Chapter 30
Afew days after seeing Darcy at Aphrodite, Sebastian stood in the large chamber he used for fencing and boxing.
Bare-chested and slick with sweat, he moved lightly upon the balls of his feet before driving his fist into the suspended sandbag with punishing force.
The impact jarred through his arm. Pain flared across his bruised knuckles, several of which were already split, but it did nothing to loosen the relentless tension coiled within him.
He struck again, then again, each blow accompanied by the harsh sound of his breath.
“This is the third consecutive day your butler has informed callers that you are not at home,” a dry voice observed behind him. “Yet here you are.”
Sebastian landed one more blow before answering. “And yet you found your way inside.”
He turned and lowered his arms. Viscount Templeton stood near the door looking decidedly unlike his customary immaculate self. His cravat was askew, his coat wrinkled, and a certain disordered satisfaction clung to him with all the subtlety of perfume.
“Has some calamity befallen you?” Sebastian asked, his tone edged with a strain he had yet to master. “You appear unusually disheveled.”
Templeton’s mouth curved into a languid smile. “I enjoyed delightful company in my carriage not half an hour ago. Judging by the lady’s enthusiastic expressions of pleasure, my coachman is now burdened with knowledge he will never entirely forget.”
“Did you come here merely to recount your latest conquest?”
“No, though I had hoped it might cheer you. I came to ask whether you intend to attend Countess Radbourne’s card party this evening.”
“I do not.”
Sebastian turned back to the bag and struck it with enough force to send it swinging violently upon its chain.
Fresh pain lanced through his hand. He welcomed it, then stepped away and crossed to the chaise for the towel carelessly thrown across it.
He dragged the linen over his face and chest, wiping away the sweat that stung his eyes.
Templeton watched him, his amusement fading. “You look as though you have taken a beating, yet I see no opponent.”
Sebastian glanced at his hand. Three knuckles were split, and a thin line of blood had begun to creep over one finger.
He flexed his hand against the protest of battered flesh, but pain could not hold his thoughts where he commanded them.
They returned, as they always did, to Darcy.
His heart wrenched with emotions and sensations he had never known, and yet she summoned them effortlessly.
He saw again the rigid line of her body as she attempted to pass him at Aphrodite, the wounded depths of her eyes, and the composure that had fractured when he touched her.
Her anguish had torn through him long after she left. His fingers moved unconsciously to his wrist, where the faint impression of her teeth remained. The bruise had begun to fade, and he despised it for doing so.
“By God,” Templeton said quietly, “what occupies your thoughts? I have never seen you look so ravaged.”
Sebastian tipped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though he might stem the tide of longing by force. “I am thinking of Red.”
He wanted to find her, draw her into his arms, and swear that he would never again be the cause of her pain.
The need pursued him through every hour of the day and followed him into sleep.
Yet whenever he came near to yielding, he saw his mother’s stricken face.
Her grief, humiliation, and years of silent devastation rose between him and Darcy like a wall he could not, in honor, pretend did not exist.
To court Darcy openly, as she deserved, would wound his mother anew.
To preserve the distance he had imposed between them meant wounding Darcy and himself each day, grinding love and longing into ash and calling the destruction duty.
The conflict left him suspended between the woman he desired and the mother he was bound to protect.
Duty had not restored his peace. It had left only a cold vacancy in his chest, one that neither society, pleasure, nor physical exhaustion could dispel. Sebastian had always been a man of resolution, one who acted without hesitation and did not look back upon his choices.
Darcy had made looking back inevitable.
Every kiss, every confidence, every shared moment of laughter, and every night she had trusted him with her body had formed a language between them.
He had accepted all the intimacy of a courtship without ever granting it that honorable name.
Darcy had not merely been his lover. She had become his companion, his equal, his friend, and the woman whose absence made every place he entered feel empty.
“Raine,” Templeton said more carefully, “what has happened?”
“I believe I have fallen in love with her.” The truth left Sebastian without drama, yet with a certainty he could no longer evade.
Templeton made a strangled sound. “It appears a most painful condition. Does she love you in return?”
A humorless laugh escaped Sebastian. “Perhaps. We spoke of desire with alarming frankness and not at all of affection.”
The word was absurdly inadequate beside the depth of what had passed between them.
“Do you hesitate to make an offer because Red’s birth is beneath yours?”
“There is nothing about her that is beneath me,” Sebastian said. “Red is Miss Darcy Whitley.”
“Bloody hell.” Templeton exhaled heavily and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Do not tell me your mother knows what your father did.”
“She does.”
“This is a damned tangle. What do you intend to do?”
“There is nothing to be done. Miss Whitley is no longer a part of my life. In time, this sense of loss will pass.”
Templeton’s expression made plain what he thought of that assertion.
Sebastian turned away. He had forced the words into the shape of certainty, but they gave him no relief. The ache within his chest sharpened, as if some treacherous part of him were determined to remind him, with every breath, precisely what he had cast aside.
Darcy sat near the window of her modest townhouse, late-afternoon light falling softly across the letter in her hands.
She had read it so often that she no longer required the page, yet she continued to trace Agatha’s elegant script as though another reading might reveal some hidden promise within it.
