The afternoon following the Weatherly ball, as Mary studied her reflection in the mirror, she could hardly believe that the lovely lady standing in the gown of white satin and Honiton lace was truly her. The workmanship on the dress that so very closely resembled the gown that Queen Victoria had worn on her wedding day was truly exquisite. Imitating the Queen’s attire was all the rage of late, but still Mary had never expected to wear something as incredibly heavenly as the gown that now adorned her.
“It’s so beautiful,” Alicia said. “I can’t wait until I have occasion to wear something similar for a wedding.”
“Next Season, my dear,” Aunt Sophie assured her. “This Season is Mary’s, and I could not be happier that it has turned out so well. You are most fortunate to have caught Lord Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes,” Mary said, and bit her lip to stop it from tingling at the memory of Sebastian’s kiss, a kiss for which he had apologized. She wished he hadn’t done that. She wished he had simply walked away with no words spoken . . . after kissing her one more time.
She wasn’t certain how the first had even happened. One moment she was touching his shoulder, and the next his mouth was devouring hers. Passion had slammed into her, causing her to encourage him further. Her moans and sighs had been wanton. She’d been wanton.
They’d kissed once before when she was all of twelve and he was fourteen. But the forbidden touching of their lips then had not hinted at the heat that could erupt between them now. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or fascinated.
He was not the boy she’d loved as a child. He was a dark, brooding man, with fury boiling below the surface. Who knew when it might erupt and what casualties it would leave in its wake? Already it had left her behind. He’d stormed from the garden without even a backward glance. If he’d only looked back . . . she might have followed. She might have clambered into his coach and gone somewhere far away, where they could be alone—to truly talk, to explore their feelings, to stop being so blasted polite around each other.
“Do you think Keswick would have pressed his suit if he’d arrived in London earlier in the Season, before you were spoken for?” Alicia asked.
Mary twisted around. “Why would you—”
“Please stand still, m’lady,” the seamstress said, as she worked to mark the hem.
“Yes, quite, I’m sorry,” Mary muttered before facing forward again and meeting her cousin’s gaze in the mirror. “Why would you think that?”
“I simply noticed that Keswick seems to watch you with what appears to be longing.”
“You’re mistaken. He looks upon me as no more than a friend.”
“Nothing more?”
Why the deuce was her cousin pursuing this? Had she happened upon them in the garden for God’s sake? “I’m quite content with my selection in husbands.”
“Oh, my dear girl, tell me that’s not so,” her aunt said, her voice indicating her distress.
“Would you rather I not be content?”
“Content will hardly bring a fire to your bed.”
Sebastian, however, based on his kiss would bring a fire to the bed that would ignite it and send it into flames. She didn’t want to consider how his kiss had left her burning for more, how she had tossed and turned in her bed all night, tangled in covers until she thought she would suffocate, needing surcease. Whenever she closed her eyes, she imagined him prowling toward her, crawling onto her bed, covering her—
She swallowed hard. “I’m sure Fitzwilliam will do nicely in that regard.”
Her aunt moved to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror. She was a small woman, but could be quite formidable when she set her mind to it. “My dear, are you having second thoughts regarding this marriage?”
Second. Third. Fourth. Ever since Sebastian had kissed her, doubts had plagued her. She no longer knew her own mind. She, who never questioned her actions, was now questioning a good many things. Why had he kissed her? What had he hoped to accomplish? Was it simply for sport? To satisfy curiosity? He wanted to forget. Exactly what did he wish to forget? The long years he was away? The war? Her? Had he taken her in his arms because she was convenient? Would any woman have sufficed for his purposes? That thought brought with it a devastating disappointment. Perhaps she should confront him. Or would it be better to ignore him?
“Mary?” her aunt prodded.
She’d almost forgotten the question. Was she having doubts? “No, of course not.”
