Chapter 19
“Checkmate,” Miss Whitley said, laughter lacing her voice as she leaned back slightly, her eyes alight with triumph.
Sebastian stared at the board for a long moment before a slow, genuine smile curved his mouth. He had been bested, and found he did not mind it in the least. “Well done, Darcy,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers.
Her name had slipped from him without thought, and he saw the instant the intimacy struck her, the way her cheeks warmed, the way her lashes fluttered.
More than once, he had wondered how he might secure Darcy’s future without wounding the fierce pride he had already come to recognize.
She possessed a quiet determination, a strength that would not accept charity, no matter how it was offered.
The wager had been his solution, though not entirely selfless, for he had very much desired to win.
He had wanted to claim his prize, and so he had played in earnest. Every move, strategy and feint had been carefully considered, and yet she had met him move for move, surprising him with a brilliance that left him both impressed and intrigued.
He had not granted her the victory; she had taken it from him.
“You are an impressive player. My father must have taken considerable pleasure in teaching you.”
Darcy’s eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Then she leaned forward, and before Sebastian could anticipate her intent, pressed her lips lightly to the corner of his mouth. The kiss was so chaste it scarcely qualified as one, her aim missing his lips by the barest fraction.
And yet Sebastian stilled. A tremor moved through him, subtle yet undeniable, as though the fleeting touch had opened some unsuspected fracture within him.
The force of his reaction was absurd, laughable even. Sebastian had known far more skilled embraces, far more practiced seductions, and yet this fleeting, almost innocent touch dispossessed his composure.
He drew back slightly, studying her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, a soft sheen brightening her eyes.
He understood that she thanked him not merely for honoring the wager, but for playing in earnest and never diminishing her with condescension. A faint smile touched his mouth. “You have earned it. You are truly a brilliant player.”
She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Is the night over?”
“Only if you wish it to be.”
Something shifted in her expression. Sebastian watched the faint wistfulness steal across her face before she seemed to gather it away, but not quickly enough. He had seen the longing beneath it, that quiet hunger for a little more of an evening she had so plainly enjoyed.
“How great a scandal would I cause if I remained and danced the night away?”
“You enjoyed your dances?”
“Very much.” A softness entered her expression. “There is a sense of freedom in moving to music, a delight unlike anything else. Have you never felt it?”
Sebastian had, of course. Yet he had never considered dancing a pleasure worth remarking upon.
Balls, music, fine food, evenings devoted entirely to amusement had been woven into the fabric of his existence since birth.
He had never needed to wish for such things, much less wonder whether he might ever experience them again.
Looking at her now, he was struck by how very little she asked of life.
A dance. A beautiful gown. An evening in which she might forget responsibility and simply enjoy herself.
Bloody hell.
Something tightened unexpectedly within him.
He thought of the modest life she had described, of every small pleasure measured against necessity, and found he could scarcely imagine such an existence.
Yet she had endured it without bitterness.
She had worked, sacrificed, protected her sisters, and somehow retained the courage to laugh as she had tonight.
An impossible urge rose within him then, swift and fierce.
He wanted to give her more. Not merely another dance or another evening such as this, but every simple pleasure she had learned not to expect.
For one reckless moment, Sebastian wanted to lay the damned world at her feet simply to see what she might look like when happiness was no longer something she had to ration.
The thought was absurd.
It remained no less powerful for being so.
His gaze lingered upon her face. “Then I believe it would be a terrible shame to send you home before you have danced quite enough.”
“What does that mean?”
Sebastian regarded her for a moment, warmth settling in his chest. “I shall dance with you as many times as you wish, even until your feet ache. I might then be persuaded to rub them for you.”
A soft, luminous pleasure brightened her eyes. “Would that not be scandalous?”
“Which part?”
“The dances,” she said, her pretty brown eyes dancing with good humor. “You are not getting anywhere near my feet.”
“It would signify very little,” he replied, smiling at her retort. “You will not remain in London long enough for the scandal to matter. Whatever interest we stir will fade soon enough.”
