Sebastian reluctantly admitted that he wished Mary weren’t smiling quite so brightly as Fitzwilliam expertly twirled her over the dance floor. What a selfish bastard he was. Her relationship with Fitzwilliam was not a threat to their long-standing friendship.
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
Sebastian heard the soft voice on his left, and damned the woman for coming up on his blind side. How long had she been standing there observing him? It was difficult to hold back his irritation when he swung his head around to get a good view of whomever the deuce she was. Then regretted his irritation. “Lady Ivers.” He took her gloved hand, bowed over it, and kissed the tips of her fingers.
The countess blushed. “Why do you waste your charms on an old woman such as me? Why are you not out on the dance floor?”
“You are not so old.”
“Balderdash.” She turned her attention back to the crowded ballroom. While he wanted to do the same, if he did he would lose sight of her. “You avoided my question.”
“I have not danced in a good many years.”
“It is not something one forgets. They make an interesting couple, do they not? My niece and Fitzwilliam?”
He thought hers was a telling choice of words. “Do you not approve?”
“I do not disapprove. Yet I watched the two of you during dinner the other night. There is something between you.”
“Friendship,” he said much too quickly.
“It makes for a good foundation for a marriage.”
“She is betrothed.”
“Indeed she is, and her father likes him. But I am not so sure that he is not looking beyond seeing that she is secure. His nephew will inherit, you know, when Winslow is gone. He is not quite confident in his nephew’s strength of character or generosity. Winslow worries that he is not much longer for this world. His brother was only thirty-eight when he passed. His father forty. I hate to say it, but resilient hearts do not run in that family. Still, my sister saw something in him to love. I told Winslow he need not marry Mary off in haste. She will always have a place in my home, but I think he wants to see her settled. Fitzwilliam is of good stock. She will be happy. I’m certain of it. If she is not, her husband will have to deal with me.”
Damned if he didn’t like the woman. “Mary is fortunate to have you as her champion.”
“I am fortunate to have her as my niece.” She patted his arm. “Don’t let the lionesses dissuade you from enjoying this affair. The one thing I am completely confident about is that a gentleman who has worn the uniform is always an accomplished dancer.”
Not when his sight was restricted.
“Give it a go, Your Grace.”
For a moment there, he feared she was hinting that he should ask her for a dance, but with another pat on his arm, she strolled away. He could quite imagine that in her day she had turned many a head. Just as Mary did.
He looked back toward the dance floor and gritted his teeth. She was in Tristan’s arms, moving gracefully in rhythm with the music. Tristan was cutting quite the swath through the ladies. He knew it shouldn’t grate that his brother was dancing with Mary. Tristan knew her more than he knew any of the others. It was expected. But still he didn’t like the way Tristan watched her through hooded eyes. But then Tristan caught his gaze and issued a silent challenge: Cut in. I dare you.
Damn him!
Lady Ivers was correct. Soldiers were known to cut quite a figure when they danced. Sebastian had always considered it a silly bit of nonsense. A soldier’s place was on the battlefield, but he was expected to reflect his glory in the ballrooms. He’d danced with his fair share of the ladies. Had even enjoyed it, but holding Mary in his arms would no doubt be an experience that rivaled all others. Would waltzing be so difficult if he did no grand sweeping? He could claim a small bit of the dance floor.
Her aunt had tossed down the gauntlet. Crafty old biddy. He caught sight of her watching him, daring him even. One dance. Surely he could survive that.
After all, he’d survived the carnage of war.
After her dance with Tristan, Mary retired to a corner and spoke with Lady Alicia. And spoke with her, and spoke with her, and spoke with her. It seemed she’d found her place and intended to remain there. While Sebastian knew awkwardness would no doubt arrive with him, he squared his shoulders and marched forward as though an enemy awaited. He supposed sooner or later he would be forced to speak with Lady Alicia. Might as well make it quick.
Before he’d reached Mary, she turned and smiled at him, and he suspected Lady Alicia had said something to make her aware of his coming over.
“Your Grace,” Mary said.
“Lady Mary.” He bowed slightly. “Lady Alicia.”
“Your Grace,” she replied with a slight tremble in her voice, and he realized a faint blush crept up her face. “My sincerest apologies for the debacle of the other night. I assure you—”
“Leave it go, Alicia,” Mary murmured. “Keswick has already forgotten about it, I’m sure.”
“I don’t see how he could.”
“It is forgotten,” he assured her.