Fitzwilliam did not burn with passion. Rather his moods more closely resembled the constant ticking of a clock. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. Just the reassuring constancy that each tick would be followed by another. A month ago, she’d found it reassuring. Now she found it boring. How unfair to him. He’d not changed since he asked for her hand. She knew exactly what she was getting when she accepted his proposal. But she had changed. Somehow, within only a couple of weeks, she’d become someone completely different, wanted something completely different. Too late, too late. Besides perhaps it was only a passing fancy, and in another two weeks she would once again yearn for what she’d longed for a month ago. You’d damned well better long for it.
“It really doesn’t matter, Mama,” Alicia said. “The betrothal has been announced. It can’t be broken. Lord Fitzwilliam would sue for damages, and Uncle would not be pleased about that at all. It would be scandalous.”
“Better scandal now than to marry a man you doubt and have years of regret,” her aunt announced, her gaze boring into Mary until it made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t doubt Fitzwilliam,” Mary assured her. But she doubted herself. Why had she not stepped away from the kiss instead of into it? She couldn’t deny that for years she’d thought of Sebastian, had dreamed of him, had fantasized about him as a young girl might, but the reality of him as a man was far removed from her imaginings.
Her aunt harrumphed.
“I don’t!” Mary insisted. “And Alicia is right. All has been arranged for the wedding. I’m sure all ladies wonder as the time draws near if they travel the right path.”
“I certainly didn’t,” her aunt said.
“Because you and Papa eloped,” Alicia said. “To Gretna Green. There was hardly time for any misgivings. It was so romantic. I would so dearly love to be swept away.” She sighed dreamily.
Mary wondered when she herself had given up on the notion of being romanced, of being swept away. Was she settling for Fitzwilliam? She didn’t think so. Yes, he was the only one to have asked but that didn’t signify that she’d have not selected him if a hundred gentlemen had asked. He’d captured her attention from the start. She enjoyed his company. He was charming, elegant. Not brash. His temper was even. He did not easily take offense. Marriage to him would be calm and placid. No upheavals, no tempers flaring, no anger.
A bell tinkling above the door caught her attention. Another lady coming in for a fitting no doubt. This seamstress was one of the more sought-after in London.
“There you are!” Lady Hermione announced. “When I saw your carriage in the street, I told Lady Victoria that we must stop and have a look-see for surely you would be here.”
In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Ladies Hermione and Victoria gliding into the room, an excitement in their step as though they both had delicious gossip to share.
“You’re not to spread rumors about the design of Mary’s gown,” Alicia said. “We want it to remain a secret—”
“Oh, dear girl, we couldn’t care less about a gown. We want to know the truth about what really happened in the garden last night with Keswick. So many delicious rumors are running rife through London this morning that it’s difficult to sort the wheat from the chaff. So, Lady Mary, what the deuce happened in the garden?” Her gaze honed in on Mary with such force that had it not been for the danger of pins pricking her, she would have sunk into the nearest chair.
Her knees had grown so weak that it was a wonder she was able to remain standing. Who had seen them in the garden? What precisely had they seen? More importantly—
“Does Fitzwilliam know?” she asked, pushing the words through her knotted throat.
“I should think so. No matter where Lady Victoria and I have gone today, it’s been on the tip of everyone’s tongues. Such delicious gossip. I daresay I’m frightfully surprised to find you here having a fitting done, considering all that transpired in the shadows. Now, come, you must give us specifics for surely—”
“We only kissed,” Mary blurted out, in an effort to stop this madness. “Keswick and I.”
Her aunt gasped and pressed a hand to her chest as though she needed to contain her heart beneath her ribs. The three younger ladies stared at her open-mouthed. Even the seamstress seemed unable to move from the shock of her words.
“He apologized afterward,” she hastened to explain. “It didn’t signify. Was only a moment of insanity.” She was babbling. It was important that she speak with Fitzwilliam, explain everything, but that would indicate that she understood what had happened, when she really didn’t.
“Welllll,” Lady Victoria said, dragging the word out as though she were savoring a delicious bit of chocolate. “That was most unexpected.”
Mary jerked her attention to Lady Hermione. “You said everyone knew, everyone was talking about Keswick and what happened in the garden.”
