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“He suffered a collapse less than an hour ago,” the physician said after a pause. “After examining the earl, I suspect it was angina pectoris.”
Cold sheeted through Grace. God—when her father had fallen ill, she’d been at the library, nattering on about her fascination with Mason.
“I bled him,” Dr. Campbell continued, “but in order to have a full recovery, he must have rest and peace of mind.” He stared at her meaningfully, as if she planned to bang a kettledrum beside her father’s bed.
“Yes, I understand.” She released her grip upon the physician’s sleeve.
“I’ll call tomorrow to check on his progress.”
She gave the physician a distracted nod before heading into her father’s bedchamber. The curtains had been drawn, shutting out the last of the day’s light, with the fire and a lamp casting flickering illumination on the too-still person in the bed and the figure seated beside him.
Her mother’s face gleamed with tears, and as Grace moved closer, the countess half rose from her chair with a choking sob. “Oh, Grace.”
“Mama.” She rushed forward to embrace her mother. The countess felt so frail and delicate, her bones as breakable as a dried reed, and for the first time, Grace truly realized that both of her parents were mortal and finite. A shudder ran through Grace’s body. “Why did no one fetch me from the library when it happened?”
“There wasn’t time. One moment, we were having tea, talking about dining with Lord and Lady Pugh, and the next, he was on the floor, face white as paper, and his hand clutching his chest, and I . . . and I . . .”
“Shh.” Grace rocked her mother, painfully aware that their roles had reversed and it was she who now offered comfort. “Dr. Campbell said he can recover with good rest.”
“Easy for him to say.” Her father’s alarmingly thin voice came from the bed. “He’s not engaged to play cards with Lord Liverpool tomorrow night.”
“Papa.” Grace released her mother to kneel at her father’s bedside. She clasped his hand in hers, and he weakly squeezed in response. The sleeve of his shirt had been pushed up to reveal a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm.
He was terribly pale, his gaze faintly unfocused as he looked down at her. “Come, now, there’s no need for tears.”
She brushed her fingertips across her face and discovered they were wet. “Is there anything I can do?”
He was silent for a moment. “There is one thing.”
“You’ve but to name it.” She sat up straighter, relieved at being able to take action.
“What I want will help both of us . . .”
“Go on,” she urged.
“I want you to marry.”
She laughed, and then realized that he wasn’t jesting. Abruptly, she let go of her father’s hand. “Sir?”
“Hear him out, Grace,” her mother said as she lowered herself to her chair.
Grace could only stare back and forth between her parents. Clearly, they’d spoken to each other about this. That couldn’t be good.
“I worry about you, my dear,” her father said softly. “Your Seasons have been . . . less than ideal.”
Another sudden, startled laugh broke from Grace’s lips. “Disastrous, more like.”
“We knew you were not quite an Incomparable.” Even in his weakened state, her father spoke with a hint of wry humor. “Still, we’ve held out hope that you might find a man who understood your . . . peculiarities. We’ve hoped, but each year the possibility has grown more and more unlikely.”
Grace pressed her lips together. Having her parent articulate her failings as a Society debutante was a sharp needle piercing between her ribs. True, her parents had been tolerant of her studies, but that was not quite the same as having her work—and her—celebrated.
Her father went on, “My little health episode makes me think about what will happen to you when I’m gone. That time may come sooner than any of us expect.”
“Let’s not talk of that.”
“But we must.”
“I always thought . . . perhaps Charlie might take me in.” She and her older brother were on amicable, if not warm, terms with each other, and his wife, Anne, was kind. Their three children were quite high-spirited, and it was commonly accepted that, wherever they were, at least one piece of china would be broken within fifteen minutes.
“Is that the life you want?” her mother asked. “Reliant on your sibling’s generosity? Having no husband, no children, of your own? Worried that one day, you might not have a roof over your head?”
“I . . .” Constriction gripped her lungs. True, living as Charlie’s dependent was not ideal. His home would never quite be hers, and she’d be, at best, tolerated as the eccentric maiden aunt. If her brother passed away before her, she would have to hope his children would support her into her dotage. She’d be passed around like a worn coat, just a little too good to be thrown away, but too frayed and old to be of use.
