Maddie groaned. “How did you find out?”
“I knew when I saw him and smelled it. You’d been in his chambers before I arrived, hadn’t you? You weren’t there by chance; you had just come out.”
The three of them burst into laughter, and some of the tightness in Maddie’s chest eased.
Ashley set the dress aside and took Maddie’s hand. “You’re not alone, Maddie. You never have been. And for what it’s worth… I have always been in awe of you.”
“And I you,” Maddie whispered. “Always.”
Ashley blinked down at her stomach and grimaced. “Do you happen to have one of your elixirs? For nausea? Because I feel I might faint before I even make it to the vows.”
Maddie laughed and opened her satchel. “Peppermint, lemon balm, and just a touch of ginger. Sit down, dear bride. I have a solution for every ailment.”
And somehow, she hoped this would hold true for matters of the heart, too.