Chapter 8
While Mary disappeared upstairs to bathe and dress, Sebastian adopted the study as his own dressing chamber. He took more care with his appearance than he had on the day he’d been presented at Court. He scrubbed, lathered, shaved, combed, brushed, dressed, and buttoned. He even polished his boots to a mirror gleam. Beau Brummel he was not, but he didn’t want to let Mary down.
He’d always thought it a shame that she never had a proper Season in London. It wasn’t something her father could have afforded, he supposed. The Claytons were an established and well-respected family, but the second son of a fourth son of a landed gentleman didn’t come into much, if any, inheritance. So no social debut for Mary, and now she’d missed her own wedding day—which was meant to be a bride’s chance to shine.
She deserved to have been admired by scores of gentlemen, on any number of occasions. Life and circumstance had prevented it. So Sebastian was going to smarten up, stand at the bottom of those stairs, and admire her enough to equal a hundred men put together.
Almighty God.
Perhaps a thousand men put together.
She descended the stairs in a shimmering gown of sapphire blue that precisely captured the brilliant hue of her eyes. Pearls studded the elegant upsweep of her auburn hair, in much the same way that charming freckles dotted the pale shelf of her décolleté.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, stating it as a simple fact. Because it was.
Her blue eyes widened with surprise. But she shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I’ve always thought you were beautiful. From the first time I saw you.”
“Oh, come now. I won’t believe that. I was your best friend’s irritating older sister.”
“You were my best friend’s irritating and beautiful older sister. And I was the typical adolescent boy, unable to think about anything else. There were summers when just being in the same room with you nearly drove me out of my skin.”
Her eyes softened. “I never knew you admired me like that.”
“Oh, I admired you.” He looked her over. “I admired you a great deal, and often. Sometimes more than once a day.”
She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Se-bas-tian Lawrence Ives.”
By God, he was a selfish bastard. She’d spent more than an hour readying herself for his eyes alone, and all he wanted was to turn her about, lead her straight back up to the bedchamber, and give her a ravishing that would undo all her effort in a matter of seconds.
Sebastian dragged his thoughts back to proper gentlemanly behavior. He should not, would not make love to her tonight. He would banish the thought entirely.
Naturally, the next words from her mouth were, “I notice you assembled the bed.”
So much for banishment.
He took her hand, bowed over it, and kissed her fingers. “Lady Byrne. May I have the honor of escorting you in to supper?”
“Thank you, Lord Byrne. You may.”
*
Mary sent up a quiet prayer as he led her into the dining room, where the table had been set with the finest chipped plates and mismatched cutlery the cottage had to offer.
Please, let this work.
The gown seemed to have been a good start. If Dick and Fanny had managed a dinner that was the tiniest bit romantic, and if she plied him with a few glasses of wine, perhaps he would set down those shields composed of misplaced duty and loyalty, just for the night.
To the side of the room, Dick stood at ramrod-straight attention, holding a rather shabby-looking towel draped over his left forearm. His coat was buttoned, and he’d tied a red kerchief about his neck as a cravat. A severe part divided his hair into unequal halves—save for an errant cowlick that bounced with every mild stirring of the air.
He bowed deeply at the waist. “Milord. Milady.”
“Good evening, Mr. Cross,” Mary said, as Sebastian helped her into her chair. “This all looks so lovely. You and Mrs. Cross must have worked very hard.”
“Oh, aye.” Dick poured wine into their glasses. “But we’re not afraid of hard work, milady. Never did you meet such devoted servants as me and my Fanny.”
Sebastian reached for his wine, clearly sensing the theme of the dinner unfolding. One-Hundred-and-One Reasons Not to Sack Your Caretaker.
Dick brought out a tureen and a woven basket, over which had been draped a small square of linen. “Yer first course, milord and milady. Soup and pain.”
“Soup and what?” Sebastian echoed.
“Pain.” Dick ladled soup into Mary’s bowl.
Mary looked at the greasy beef broth. Then she met Sebastian’s inquiring gaze and shrugged in response. I have no idea.
“Don’t make no sense to me either, milord. But the missus says everything’s French tonight.” He waggled his fingers in a mocking gesture. “La-di-dah.”
As he left, he whisked the cloth off the basket between them, revealing the contents.
Bread. Or, as the French would call it, pain.
“Oh, dear.” Mary pressed a hand to her mouth. “This does not bode well.”
“Let’s just eat.” Sebastian raised his spoon and sipped from it once, then set it down. “On second thought, let’s not eat this.” He nodded in her direction. “How do you find the pain? Tolerable?”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Don’t make me laugh. They’ll hear it.”
