Author Bio

EVA LEIGH is a romance author who has always loved the Regency era. She writes novels chock-full of determined women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, spending too much time on the Internet, and listening to music from the ‘80s. Eva and her husband live in Central California.

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Also Available from Eva Leigh and Mills & Boon

Shady Ladies of London

From Duke Till Dawn

Counting on a Countess

Dare to Love a Duke

The Union of the Rakes

My Fake Rake

Coming 2020

Would I Lie to the Duke

My Fake Rake

Eva Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Eva Leigh 2020

Eva Leigh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008400521

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Dedication

For Zack, who believes in me, always

Contents

Cover

Author Bio

By Eva Leigh

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Reader

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Announcement

About the Publisher

Prologue

Eton College, 1797

It’s just the library door, not the entrance to Hell. Stop delaying.

Sebastian Holloway tugged on his jacket cuffs, but no matter how much he pulled, his bony wrists protruded, proclaiming him to be firmly in the awkward stage of adolescence.

Logically, he understood that this period in a young man’s life was temporary. Countless volumes had been written about it and not one of those esteemed scholars ever mentioned that some boys remained permanently fourteen. So it stood to reason that eventually, he’d stop growing like a dandelion and his clothes might fit properly for longer than two weeks.

“You going in,” a voice growled behind him, “or are we going to stand here all day like a couple of sapskulls?”

Seb whirled around to face Theodore Curtis, who glared at him from beneath a heavy fringe of dark hair.

“I . . . uh . . .” Seb swallowed. Those two syllables were the first he’d ever spoken to Curtis. Normally, Seb gave the other boy a wide berth, given Curtis’s propensity for destroying school property and getting into fights.

“For fuck’s sake.” Curtis rolled his eyes. He reached past Seb, grunting when Seb flinched, and planted his hand on the door. “We’re going to get extra punishment if we’re late.”

Doubtless, Curtis spoke from experience. He was always being called before the headmaster, always being placed On the Bill for infractions, always getting flogged, but no matter how much penance he was forced to endure, it didn’t stop his unruly behavior.

“Sorry,” Seb muttered. “First time here.”

“I know.” Curtis pushed open the door. “I’d say do as I do, but you had better not. Unless you want a cane across your arse.”

Seb followed Curtis into the library, but the rows of books didn’t calm his racing heart, and the neatly arranged tables didn’t stop the film of chilled sweat slicking his back.

Three boys sat at tables scattered around the library, and they all turned toward him as he shuffled into the room.

Paste seemed to fill his mouth as he looked at the boys he knew only by name. They were all in the same house, and were all of them in E block, but it didn’t matter—Seb had almost no interaction with them. There was Noel Edwards, Lord Clair and heir to the Duke of Rotherby. Though Clair was the same year as Seb, the other boy practically ruled the entirety of Eton, but not by force. Everyone, from students to teachers, sought his good opinion. If Clair decided that mutton pie was his favorite supper, all the boys would insist on eating mutton pie. He once showed up to class without tying back his hair, and the next day everyone’s hair was loose. Those boys who were part of Clair’s inner circle were an elite and favored few.

Seb doubted Clair knew his name. Judging by the disinterested look in his eyes, it was a safe assumption.

Sitting nearby was Duncan McCameron, a Scottish earl’s second son. McCameron sent a brief smile toward Seb. The football match they’d played together the other day had been a high point of the week, with their team trouncing the other boys. On the pitch, Seb didn’t feel like a tongue-tied clod, and the match’s win had gained him a measure of McCameron’s respect.

The third boy gave Seb a tiny nod of recognition. Naturally. Seb and William Rowe weren’t friends, but they both dwelt on the edges of school society. At least Seb had a few chums. No one talked to Rowe. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it came out in an unintelligible mutter. A few whispered that he was mad, and most of the boys found him to be too eccentric to warrant an attempt at friendship.

Seb took off his spectacles and rubbed them on the corner of his jacket. The gesture was so habitual, he barely noticed.

Curtis strode past him, then threw himself into a seat and propped his feet up on a table.

“Sit, Holloway,” McCameron said, not unkindly. “Eddings is going to be here any minute.”

Seb grabbed the nearest chair and dropped into it. A strained silence fell.

The door to the library opened again and Eddings, a senior boy, marched into the room. He went to stand in the middle of the chamber, planting his hands on his hips and gazing sourly at each of the boys. Seb sat up straighter.

“As you can well imagine,” Eddings said without preamble, “I am decidedly unhappy that, rather than enjoying the half holiday, like everyone else at this sodding school, I am instead consigned to supervising you five miscreants.”

Not once in his life had Seb been called a miscreant. Bookworm, perhaps. Misfit was favored by his brothers and cousins. But to be lumped into the same category as the lawbreaker Theodore Curtis? Appalling.

Clair must have also taken offense to the term, because he raised his hand. “Sir, I don’t think I belong here.”

“You most certainly do, Lord Clair.” Eddings sighed. “Like the others in this library today, you have committed serious offenses, and like the others, you will accept your punishment with grace. Can you guess what that punishment might be, Holloway?”

Everyone looked at Seb, and a choking panic clutched him. Self-consciousness grabbed hold as he struggled to put words together. It was as though he was back at his family’s dining table, with his father’s sneering words ringing in his ears.

“You can’t get respect in this world if you’re scribbling in that notebook all the sodding time. Always watching. Never taking charge. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak up, boy, or you’re hardly fit to call yourself my son.”