“I was such a ninny.”
“It is. Forgotten,” he said as firmly as he could.
“I truly meant no harm.”
Dear God, was he going to have to ask the chit to dance in order to convince her that the lies he spoke were truth? “No harm was done.”
“Still, it was unconscionable—”
“Alicia—” Mary began, a plea in her voice.
“—to make you feel uncomfortable in our home and I—”
“Perhaps you will honor me with a dance later,” he forced out.
Her eyes widened but at least her mouth remained closed. Thank God. She blinked, looked at Mary, looked back at him. “Yes, certainly.” She began to scour her dance card.
Mary caught his eye and smiled softly, apparently pleased with the way he’d handled the awkward situation. He thought her smile alone was worth the agony he would endure as he dreaded the upcoming turn about the floor with her cousin, especially as it was not her cousin with whom he wished to dance. He held Mary’s gaze and thought there were no more expressive eyes in all of Great Britain. She drew him in, made him think all things were possible. That he could indeed traverse the maze of a dance floor—if she were in his arms. Suddenly he wanted her there with a fierceness that he’d only experienced in battle, when he’d charged the enemy, when defeat was not even a consideration. He considered how it would be to have her so near, to hold her briefly, knowing he could not hold her forever. He would find a piece of heaven in his hell, and he would suffer for it later when it was gone, but for those few moments—
“A quadrille?” Lady Alicia chirped, interrupting his wayward thoughts. “Would a quadrille suit?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely.” She wrote on her dance card with endearing concentration, then peered up at him. “Shall I write it on your card?”
Gentlemen generally carried a card in their jackets to keep up with their dance partners. He hadn’t expected to dance so he hadn’t bothered with one. “I’ll remember.”
“I shall look forward to it with great anticipation.”
“As will I.” When had he become such an accomplished liar? He turned to Mary. “I was hoping you would honor me with a dance as well.”
“I would be delighted, and as it so happens I am currently free.”
He held out his arm, and she placed her hand on it. As they walked onto the dance floor, he constantly scanned the twirling couples. His confidence began to grow. He simply needed to remain aware of who was about and where they moved.
Then she was in his arms and his surroundings became the last thing on his mind. He wasn’t certain he’d realized exactly how small her waist was until his hand settled in against it. Because of her height, he could easily gaze into her eyes. They sparkled now and her lips tilted up in pleasure. He saw very little evidence of the hoyden she’d once been. She was reserved, polite, a lady any gentleman would be proud to have as his wife.
“You were very kind to her,” she said softly.
“Should I have been a beast?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
“Do you ever feel as though we don’t truly know each other?”
“Quite often, and yet there are times when I feel as though there is nothing about you that I don’t know. I wasn’t certain you’d ask me to dance.”
“Your aunt insisted.”
Her smile broadened. “You don’t have to always be completely honest with your answers. Now my heart is crushed.”
“It was never my intent to hurt you, Mary.”
Her eyes glimmered. “I was teasing. You mustn’t always be so serious, Sebastian.”
“I fear I know nothing else.”
“You might try smiling at least.”
“I did. Once. After I was wounded. It’s a hideous sight. I smashed the mirror that revealed it to me. You want me to be civilized. I’m not certain I’m capable of it.”
Her own smile withered, and she squeezed his hand that held hers. “Our dance is a start. Simply enjoy it.”
Her smile returned. She was right. He wanted this moment. He should savor it. Without conversation to distract him, he found himself becoming lost in her.
That damned freckle on the upper swell of her left breast kept drawing his attention. If he’d just ask her how she came to have it, he’d no doubt lose all interest in it. But how did one word such an inquiry? I daresay I was noticing your breast . . .
In truth he was noticing everything about her. No lady in this room compared with her—
He rammed into someone, stumbled, stepped on Mary’s hem, heard material rip, followed by her gasp.
“Watch where you’re go—” A voice he recognized began, then stopped.
He spun around and found himself staring at Fitzwilliam.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “It is I who should have been watching.”
The implication was clear. Sebastian was lacking. At that moment he wanted to plant his fist in the man’s face. If he hadn’t felt Mary’s hand come to rest on his arm, he might have done something he’d later regret.
Glancing down, he saw her clutching the fabric at her waist. “I need to see to getting this taken care of. Would you be so kind as to escort me off the floor?”
Kind? Nothing about him was kind. Still he did as she asked.
“It looks beyond repair,” he told her.