A burr of anger flared within her, that a woman could not exist in this world on her own. She would always be subject to a man’s munificence, always be less than because she’d been born a female.
Yet how could she refuse her father his one wish? How would it be possible that, as he lay ill and exhausted, she could deny him this?
“Surely there’s someone you’ve met,” her father said, though his words were enervated. “Some gentleman of means that you might consider marrying.”
“There’s no one—” But that wasn’t true.
There was Mason.
Charming, handsome, intelligent Mason, who accepted her as a fellow natural philosopher. Her infatuation with him could easily grow into something much deeper, much stronger . . . And, it couldn’t be denied, he was a viscount’s son. Her intellectual and material comforts would be assured. He was all things perfect for her future husband.
Save one small problem. He didn’t see her as a future wife.
“Please,” her father murmured as his eyelids drooped with weariness. “Please find yourself someone to wed. For me,” he added.
His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened as he drifted to sleep.
“Go on, dearest,” her mother whispered. “I’ll watch him for now. Have your supper and a bath.” The set of her mother’s jaw indicated no arguments would be permitted.
“Very well,” Grace said. “But I’ll be back later so you can eat and rest.” She kissed her mother’s cheek before leaving the room.
In the corridor, Grace took a few steps before sinking down onto her haunches, gasping as if someone had just rammed an elbow into her stomach.
“Find yourself someone to wed. For me.”
Lord above, she could not refuse her father his wish. But, of all women, how was she to find herself a husband when the one man she could ever think of marrying refused to think of her as anything other than a colleague?
Chapter 3
She was late. She was never late.
Seb tried to smooth out a wrinkle of concern as he waited outside the exhibit in Chelsea, but no matter how he attempted to distract himself by observing the interactions of pedestrians, he circled again and again to worry. Maybe she’d gotten into an accident en route. Or she might have fallen ill.
Surely, if something was awry, Grace would have sent word. He distressed himself unnecessarily. But the gray skies grew heavier with each passing minute, and as he stood on the curb, the first drops of rain spattered on his shoulders. A moment later, the storm began in earnest.
He’d no choice but to take shelter inside the exhibit. So he dashed up the steps of the town house, and, at a footman’s pointed look, wiped his boots on a mat in the foyer. He showed the servant the wrinkled announcement.
“The exhibit is in the downstairs dining room and parlor,” the footman said, pointing over his shoulder.
“If a young woman with dark brown hair arrives,” Seb answered as he removed his hat, “I’d appreciate it if you informed her that Mr. Holloway is waiting for her within.”
The footman glanced at Seb’s threadbare coat and scuffed boots. “Not much of a description. Get lots of young women with dark brown hair coming through.”
“She has a particularly intelligent mien.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” The servant rolled his eyes.
“Her servant will be reading a book,” Seb said through gritted teeth.
“Right, gov.”
Seb resisted the impulse to snap a retort, reminding himself that the task of patrolling rigid British social hierarchy was often consigned to those who served the elite. He would not shoot the messenger—or, in this case, the footman.
After casting a glance toward the front door, he drifted toward the dining room. The soft, murmuring tones used by gallery patrons rolled out into the corridor.
Inside the dining chamber, which had been transformed into a gallery, framed illustrations covered the walls, and small groups and individuals in fashionable clothing circled the room as they studied the multitude of images. Seb moved to study a rather intriguing picture of a creature that looked to be half fish, half bishop.
“Peculiar, isn’t it?” a female voice asked from behind him.
He straightened and turned toward the woman. Her blond hair gleamed beneath the brim of her stylish bonnet, and she gazed at him coquettishly with wide green eyes. He gulped.
A minute went by. And then another. She seemed to expect him to answer.
Sweat rolled down his back. What was he supposed to say? Something flirtatious? Something droll, or perhaps scholarly?
Words filled his mouth, and yet he could give voice to none of them. It was as though he had been presented with a coffer full of words and he had to select the best ones from the pile. There were too many options, too many ways to speak and fail.