“Yes, well, apparently a good deal more happened than we were led to believe.”
Mary was torn between begging the ladies not to say anything and holding her head high, never straying from her story that it was all in innocence. But the kiss had rocked her to the core. How could she not blush with even the thought of it?
“So come, Lady Mary, now you must give us the juicy details of what transpired between you and Keswick,” Lady Hermione said.
“You didn’t know about the kiss?”
“No. How did it come about? Details. We must have the details.”
“I don’t understand. If you weren’t aware of the kiss, what did you think happened? What have people been saying about us?” Could it be anything worse than what she’d already confessed?
“Not you. Only Keswick.”
“What is your gossip?”
“Not nearly as interesting as yours, it seems.”
“For God’s sake, girl,” her aunt snapped. “Stop torturing Mary. What the devil did you think happened in the garden?”
“Someone tried to kill Keswick.”
Sebastian had just slid out of bed and was struggling to straighten to his full height, when the door to his bedchamber was flung open and Mary burst through like an avenging angel, her aunt and cousin in her wake.
Thank God he was wearing trousers. Unfortunately he wore no shirt, and he was still hunched over like some creature that should be skittering about Hugo’s Notre Dame. Fighting the pain, he forced himself to stand tall, then realized the folly in that when Lady Ivers gasped and took a step back, while Lady Alicia paled. The sunlight streaming in through the window washed over his scars, all his scars. The damned eyepatch was resting on the table by the bed. He should have been reaching for it instead of striving to stand with some dignity.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he barked, before gritting his teeth and shuffling like an old man to the table to snatch up the patch. It was an awkward thing to strive to put it on when every movement strained his stitches, ignited fire in his side. Where the hell was his valet?
Thomas worked his way between the ladies hovering in the doorway. “Your Grace—”
But then even he came to a stop at the hideous sight before him. Unlike his valet, the butler had never seen the scars that Sebastian’s clothes hid.
“We’d heard you were attacked,” Mary said, before striding across the room with purpose as though shot from a cannon.
Her aunt called after her, but she simply marched on. He was tempted to back away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Something in her determination unsettled him. It was dangerous for her to be here. Dangerous for them both.
She stopped so near, her orchid scent wafted around him. Reaching up, she adjusted the patch before skimming her hand lightly over his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder, bringing it to rest where his heart thudded so hard that it was in danger of cracking a rib.
“They hurt you so badly,” she whispered.
He was close to becoming unmanned. He would if he saw a single tear, but what he saw was far worse. Anger in her lovely green eyes. Perhaps even hatred. She pressed her lips tightly together, lowered her hand to just below his ribs. Her touch contained such tenderness that it made him want to weep, made him want to wrap his arm around her, draw her in against his good side, hold her near. Never let her go.
But he couldn’t risk even a moment of softness, couldn’t risk revealing a hint of weakness. He could not take what he could never keep. She was not his. It was a litany he’d repeated in his laudanum-induced haze when the pain kept him conscious. She was not his.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
Tearing his gaze from her, he looked down and saw the bright red marring the bandage wrapped around his waist.
“He did this to you, didn’t he? Your uncle.”
“I do not think he would be this brazen.”
She lifted her gaze to his, held it, and for a heartbeat he was back at Pembrook, young and innocent, believing that the world would one day be handed to him on a silver platter. Life would be fox hunts and pheasant shooting. Not rifles aimed at men. Life would be riding horses for sport not survival. Pleasures would involve beautiful women who wanted to be with him, instead of women who gasped and feared approaching him, as though his scars were contagious, as though they would somehow find a way to make the ladies ugly as well.
He had kissed Mary in the darkness when all that he was had been hidden from her. Now the harsh sunlight was revealing the marbling of puckered flesh that marred so much of him. Yet she didn’t step back, she didn’t turn away. He wondered if he lowered his mouth to hers now without the kindness of shadows, if she would close her eyes on a sigh or grimace as the creature he was grew too near.