“It’s not nearly as bad as it appears. They’ll have a seamstress in the retiring room who’ll put things to rights quick enough. Ladies are always stepping on their hems.”
“I knew dancing would be a dreadful notion. I’m sorry I subjected you to it.”
They were away from the dancers now, near the doorway that would take her to the stairs.
“Don’t be silly. I enjoyed it. I hope to have a chance to dance with you again.”
Never. Never again. But he merely nodded and strode away, leaving her to tend to her torn gown.
Fortunately there was no line to the seamstress and the woman was quick of fingers. It wasn’t long before Mary was back in the ballroom. She spied her quarry standing with a group of gentlemen. She plastered a smile on her face and glided over with all the grace and poise she could muster.
“Gentlemen, forgive my intrusion,” she said, smiling even more brightly, batting her eyelashes as though a cinder had flown into her eyes. “My lord Fitzwilliam, may I have a word?”
“Shortly. As soon as I’m finished—”
“This is important. I fear it can’t wait.”
“A man is a fool,” Lord Chesney said, “to spend his time prattling with men when he can be in the company of a beautiful woman.”
“You’re quite right, of course,” Fitzwilliam said, before offering Mary his arm.
She waited until they were in an alcove, hidden from prying eyes, before she let her anger seethe to the surface. “You did it on purpose.”
“What’s that, sweeting?”
His pretended innocence only served to anger her further. “Bumped into Keswick.”
“What an absurd notion. He crossed into my path. Yet as a gentleman of the first order, I took the blame in order to spare him the humiliation.”
“You spared him nothing.”
“Do not take that tone with me. You are to be my wife.”
“That does not make me your property.”
“According to the law it does.” He slammed his eyes closed, took a breath, then opened them. “Good God, what are we doing here, Mary? We had a bit of a snuffle on the dance floor. Hardly worth scathing words and anger. Barging into him would have also served to embarrass you. I’d have not done it.” He touched her cheek. “You are too precious to me.”
This was the closest he’d come to declaring he might have strong feelings for her. That he cared, she had no doubt. But he’d never given voice to the strength of his affections. It was her understanding that few men did. For them, actions spoke louder and Fitzwilliam had never given her any cause to doubt his fondness for her.
Yes, in all likelihood the incident was Sebastian’s fault. His gaze had been riveted on her with such intensity that she’d scarcely been able to breathe. For a few moments it had seemed as though they were the only two in the ballroom, in the entire world. She’d become lost in the wonder of him. His strength, his masculinity were so apparent that he made other men seem lacking.
In retrospect, the sudden end to their dance had come at a most fortuitous moment, before she’d made an utter fool of herself and asked him to escort her onto the terrace so they might have a moment of privacy. She wasn’t certain what she intended to happen during it, but it could not have boded well.
“My apologies for the accusations,” she said contritely.
“None needed. Now let’s return to the festivities before our absence is noted. I’d not have your reputation tarnished before we are wed.”
“Nor afterward either, I should think.” She gave him a teasing smile, which he returned with one that held the promise of passion.
“I must confess that I am very much looking forward to having you alone,” he said with a seductive whisper.
She couldn’t mistake his meaning. She’d hardly given any thought to the intimacies of marriage. She felt her skin grow warm with a flush. She was certain she would find pleasure in his bed. But she suddenly found herself wondering if it would be enough.
He did not belong here, Sebastian reflected. He would never belong here. In the glittering ballrooms where ladies and gents flirted, waltzed, laughed without care. Their easy banter sliced deep for nothing in his life had been easy. He was only twenty-six and yet he felt to be a man twice his age.
After the debacle on the dance floor, he found Lady Alicia and explained that regretfully he would have to forego their dance. She merely blushed, stammered her understanding, and hurried away. She’d no doubt witnessed the ungainliness he’d exhibited with her cousin and was relieved to be spared a similar fate. Then he conversed with a few lords about trivial matters: weather, agriculture, bills before Parliament. He made his way to the card room and discovered that Rafe was nowhere to be seen. He’d obviously taken his leave. He was no more comfortable in these surroundings than Sebastian. He did wish his brother had sought him out to see if he might be of a mind to depart with him.
Not that he would have. It would have been cowardly to leave so soon after arriving. But taking a turn about the garden—that spoke only of a man who required a bit of fresh air. Based on the scent assailing his nostrils the garden was awash in roses. Based on the quiet murmurings that reached him, the garden was dotted with secretive trysts. He wondered if one of them involved Tristan. He’d lost sight of his brother in the ballroom. He did hope he wasn’t doing something reckless that would find him with a wife in hand before Season’s end.