The moment the words left him, he sensed the shift. Her lashes lowered, concealing her expression, yet something in her stillness told him that his words had wounded her. Before he could question it, she rose abruptly, her movement swift, almost too bright as she extended her hands toward him.
“Come,” she said, her tone light, though it rang with something forced. “I wish to dance until my feet ache.”
Sebastian stood at once. He did not refuse her.
Returning to the ballroom together, however, would invite precisely the sort of speculation Miss Whitley could ill afford. He escorted her only as far as the corridor leading back to the gathering, then stopped.
“You should go ahead.”
Understanding immediately softened her expression. “And you?”
“I shall follow presently.”
She smiled at him then, and the sheer pleasure in her eyes caught him unexpectedly. There was something almost luminous in it, an excitement she made little attempt to conceal, as though the prospect of returning to the music and dancing delighted her beyond reason.
“Do not keep me waiting too long, my lord.”
His mouth curved. “I would not dare.”
She turned and walked away, disappearing through the ballroom doors.
Sebastian remained where he was.
Nearly a quarter of an hour ought to suffice.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, yet his thoughts followed her into the ballroom. That look in her eyes remained with him, as did the sound of her laughter and the easy conversation they had shared throughout the evening.
He liked her company.
The realization arrived with such simplicity that it took him a moment to appreciate how extraordinary it was.
Sebastian had known many women. Desired them, pursued them, pleasured them, and been pleasured in return.
Yet outside the wives of his closest friends, women had rarely occupied a place in his life beyond fleeting indulgence.
Conversation before a tryst had generally served as a pleasant prelude to what both parties actually wanted, and whatever words were exchanged afterward seldom mattered enough to be remembered.
With Darcy, he could have talked for hours.
He enjoyed her wit, her unexpected boldness, the way curiosity overcame caution and sent some outrageous question tumbling from her lips.
He liked making her laugh. Liked provoking her merely to watch indignation brighten her eyes.
Even their silences possessed an ease he had never thought to seek with another woman.
Being with her simply felt…right.
His heart gave a hard, peculiar thump.
Sebastian straightened, disliking the sudden gravity of his thoughts even as he found himself unable to dismiss them.
He had wanted women before. Red had proved how fiercely desire could seize him.
But this was different. Wanting Miss Whitley near him when there was no promise of pleasure, discovering that her conversation alone could hold him more completely than another woman’s seduction, felt dangerously like something for which he possessed no experience at all.
Nearly fifteen minutes had passed.
Sebastian returned to the ballroom.
Music and conversation washed over him as he entered, candlelight blazing from the chandeliers and catching upon jewels, polished silver, and richly colored silks. His gaze moved through the gathering until he found her.
Darcy stood beside the Duchess of Basil, listening to something Her Grace was saying. Then Darcy laughed. The sound reached him even through the surrounding din.
That strange warmth returned to his chest. Sebastian crossed the ballroom toward her.
Darcy saw him coming, and the pleasure that immediately entered her eyes made something inside him tighten all over again.
He bowed before the duchess, exchanged the necessary courtesies, then turned to Darcy and held out his hand.
“Mrs. Whitley,” he said, “I believe you wished to dance until your feet ached.”
Her smile deepened as she placed her hand in his. “I did.”
“Then we had best begin.”
He felt the weight of surprise and speculation as he sought her out again for the next dance.
When that set ended, he asked for another.
And when the music faded once more, he simply held out his hand, making it clear he intended to dance with her again.
Four times he danced with her. Four times Sebastian took her hand, leading her through waltzes and quadrilles, increasingly aware with each set that he was behaving in a manner entirely unlike himself.
The room remarked upon it. He saw it in the lifted brows, the whispered exchanges, the curiosity that sharpened with every repetition.
It was damn well scandalous. He did not care because Darcy delighted in it.
She moved with increasing abandon, her laughter coming more freely as a subtle warmth lingered between them through every turn and step.
And beneath it all, that same elusive tension, as though she held something back even as she yielded to the moment.