“What have we here?” Tristan asked, his deep voice breaking the spell, sending Sebastian’s thoughts careening back to the reality of where they were, what they were. “My brother with three lovely ladies in his bedchamber? I could very well become jealous.”
“We’re not in his bedchamber,” Lady Alicia protested.
“Close enough, dear lady,” Tristan said as he strode into the room, his speculative gleam running over both Sebastian and Mary.
Mary stepped away, her hand leaving Sebastian’s skin, taking the warmth with her, sending a chill through him.
“Your brother is bleeding. If you’ll bring bandages, I’ll see to it.” Mary began tugging off her gloves and only then did Sebastian realize that she’d been wearing them the entire time. Her touch had been so gentle, so warm that he could have sworn it was skin upon skin.
“My valet can see to it,” Sebastian said. “Thomas, escort the ladies to their carriage.”
Mary spun around and glared at him. “I’m not leaving until I know what happened last night.”
Stubborn wench! “How did you even hear of it?” They hadn’t told anyone, had planned to keep it quiet. No sense in having rumors bandied about until they knew the truth of what had transpired.
“Unfortunately, it’s all over London,” Tristan said before Mary could answer. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you should know.”
“Yes, I heard of it at the dressmaker’s,” Mary confirmed.
“The dressmaker’s?” Sebastian repeated.
“Mary was being fitted for her wedding gown,” Lady Alicia explained.
He hadn’t been questioning why she was at the dressmaker’s, only that the gossip was being spouted in the corner of small shops. But now to know what she was doing, to be reminded that she would be married soon—
“We may have a problem there,” she said quietly.
“I should say,” her aunt suddenly announced. “Apparently you kissed her in the garden, Your Grace, and that bit of news shall no doubt be known throughout all of London by nightfall.”
Mary slammed her eyes closed and her cheeks burned red. “Oh, I have mucked things up.”
“Well,” Tristan drawled, “life in London just got more interesting. And here I was thinking of setting sail, but how can I leave this behind?”
“The rumors are that you were attacked by a soldier from your regiment who says men died because you were a coward.”
Standing in front of the cheval glass, Sebastian could see his brother’s reflection as he lounged in a nearby chair. Even when Tristan was sprawled over furniture there was an alertness to him that suggested he could enter into the thick of a battle before he drew his next breath.
Sebastian was hoping for at least a day’s reprieve from the business of securing his title. He wanted to take a large dose of laudanum and return to his bed. His side ached unbearably. His valet had changed the bandages and was now helping him to dress so he could visit with his guests in the parlor.
“Why are there rumors at all when we said nothing, and no one saw us?” he asked.
“I suspect Uncle had a hand in that. He’s striving to discredit you. He wants the lords to back the petition he’s preparing that urges the queen to grant the title to him because you are undeserving.”
“If being deserving were a criteria, a good many lords would find themselves without titles.” With a grimace, he moved as best he could to assist his valet in putting on his jacket. It was a dark blue, very conservative. Still he looked to be a man who was not at his best.
“You think Uncle is responsible for the attack?” Sebastian asked.
“Were you a coward on the battlefield?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Tristan arched a brow. “Others will. While I can’t see you being a coward, I must admit that I don’t know you as well as I might have otherwise.”
“No, I was not a coward.”
“Then yes. I think Uncle is responsible, and having failed, he is striving to make the best of a poor situation, perhaps to reflect suspicions from him. He either hired an incompetent or did it himself. Could it have been him, do you think?”
Sebastian cursed. “I did not see him at all. I struck him, but I couldn’t judge his height.”
“I’d wager it was him.”
“Even if he were to have success convincing Queen Victoria that the title should not be mine, you are next in line. Discrediting me does not make him the next logical choice.”
“I suspect he plans to cross that bridge when he gets to it. Quite honestly, I doubt Victoria would be pleased to have as one of her noblemen a man who was once a pirate. And Rafe is also of questionable character. I suspect Uncle sees you as the only one who needs to fall. The rest of us will follow.”
Sebastian dismissed his valet. Once he’d left the room, he turned to face his brother. “How involved were you in pirating?”