It irritated the devil out of him that he didn’t know his brothers well, wasn’t certain of the kind of men they were. They were loyal to him, but that had been ingrained in them from birth by their father. Sebastian was the heir and they owed their fealty to him. But other than that, he knew them hardly at all. He despised his uncle for stealing that knowledge from him as well. He and his brothers were joined by blood, but beyond that, they shared few of the same experiences. None of them seemed wont to speak of the years they were apart, which lent a well of loneliness to their being together.
But he had Pembrook to sustain him. Based on tonight’s fiasco, he had decided he would return there. To hell with London. Tristan seemed more at home here. He could see after the London residence and keep an eye on matters. Watch for any nefarious plans their uncle might be plotting. As for the wife—he wasn’t in the mood to hunt for one. He would hire a matchmaker perhaps or—
“Sebastian?”
He paused at the soft voice. He was far into the garden now, should no doubt continue on. But he turned ever so slightly and watched as Mary strolled gracefully toward him. She was limned by the glow from the gaslights that lined the pebbled path. Even shadows could not disguise her beauty.
“You’re not enjoying the ball,” she said quietly, and he heard her disappointment, which only served to make him feel like an ogre who had let her down.
“Do gentlemen usually?”
“I’m sure some of them don’t, but they’re generally better skilled at hiding it. Alicia informed me that you recanted on your invitation to dance with her.”
“I thought it best under the circumstances to spare her the embarrassment of having a torn gown.”
“Mine was fixed easily enough.”
“Still, it should not have happened at all.”
Silence eased in around them and brought with it a comfortableness that had often accompanied the pair in their youth.
“Do you enjoy the balls?” He didn’t know why he asked. Perhaps because he knew as little of her as he knew of his brothers, and it seemed a shame after all they’d shared as children.
“More than I should, I suppose. I love the glitz and glamor of them. I enjoy seeing the ladies in their ball gowns, draped in jewels, and exuding excitement as they anticipate the night. The gentlemen are always so dashingly handsome in their swallow-tailed jackets. The music fills me.” She laughed. “I could go on.”
In the distance, he could hear the faint strains of the music that filled her. Her father had denied her this because of him. “By all means do.”
He meant it. She could discuss the manner in which grass grew and he thought he would be fascinated. He’d not been with a woman—truly been with a woman—since shortly before the battle in which he’d nearly died. He preferred women who gave of their bodies willingly, not for gain. Mary would be such a woman, and her willingness would be gilded with enthusiasm that came from deep within her. She’d never been one for half measures. While he’d amassed years of not knowing the details of her life, he was fairly confident he still knew the particulars of her character. She was strong, bold, and had a penchant for caring deeply for those who needed it. She would fight to save a wounded sparrow with the same determination she’d fought to save three abandoned lads.
“I would only bore you,” she told him. “Besides, that was not my purpose in seeking you out.”
He wasn’t certain why his gut clenched or why he was so sure he was not going to like what followed, but still he heard himself ask, “And what would that be?”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier on the dance floor.”
“You’re clearly not to blame. You nearly lost a toe in the process.” He caught a flash of her smile in the flickering gas lamps. He wished he had the ability to keep her smiling. But it was neither his responsibility nor his place. “Fitzwilliam, blast him, was correct. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I knew I had to be ever vigilant.” But I’d become lost in you, and for a moment had felt close to being whole.
Not that he could tell her that. Not that he should even admit it to himself. Yet he had. Her sweet fragrance, the green of her eyes, the delicate touch of her hand folding over his.
“I would ask you to forgive my boldness, that it is a friendship forged as children that prompts me now, but I was hoping we might finish our dance. Here in the garden. Where we’re less likely to bump into anything other than roses.”
“Thorns can hurt, Mary.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
Terribly bad idea, sweetheart. To hold you in my arms again, to have your clothes occasionally brushing against mine, to have your scent so much nearer.
His thoughts traveled along paths they shouldn’t traverse. She was betrothed. She belonged to another.
“No.” He bit out the word.
“That’s your pride answering, Your Grace.”
“Leave it be, Mary.”
She moved a step nearer, and it took everything within him not to take a step back. She brought with her the sweet fragrance of orchids. And a glimmer of tears. And a stubbornness in the set of her jaw that he’d never been able to defeat. She’d always possessed the power to conquer him, to make him ignore his better judgment.