“Er . . .” He coughed into his fist. “Well . . .”
He reached the limit of his ability. No other syllables or phrases made it past his lips.
“Made a friend, Miss Susan?”
With an internal groan of despair, Seb watched as a young man wearing what was likely the latest Continental style approached. The dandy lifted a brow as he took in Seb’s ragged appearance.
“Didn’t know this exhibition admitted charity cases,” he drawled. “How did you get in?”
Heat poured into Seb’s face and his hands coiled into fists. But a gentleman didn’t brawl, and while Seb wasn’t of genteel birth, he understood how public fisticuffs was considered the height of boorishness. The one weapon a refined man could use was his wit.
Seb opened his mouth to say something clever and cutting.
Nothing came out.
Miss Susan giggled. “The poor thing. He hasn’t been domesticized.” She took her companion’s offered arm. “Come, William. If we wait for him to answer, we’ll be standing here until All Souls’ Day.”
As William and Miss Susan ambled off, trailing laughter behind them, embarrassment and anger tightened Seb’s muscles. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to take a calming breath.
“I’m sorry, Sebastian.”
His eyes opened at the sound of Grace’s voice, and she stood in front of him, her gaze soft with sympathy. In the corner of the room, her maid sat on a chair while she read.
“They were beastly,” Grace said.
He inwardly groaned. “You witnessed that?” Perfect.
She nodded. “Never seen it in action before. Is that how it always is?”
“Not with people I know, people who I consider my friends.” Christ, could he feel any more mortification? “But if they’re strangers to me, or I’m in social situations, I simply . . .” He shrugged stiffly. “You know. You’ve seen. I turn into a maladroit oaf with the finesse of a badger.”
“You have a better vocabulary than a badger.”
“Except I can’t access it when I’m too busy mumbling.” He held up his hand. “My gracelessness is hardly worth discussing. Not when you’ve got that set of your mouth you have when you’re unhappy.”
She let out a long exhale, and her shoulders drooped. To keep from reaching for her and offering physical comfort, he pretended his feet were bolted to the ground and his arms were weighted with sandbags.
“My father fell ill yesterday.” At Seb’s exclamation of alarm, she continued. “He’s recovering, told me this morning that I was to continue on with my usual schedule. He insisted I come out this afternoon.” She shook her head as if she could not quite believe her father could be so commanding when ill.
She went on, “Tomorrow he’s leaving for our country estate to rest. Because he insisted, my mother and I are staying in London. But, after this brush with mortality . . .” Her gaze slid up toward the ceiling. “He urged me to marry. Soon.”
Seb straightened. “Ah.”
Grace—married. A concept he never truly wanted to contemplate. He supposed he’d believed they would go on as they always did, meeting at the Benezra or taking jaunts about the city together, friends until their dotage. A husband for Grace would certainly change everything. He crushed a flare of jealousy beneath his mental bootheel. What she wanted, what she desired, these things belonged to her alone, and he couldn’t let himself feel possessiveness. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.
Still. He made sure to keep a scowl from his face. As lightly as he could manage, he asked, “Anyone fitting the bill as your potential groom?”
She glanced around to ensure that no one was nearby. “You know who.”
“Someone with the initials M F.”
“The same.”
He made himself nod, though it was sodding difficult. “That should make both you and your father happy. Your naturalist would be the perfect candidate.” Fredericks had the wealth Seb didn’t, with the means to keep Grace secure and generously supported.
Goddamn it.
“Except the man in question doesn’t consider me bride material.” She exhaled. “To him, I’m a colleague, and nothing more.”
Thoughts churned in Seb’s mind. Despite his disgruntled mood that she was fixated on Fredericks, a familiar lift of energy came from contemplating a particularly complex topic. He welcomed it rather than think about the fact that, even if he couldn’t offer for Grace’s hand, she never considered him a candidate for husband.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I’ve a strong urge to don my scholar’s cap.”
“Don away.” She waved her hand.