Tristan laughed darkly. “You are either a pirate or you are not. There are not degrees. Just as a lady’s reputation is neither slightly ruined nor terribly ruined. It is simply ruined. The question is: what are you going to do about it?”
He knew Tristan was referring to Mary and the kiss in the garden. He could overlook it when it was a secret, but now if others knew . . .
Measures would have to be taken to protect her.
The only sounds in the parlor were the clinking of teacups on saucers and the ticking of the clock on the black marble mantel. A young female servant had brought in the tea, and Aunt Sophie had seen to preparing and serving it. She’d not spoken a single word since they left the duke’s bedchamber. Mary assumed she was at a loss for words regarding her niece’s uncharacteristic brazen behavior.
Mary knew that a proper lady did not barge her way into a gentleman’s bedchamber unannounced and uninvited—or even invited for that matter. But the butler had been unwilling to provide any information regarding the duke’s condition. And a lady certainly didn’t approach a man who wore no clothing save his trousers. And she never, ever touched her fingers to his bare chest. Even though she wore kidskin gloves, she still managed to feel the fire radiating from his flesh warming hers, the rapid thudding of his heart against her palm, the subtle vibrations coming from his throat whenever he spoke.
For the first time no shadows had played over his features. He’d been too stunned to turn the marred side of his face away from her. Not that she would have let him. In the confines of his bedchamber, she’d imprisoned him in that corner and had been truly able to see all the damage that had been done to him on a faraway battlefield. She’d wanted to press her lips to every scar in order to ease the hurt. If they’d not had an audience, she wasn’t certain even he would have had the power to stop her, although she could well imagine the one word he would have spoken in a raw voice: Don’t.
He’d have not welcomed her pity, sympathy, or empathy. He’d have assumed she detected weakness when all she saw was strength. She wasn’t certain she’d truly realized how much courage it took each time he made an appearance in Society. Now she understood that his scars went far deeper than the surface.
Her reputation would soon be as scarred as his flesh, and yet his wounds reflected a noble tapestry because he had suffered them in defense of country.
“Something seems different here,” Alicia finally said, drawing Mary from her musings. “It’s changed since the ball, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“The rightful duke is at long last in residence,” Mary said.
“You were quite bold in your actions regarding him in the bedchamber,” her aunt said, clear censure in her voice.
“He was in need of assistance.” He would hate her saying that. He was so proud, so determined to make his own way.
“It was not your place to provide it.”
“I could not stand by and watch as he struggled to regain his dignity.”
Her aunt shook her head. “He’d have never lost it if you’d not charged into his bedchamber without thought or proper regard.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, your boldness apparently did not begin there. By nightfall, I fear everyone will know about your scandalous kiss in the garden, and your father shall be put out with me for not keeping a closer watch over you.”
“Perhaps Ladies Hermione and Victoria will keep that news to themselves,” Alicia said.
“Yes, I’m quite sure that’s a possibility,” her aunt snapped, “and I shall awake twenty years younger in the morning.”
Mary hid her amusement. Under the circumstances, her world on the verge of calamity, she knew she shouldn’t find a moment of relief in her aunt’s acerbic tone, but she did. As long as she could still smile, perhaps all was not lost.
The brothers walked into the room, Sebastian moving more gingerly than Tristan. She didn’t know why so many others always had such a difficult time telling one from the other. Even though that was no longer an issue, the brothers had never looked exactly the same to her. Sebastian had always been the more serious, now even more so.
“Ladies, my apologies for not being able to welcome you properly earlier,” he said.
“Our apologies for barging in on your privacy,” her aunt replied.
“I believe I was the only one who actually barged,” Mary pointed out, and she could have sworn that a corner of Sebastian’s mouth twitched. She wondered what it would entail to make him smile fully once more.
“Yes, well, I see no point in splitting hairs,” Aunt Sophie said. “We are gratified that you seem to have escaped death’s clutches.”
“As am I.”