Reaching out she touched his shoulder. He could feel the gentleness, the slight trembling of her fingers. “Please, dance with me.”
“I don’t want a damned dance.” The harshness in his voice would have sent any other young miss scurrying back to the safety of the ballroom. But not Mary. He’d never been able to intimidate or frighten her. She was the most courageous creature he knew.
“What do you want?” she asked with equal parts tenderness and challenge.
How often had he done things only to prove something to her? Let her see now the sort of man he was. What the years had transformed him into.
“To forget.” He thrust a hand into her hair, cradled his palm against her cheek, moved her farther into the shadows.
“Mary,” he whispered like a soft benediction and hoped to God that she didn’t connect the two sentences and think it was she he wished to forget. Never her. She was the only thing worth remembering. No, he wanted to forget his disfiguring scars, his sightless left side, the stares he garnered, and the doubts and guilt that plagued him. But never her.
He tilted up her face and covered her mouth with his. He wasn’t gentle. He wanted to replace horrendous memories with something worth remembering. He was not only starving, but greedy. He would hate himself in the morning. Hell, he’d hate himself as soon as his mouth left hers because the blackguard he’d become was taking advantage of her charitable nature.
She didn’t protest, but her tongue was hesitant against his. He suspected she’d never had her mouth ravished to such a degree. The thought had him gentling the plunder, had him relishing the taste and feel of her. She’d sipped champagne and the rich flavor of it teased him now just as her orchid scent filled his nostrils.
She skimmed her hands up his arms, entangled her fingers in his hair, pressed herself closer, and became as bold as he. He almost smiled. She’d always matched his adventurous spirit with one that rivaled his. He wondered now if it was the competitor in her nature that had her stepping forward instead of back. Or was there more?
Had she wondered, as he had, what it might be like between them?
God, but she was delicious. He locked his other arm around her, assisted her in her quest to get nearer, pressing her close. His palm cradled her chin, the side of her throat, and he could feel the hard, rapid pounding of her heart. He became lost in the wonder of her. He’d wanted this when he sat on the bench with her that long-ago afternoon, when he’d given her the necklace. He’d wanted to know her flavor. Now he knew he would never forget it, even though he would never taste it again.
This was a forbidden moment between them. She was betrothed. She deserved better than he could provide. He could give her all the comforts of life, but he lacked the ability to comfort her heart and soul. He recognized this shortcoming in himself. He wasn’t particularly proud of it, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking that he would ever be able to give a woman more than a contented marriage. And Mary deserved far better than that.
She deserved love and adoration. She deserved a whole man who could not only take her to unheralded heights of pleasure but could lift her up from depths of despair. Life was not always pleasant. She needed a true partner who would give his all to her.
His all belonged to Pembrook.
Her soft moan echoed between them, and it fired his blood. A tempest raged through him. He could take her deeper into the shadows, lay her on the grass, ease up the hem of her gown—
He growled with the desperation that gnawed at him to do just that. This was Mary. Mary who had saved them. He owed her everything.
Breaking off the kiss, breathing heavily, he gazed down on her upturned face. From somewhere, light chased away the shadow and he could see her heavy-lidded gaze, her slightly parted lips. Her confusion.
“Forgive me, Mary. I . . .” What words could he give her? What possible explanation for his actions would suffice?
“You won’t dance with me in the garden, yet you’ll kiss me?”
“I’ve obviously become a barbarian. I have no excuse. And if we’re seen, you’ll have no reputation.”
Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed back toward the garden path, but rather than turn toward the manor, he picked up his pace and headed even farther into the darker confines provided by roses and trellises. He had to leave now. He would exit through a back gate, leave his carriage for Tristan. He could walk back to his residence. It would do him good, cool his ardor.
He heard a sound. Dried leaves crushed beneath the weight of a foot.
He knew better than to turn to his left, to lose his advantage by a momentary blindness when meeting a foe, but he’d thought it was Mary chasing after him as she had when they were children. Only as he felt the knife slicing into his side did he recognize the true cost of his folly. Before he could even see the enemy he launched a powerful swing with his right arm. He took satisfaction in the sound of cracking bone, the grunt, the seething curse. He expected his attacker to attack again, but instead his pounding feet echoed and faded away.
Sebastian’s knees hit the ground with a jarring thud that caused everything to shake. The world spun crazily around him and then turned black.