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at her. She always encouraged him whenever he dove into the anthropological waters, never chiding him for his excitement.
“Here’s what I’m thinking—value’s relative in many societies. When something’s recognized as being precious, everyone desires it.” Warming to his topic, he continued, “One could take a thing—an object, or even a person—and if a respected individual in the community treats it or them as valuable, others invariably follow suit.”
She frowned, clearly perplexed. “Pull up on the reins. How does any of that apply to me and . . . the gentleman in question?”
“Sorry. I forget that not everyone is as hopelessly mired in ethnography as I am.” He felt a corner of his mouth turn up in a contrite half smile. “What I mean to say is that if someone from London’s elite showed you a marked preference, thus indicating your value as someone to be desired as a mate, then others, including the esteemed but myopic Mason Fredericks, will do the same.”
She straightened. “Who could have that effect?”
“Some noteworthy figure,” he said with a nod. “A person so admired by men and women alike that this person’s opinion would be highly respected.” He heard how his tone grew more animated as he delved further. “He should be known by everyone, esteemed, but just rebellious enough so that whatever he says or does is doubly potent. It’s known that a hint of disobedience makes certain personages extremely appealing.”
“The idea’s sound, but . . .” She spread her hands. “A rake who consorts with demimondaines and fellow libertines isn’t going to look in my direction. And where would I locate anyone like that? Sneak into a gaming hell, approach a man with a dashing coiffure and jaded eyes, and proposition him to pretend to court me?” She snorted. “Things like that don’t happen.”
“Er, no,” Seb conceded. “Perhaps you could find someone of your acquaintance?”
“My elder brother’s friends are all married, and I know few other men.”
“The Duke of Rotherby,” he said abruptly. “He’s a very good friend of mine, and a bit of a rake. Everyone hangs on his word, too.”
She widened her eyes. “I couldn’t ask an actual duke to feign wooing me.”
“Right. Not quite feasible.” He chuckled ruefully. “Perhaps I should think about challenging Lady Marwood for the title of Most Outrageous Tale-Teller in London.” He dragged his hands through his shaggy hair, pushing it off his forehead and dislodging his spectacles in the process. Quickly, he replaced his glasses.
When Grace came back into focus, he found her staring at him, as though she’d just made an incredible discovery.
Alarm prickled the back of his neck.
She grabbed him by the wrist and, with surprising strength, pulled him into the empty corridor. He was so stunned he couldn’t register the fact that this was one of the few instances where she actually touched him. Certainly it was the longest amount of time she’d ever done so.
Using that same strength, she positioned him to stand in front of her, and for the rest of his days, he’d never forget the look in her eyes as she gave him a thorough survey.
Oh, God.
Then she stepped closer, her scent of flowers and loam surrounding him, and his sense of reason winked out of existence.
Grace’s heart pounded and she could barely catch her breath as she narrowed the distance between herself and Sebastian.
He held himself very still and confusion shone in his gaze. Despite their years of friendship, this was the closest they had ever been, mere inches from each other. His body radiated heat.
Definitely warm-blooded, she thought through the haze of nearness. For a brief moment, she didn’t exist in a morass of worry over her father, or his implored wish for her to marry. Just then, she was only aware of Sebastian, and the gleam of an idea that was utterly preposterous . . . wasn’t it?
Raising up on her tiptoes, she lifted her hand, but stopped before she could touch him. “May I?”
Slowly, he nodded.
His breath puffed against her hand as she raised it to his face. Carefully, she plucked the spectacles off his nose. The metal was warm from his skin.
She slipped the glasses into his jacket pocket. Still balancing on the tips of her toes, she gently brushed his hair back. Nothing had ever felt quite so soft.
As she stroked his hair away, her fingers grazed his skin and her breath left her in a sudden gust. He, too, jolted.
It’s only Sebastian, she reminded herself. My friend.
But with his hair off his forehead, and his spectacles gone, she finally saw his bare face. And while she’d been aware of him as a man from the beginning, now she allowed herself the freedom to truly see him.