Sebastian took a chair far from Mary, while Tristan selected one nearer. His gaze seemed to challenge his brother, and she wondered what that was about. As lads they’d always seemed to know each other’s thoughts, but she suspected that the years apart may have changed their relationship somewhat. She despised their uncle for all the tragedy he’d visited upon them, for everything he’d stolen—so much that could not be easily identified.
“So what exactly happened last night?” Mary asked. “Where were you attacked?”
“In the garden. After—” He slid his gaze to her aunt before returning it to Mary. “—we parted. I was heading for the mews, intending to walk home. I heard a sound, turned, and became acquainted with someone’s knife.”
Both her aunt and cousin gasped in horror. Mary, however, noted that he told the tale with no emotion, as though it had happened to someone else. She wanted to know if he’d been angry or frightened or if he’d thought he might die. Where would his last thoughts travel? To regrets, to his youth when he was happy, to men he’d fought beside, to women he’d known? To her? She considered that her last thought might be of him. How unfair to Fitzwilliam.
“Fortunately, Tristan found me,” he continued. “We thought to leave without anyone being the wiser but it seems rumors are running rampant nonetheless.”
“You hold your uncle responsible?” Mary asked.
“We’re not yet ready to cast accusations.”
She was impressed with his restraint. Who else except his uncle would wish him harm?
“Lady Mary,” Tristan began, “did you happen across anyone in the garden last night?”
It was too late to save her now so she might as well acknowledge the truth. “His Grace.”
Tristan gave her a wolfish grin that she suspected would win over many a lady. “Besides my brother.”
“Not really. No. I heard whisperings in the shadows and couples were strolling about of course, but from a distance, I couldn’t identify them. And my thoughts were occupied elsewhere.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Tension tightened her shoulders with the implications of his words. He turned his attention to Alicia, and Mary thought her cousin might be on the verge of swooning. She seemed to be having difficulty drawing in a breath. “Did either of you ladies take a stroll in the garden?”
“Absolutely not,” her aunt said. “I speak for both of us. We did not leave the ballroom.”
“Yes, I can imagine Lady Alicia was far too busy dancing.”
“Not so busy as you might think.” Blushing, she lowered her gaze to the tepid tea in her cup.
Mary shifted her attention to Sebastian to determine what he might think of this little exchange, and nearly dropped her own teacup when she saw how intently he was studying her. She considered setting the cup aside but her hands had begun to tremble and she didn’t want to have a rattling saucer give away how disconcerted she was by his study of her. She wondered if he was upset that she’d unintentionally let the cat out of the bag about him kissing her. He’d obviously regretted pressing his lips to hers or he’d have not stormed off. If she’d not taken the coward’s route and scurried back to the ballroom, she might have seen who attacked him.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever discover who attacked Keswick,” Tristan said.
“Unless he returned to the ballroom bloody. I did manage to land a blow.”
“I can’t imagine that it was a lord who attacked you,” Aunt Sophie said. “Lords do not attack other lords. It was no doubt some ruffian. Although what he was doing there is beyond me. Perhaps he meant to rob you.”
“Perhaps.”
But Mary heard the doubt in his voice. He suspected his uncle of foul play. Not that she blamed him, because she did as well.
“We’re much relieved to see you were not too terribly hurt,” her aunt said, setting her teacup aside and rising. “We should be leaving now.”
“I would like a moment with Mary,” Sebastian said.
Her aunt sat. “Of course.”
“Alone.”
“Hardly appropriate.”
“I’m in no condition to take advantage.”
“Still—”
“Aunt, my reputation is no doubt in tatters by now anyway. What harm can come of letting us have a few moments of privacy? The door may remain open. You can stand in the entryway and peer in.”
“If Fitzwilliam were to discover—”
“I’m not going to tell him.” Besides, once he heard about the kiss, it would all be over anyway.
“Very well.” She rose again. “Alicia, with me.”
Both ladies began to walk out. Tristan shoved himself out of the chair.
“I’ll keep the ladies out of mischief.”