Once the soup had been cleared away, Dick returned with a covered oval platter, which he placed on the table with a flourish. Mary crossed her fingers and her toes, hoping for better this time.
“Second course, milord and milady. Poison.” He bowed. “Enjoy.”
After Dick had retreated, Mary stared at the covered platter. “Tell me he didn’t say ‘poison’.”
“I believe he did.” Sebastian tilted his head. “Do we dare lift the dome for a peek?”
“I’m not looking. You look.”
“Maybe we should just ask for more pain instead.”
“Oh, you.” She plucked a roll from the basket and lobbed it at him. “I’ll give you pain.”
He lifted a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
In the kitchen, Dick and Fanny could be heard having a squabble of their own.
“Woman, what do ye have me sayin’ out there? Servin’ poison to his lordship.”
“I told ye, ’tis right here in the cookery book. P-O-I-S-S-O-N. Poison. That’s what they call it.”
“Oh, aye. That’s what the Frenchies want ye to believe. That’s how they get you.”
Sebastian lifted the lid from the platter, revealing precisely what they both now expected: a steamed fish.
“Voila,” he said. “Poisson.” He reached for the fillet knife. “Shall I serve you some, my lady?”
“You try it first.”
“I am known for living dangerously.” He took a bite. Chewed. Sat a moment in thought. “It’s not poisoned. But it’s also not good.”
By the time Dick returned with the third course, the dining room was thick with suspense. In lieu of eating, Sebastian and Mary had spent the past several minutes placing bets on what disastrous dish they’d be served next.
“’Ere we are.” Dick plunked two shallow serving bowls on the table. “Stewed chicken and mash.”
“Really?” Well, that was disappointing.
“Cocky vein!” Fanny stormed out from the kitchen. “Lord above ye, man. How many times did I say it. It’s cocky vein and pumpery.” She swept her husband with a withering glance. “Have a bit of class, ye old fool.”
“Oh, I’m the fool, am I?” Dick followed her back into the kitchen, carrying on in a loud voice. “Yer the one what’ll have us sacked before I even serve the chocolate mouse.”
The shouting and arguing continued, interspersed with the banging of pots and pans.
Cringing, Mary poked at the coq au vin and gave the dish of pommes purée a cautious stir. It was the consistency of paste.
So much for a romantic dinner.
“Perhaps we’d be better off in Ramsgate after all,” she said, resigned. “I’d best pack my things. Do you think they’d notice if we just slipped upstairs?”
“Not for another hour or two, at least.” He threw down his serviette. “Come along, then. Let’s make our escape.”
Together, they crept up the stairs to the bedchamber and shut the door behind them. Once they were alone, she couldn’t help but laugh. “The worst part of it is, I’m so hungry.”
“Take heart. If we make haste, we’re less than an hour’s drive from a proper meal.”
She turned her back to him. “Will you help me with the buttons and laces? I need to change for the journey.”
He hesitated. “I’m not adept with those things.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
He hadn’t been joking about his ineptitude. As he plucked at the hooks and wrestled with the buttons, Mary was strangely encouraged. It was comforting to know he hadn’t amassed too much practice disrobing women.
Once he had the back of her gown undone, the tapes of her petticoats unknotted, and the laces of her stays untied, he stepped back a few paces. “There you are. I’ll step out into the corridor while you—”
“Don’t be silly.”
She turned around, hastily shoving her gown and petticoats to the floor, and setting aside her corset. She stepped out from the mound of silk and crinoline, standing before him in only a lacy, light blue chemise. One she’d taken in at the seams an inch here and there, so that it clung to her breasts and hugged her hips.
Mary pulled the pins from her hair one by one, then shook out her upsweep with a sensuous toss of her head. A motion that not coincidently pushed her breasts high.
She’d come this far. She might as well be completely shameless. Neither wifely homemaking or romantic dinners had succeeded in changing his mind. She had only one strategy left: seduction.
And she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.
His reaction wasn’t quite what she’d been hoping for. He frowned at her body as though it were an arithmetic problem he couldn’t solve.
“What is it? Don’t you like what you see?”
“I can’t say that I do, not entirely. You’re a vision of beauty, but you’re standing there in a negligee meant for your honeymoon with another man.”
“Oh, is that the problem?”
She slipped the chemise over her shoulders and drew her arms out of the sleeves. The garment dropped to the floor in a lacy puddle.
“There,” she said. “No more negligee. Problem solved.”