His jaw was square, and he sported a faint cleft in his chin. A light blond stubble grazed his cheeks and framed his astonishingly sensual lips. His nose was beautifully proportioned, large and masculine. High cheekbones emphasized eyes of bright, crystalline blue.
He possessed a long, strapping body, with wide shoulders that suggested athleticism. With his height, his bodily mass, and his handsome—no, striking—features, she knew with absolute certainty that one of his ancestors had braved northern seas to claim a home and mate for himself here in England.
This was what it must feel like to encounter a rare and magnificent species. The world suddenly became much, much larger.
“It’s you, Sebastian,” she whispered to him. “I need you.”
An expression of pleasure crossed his face—his brows lifting, a smile raising the corners of his mouth—followed a second later by a look of pure panic.
“Me?” He fumbled to retrieve his spectacles. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I do.” She imagined that her eyes were almost feverish as she stared up at him. “You are the man I need to play the part of my admirer.”
“But . . . but . . .” He backed up, putting needed distance between them. “Your world isn’t my world. Never has been.”
The wall met his back, and it would have struck her as ludicrous, a man well over six feet tall retreating from a woman of her diminutive stature, except she was too focused on the idea that coalesced in her mind.
He glanced toward a passing footman, but the servant was too busy being uninterested to notice.
“Not so.” She advanced. “Only last week at the Rudstons’ ball, I counted no fewer than three men of industry and business amongst the guests, as well as their wives and adult children. One of those men was your father.”
She thought she heard him mutter, Damn, but wasn’t entirely certain if she was imagining things.
“All right,” he conceded, “you’ve a point. Maybe other industrialists’ sons have made their entrée into Society. Not me. Never me.”
“But you could.” She took another step toward him.
He held up his hands, and she halted in her advance.
“You’ve seen what happens when I’m in unfamiliar company. Feral dogs have more eloquence. Apologies—but what you’re asking of me can’t be done.”
Unexpected hurt jabbed Grace. “Can you not at least pretend to court me? Or . . .” A horrible thought struck her. “Am I truly so unappealing?”
“No,” he said quickly. “You’re quite . . . quite pleasant.”
“Pleasant?” She wrinkled her nose. “Like a cup of tea?”
“Charming. Delightful.” He seemed to want to say more, but his jaw tightened. Then, “You aren’t at issue here. It’s me. I can’t be a Society beau. I’m not, and never will be, a rake.”
A thread of desperation unraveled within her. She had to marry, and the one man she could imagine taking as a husband was just out of her reach.
“You aren’t a rake and the darling of the ton now. But . . .” She caught her breath, excitement at his potential rising within her, and she whispered, “We can make you into one.”
“Impossible.”
As Sebastian tried to sidle around her, his body brushed hers and a hot jab of awareness struck her low in her belly. No—she couldn’t think about that now.
“It’s not—”
“Look at me.” He spread his hands. “I’m just a tongue-tied scholar in scuffed boots. The idea that anyone could mistake me for a suave man about town is ludicrous.”
Grace did look at him. Her gaze moved over the length of him in a perusal she’d never permitted herself before.
She could see it, the possibility within him, that hidden beneath his rather threadbare clothing and painful shyness existed the makings of a rake. It was like standing beside one of those newfangled engines that ran on steam in the moments before it surged to life—the capability of tremendous force was a silent presence. All Sebastian lacked was the proper fuel, and then, he would be unstoppable.
But he didn’t believe it.
There might be one way to appeal to him. Trying to keep the frantic desperation out of her voice, she said, “Think of the research possibilities.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, frowning thoughtfully.
It wasn’t an outright no. There was hope, and she seized it with both hands.
“What do you study on those periodic wanders you go on?” Every few months, Sebastian would take a small pack and a fresh notebook and venture out into the English countryside, something he’d done since she first met him. Of particular interest to him was documenting customs and traditions that were on the verge of dying out, which happened more and more with the advancement of technology and improved roads.
She often had to repress feelings of jealousy that, as a man, he had the freedom to do something like that while she, as a woman and the daughter of an earl, could go nowhere unchaperoned.