Mary smiled at that. She suspected it had been a good many years since her aunt had caused any mischief and Alicia was too mindful of her reputation to do anything untoward. Pity Mary could not claim the same. After everyone disappeared through the doorway, she said, “You’ve grown paler.”
“I’m not quite up to receiving guests.”
“I’m sorry for the imposition, but when I heard that someone tried to kill you . . . I just needed to see for myself how badly you were injured.”
“You saw a good deal more than that.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that as well.” Only she wasn’t, not really. Now that she knew the true extent of his injuries they would haunt her. She should have insisted that he seek out her father for his aid that long-ago night. Sebastian had been a boy and the path he’d chosen for himself and his brothers had not been easy. “I appreciate your chastising me in privacy.”
Groaning, he rubbed his jaw. “It was not my intent to chastise you at all. I merely . . . how did your aunt hear about the kiss and why is all of London going to know about it as well?”
She’d rather be chastised about her behavior in the bedchamber than reveal what a silly nitwit she’d been. She plucked at a thread on her skirt, realized that the way her luck was going, she would no doubt unravel all the threads with a mere tug and her dress would fall off. It simply appeared to be a day where if something could go wrong it would.
“Mary?” he prodded gently.
She took comfort in that gentleness, in that hint of the boy he’d been, the friendship they’d shared. “When Lady Hermione came into the dressmaker’s with the news that everyone was talking about what happened in the garden, I was vain enough to believe they were talking about me.”
“You’re hardly vain.”
“You’re kind. But I blurted that it was only a kiss between us and it meant nothing. So now they know we kissed and they are not ones to hold such juicy gossip.”
“And mere rumors of a kiss without a single witness are enough to ruin your reputation?”
How could she forget that he’d not been in Society for years, that he didn’t know how swiftly the gossipmongers worked, and how precious a lady’s reputation was? When they were children, he’d thought nothing of lifting her skirt to see how badly she was scraped when she took a tumble. The adult world was so very different. She might be as uninformed as he if her aunt hadn’t schooled her.
“In all likelihood. Fitzwilliam will not be pleased when he hears.”
Sebastian furrowed his brow. “So you didn’t mention it to Fitzwilliam afterward?”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Or I wouldn’t have. I didn’t see him afterward.”
He grew incredibly still, so still that she wasn’t certain he continued to breathe. “Is something wrong?”
“Tristan crossed paths with him in the garden.”
“Oh dear Lord, do you think he saw us?” It would explain his not returning to the ballroom, not seeking her out for the last dance. She’d been so obsessed with what had occurred between her and Sebastian that she’d given little thought to the fact that she’d not seen Fitzwilliam again. In truth, she’d been relieved because she feared he’d take one look at her and know what had transpired. In spite of Tristan’s assurances that she didn’t look as though she’d been kissed, she’d certainly felt as though she had been well and thoroughly seduced.
“If he had, would he have not said?”
“Of course. He would have confronted you—us. His pride would not have allowed him to overlook such a transgression without seeking some sort of satisfaction. Not a duel, of course, but a round in the boxing ring perhaps. So he did not bear witness to our inappropriate behavior. Of that I’m sure. Still, I must tell him. I can’t let him hear it from the gossips.”
“He won’t be pleased.”
“No, he won’t.” Neither would her father.
“Mary, I’m sorry for whatever trouble I’ve brought you.”
“It’s my fault. I should have never followed you into the garden.” She rose. “Please don’t get up.”
He ignored her, grimacing as he struggled to his feet. It took everything within her not to rush over and assist him.
“I do hope you will rest,” she told him, “and ensure your wound does not become infected.”
“I’ve had quite a bit of experience dealing with wounds. I assure you, I will be well in no time at all. Mary, I owe you—my brothers owe you—and yet it seems we have brought you little more than trouble. I regret any embarrassment you might suffer because of my bad judgment in the garden.”
Bad judgment. What did she expect him to say? That the kiss devastated him? That it left him yearning for another? That it made him realize she was no longer a child? Could a kiss possess that much power?
“I shall be fine,” she lied. “After all, it was only a kiss.”