My dearest Darcy,
I am giving a midnight ball on Friday next and most sincerely hope you will attend.
It would give me great pleasure to see you, and I dare to think that an evening of dancing, laughter, and agreeable company may provide a welcome diversion from thoughts that have been permitted far too much authority.
Elizabeth will, of course, be present, as will several of our most cherished friends, including Lily, the Marchioness of Ambrose, and Penelope, the Countess of Bainbridge.
I believe you will find them as warm in spirit as they are lively in conversation.
We have already conspired upon what we consider a most promising plan to banish your present melancholy.
You must therefore come, if only to discover what mischief we have devised on your behalf.
Pray do not disappoint me.
Yours most sincerely,
Agatha, Lady Radbourne
Since her first meeting with Elizabeth and Agatha, Darcy’s days had altered in ways she had never anticipated.
The duchess and countess had returned to Aphrodite more than once, each visit filled with warmth, laughter, and an ease that continued to astonish her.
What began as a polite acquaintance had deepened into genuine friendship, and Darcy found herself increasingly at home with them and with Rebecca.
At first, she had wondered what connection could possibly exist between herself and women so elevated in rank and experience.
Those doubts had soon dissolved. Elizabeth and Agatha had spoken candidly of how they came to know Aphrodite, of husbands who had once been governed by indulgence and reckless appetite, and of the devotion, constancy, and love those same men now gave without reserve.
Their happiness had seemed improbable until Darcy witnessed it.
Their companionship awakened a longing that had little to do with Sebastian.
Since the earl’s death and her mother’s descent into melancholy, Darcy’s life had been governed by necessity and quiet endurance.
Responsibility had consumed the place where friendship might once have flourished, and the few companions she had known in the country had gradually faded into distant memory.
How often had she wished for a woman before whom she might set down the burdens she carried in silence, someone with whom she could speak freely, even of the dangerous and consuming love that had taken root in her heart for Sebastian. At last, she had found not one such friend, but three.
Rebecca had also become an unexpected source of counsel.
She spoke freely of investments, interest, and the prudent management of income, guiding Darcy toward not merely security but true independence.
Beneath Rebecca’s composed exterior lay a keen intelligence and practical understanding of the world that Darcy admired.
She had also discovered that Rebecca was far younger than she first appeared.
Only a few days earlier, Darcy had entered her chamber to discuss the arrangements for the forthcoming orgy tableau and found her without powder, rouge, or any other cosmetic artifice.
The youthful beauty revealed had startled her.
Rebecca had immediately withdrawn into the shadows, and Darcy understood then that the appearance of greater age was another mask, cultivated as carefully as any worn within Aphrodite.
Rebecca guarded her past and spoke of it sparingly.
Darcy did not pry where confidence had not been freely offered.
Her gaze returned to Agatha’s letter. The prospect of entering a gathering filled with some of society’s most influential figures stirred apprehension, but a faint smile touched her lips.
She would go. A gown of deep, burnished gold waited in her wardrobe, its exquisite edging still untouched and its beauty deserving of an occasion such as this.
She would meet new people, engage in lively conversation, drink champagne, and perhaps even dance.
If she could not cease loving Sebastian, she could at least refuse to build her entire life around his absence.
A few days later, Darcy stood at the edge of Agatha’s grand ballroom, one gloved hand resting lightly upon her fan as she smiled at the gentleman approaching her.
He bowed with proper elegance and requested the honor of the next dance.
She accepted and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
The ball had been underway for a little more than two hours, and the night had unfolded with an ease that felt almost dreamlike.
Chandeliers cast golden light over a crush of finely dressed guests, while music, laughter, and the low hum of conversation filled the room.
It was every bit as magnificent as the first midnight ball she had attended.
Sebastian rose in her thoughts before she could prevent it.
Darcy pressed him firmly away and turned her attention to her partner, a young viscount whose conversation was agreeable and whose manner remained entirely proper.
When the musicians began the quadrille, she entered the figures with the same elegance and measured gaiety she had summoned throughout the evening.
This was her third dance, and for the first time Darcy moved through such company with confidence rather than apprehension.
No one regarded her with curiosity or marked her as an intruder in a world that did not belong to her.
Perhaps the crowded ballroom made close scrutiny impossible, but tonight she found freedom in that anonymity.
The ball was a brilliant success, as she had overheard Elizabeth remark, and Agatha glowed with a radiant happiness that drew admiration from every quarter.
When the dance concluded, Darcy thanked her partner and withdrew, already searching for Elizabeth, who stood in animated conversation with the Marchioness of Ambrose.
Darcy had taken only a few steps toward them when a lady walking along the room’s periphery with three other matrons stopped so abruptly that those behind her nearly collided.
Shock stripped the color from the lady’s face.
A moment later, outrage hardened every elegant line of her features, and the full force of it was directed at Darcy.
She slowed. The woman wore a rich gown of deep purple and regarded her with a sharp, assessing intensity, as though Darcy’s presence within the ballroom constituted a personal affront.
Unease gathered beneath Darcy’s ribs. Before she could reach Elizabeth and the others, the lady stepped forward and placed herself directly in her path.