Then, as now, Seb found himself struck mute. Each word was weighted, and he couldn’t heft them to construct even the most basic sentence. He’d been thrown from all his prepared scripts, and he didn’t know what to say.

“Gone dumb, Holloway?” Eddings jeered.

Clair glanced sharply at the senior boy. “Give him a chance to speak.”

“It’s all right, Holloway,” McCameron said with surprising gentleness.

To Seb’s utter surprise, Curtis added, “Take your time.”

Rowe nodded encouragingly.

Heat prickled Seb’s eyes, and he blinked back surprised tears. These four boys whom he barely knew offered him patience and acceptance—exactly what he could not find within his own blood family.

Finally, Seb managed to ask, “What is our punishment?”

“The house captain felt flogging was rather clichéd, so he decided that the five of you are to spend the next—” Eddings consulted his timepiece. “Eight hours and fifty-four minutes contemplating what brought you here today.”

Clair and McCameron groaned, while Curtis snorted in derision. Both Rowe and Seb remained silent.

“In addition,” the senior boy continued over the sounds of protest, “you will each pen an essay, the topic of which will be your thoughts on who you believe yourself to be. Said essay shall be no fewer than a thousand words.”

Seb felt a little lighter. Essays were his forte. He could write an essay, and it wasn’t uncommon for other boys to pay him to write papers for them. Such an endeavor helped to pay for books he ordered from the shop in the village, books his father would never buy him since they had nothing to do with the British iron industry—the only topic John Holloway considered worthwhile.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Eddings said. He walked briskly to the door.

“You’re not staying?” McCameron asked.

Eddings paused on the threshold. “God, no. Like hell will I imprison myself in this library until nightfall. But I will check on you—at irregular intervals so you cannot predict if it’s safe to leave. Anyone caught by myself or the ground staff will be subject to more severe punishment. Flogging will seem delightful by comparison.” His lips curled into an acrid smile. “Enjoy your day, gentlemen.”

The door closed, and Seb and the other boys were alone.

Curtis surged to his feet and regarded each of them with his habitual smirk. “My, my. How droll. Trapped in the library with”—he looked at Clair, McCameron, Rowe, and Seb—“Lord Perfect, the Honorable Corinthian, Sir Bedlam, and Professor Lanky.” He chuckled at his sobriquets.

“A poet as well as a criminal,” Clair drawled. “Well done, Curtis. Or should I call you Mister Newgate, since that’s where you’re headed.”

“Shut your goddamned mouth.” Curtis stalked to the young nobleman, who jumped up with fists at the ready.

McCameron shoved himself between them. “Quiet, both of you, or Eddings will come back and cane us raw.”

Five minutes hadn’t passed, but already chaos had erupted. Seb looked over at Rowe, who hunched down in his seat and mumbled to himself.

Seb grimaced. Was the kindness the other boys had shown him an aberration? Or were they all simply too different to be cordial, let alone friendly?

It was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 1

London, 1817

Reptile or human, you were guaranteed to make a cake out of yourself when mating season arrived.

No, that wasn’t fair—to reptiles.

Take the eastern fence lizard, Stellio undulatus. When it came time for the creature to attract a mate, a male performed a series of charming head bobs to show off its lovely bright blue stomach and throat, all of this done in complete silence.

But the human male—more specifically, aristocratic human males of London Society—sported garish clothing while striking poses in conspicuous places and making harsh, barking noises that guaranteed any female in the vicinity had no choice but to take notice.

As she approached the Benezra Library in Kensington, with her maid Katie in tow, Grace Wyatt’s naturalist’s eye couldn’t help but observe the trio of young bucks congregated on the corner of Knightsbridge and Sloane Street.

Dandium vulgaris. The Common Dandy.

Grace neared the three men who appeared to be between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five years old, of average height and coloring, possessing no distinguishing facial features, and notable only for the expense of their coats and waistcoats, which let prospective mates know that at the least, their material comforts would be assured.

Their sexual and intellectual comforts, however . . . those were less certain.

“Did you clap peepers on the selection of beauties last night at the Haverfords’?” one of them bleated.

“A few rum morts, that’s certain,” another said. “Quite a bevy!”

“Jolly right,” the third added.

As Grace drew closer, she realized she knew the men, having encountered them at numerous galas and fetes over the years. She couldn’t recall their names—one overbred lordling was much the same as another—but was fairly positive she’d danced with two of them as they had considered her potential as a wife.

Earls’ daughters were infrequent, their dowries substantial and bloodline impeccable. At twenty-six, she was somewhat old for an unwed woman, but she was healthy and all the women in her family lived long, fertile lives, bearing their husbands several sons. A few daughters, too. But the sons usually lived into adulthood, and there was no reason to assume she also couldn’t bear healthy heirs to whomever she granted breeding privileges to. Having assessed her physical features as they’d developed over the years, she’d determined that she was, by most standards, reasonably attractive.

These factors alone made her a good catch. Any gentleman would be lucky indeed to marry her.

But did she want to marry them?

“Lady Grace,” one of the men chirped as she neared. The three bucks all bowed.

“Gentlemen,” she replied.

A second dandy added, “Looking charming—as usual. Are you out for a bit of shopping?”

“Headed to the library, in fact,” she said.

A look of profound bafflement creased the men’s faces.

“Er, with books?” the first dandy asked.

“Generally,” she answered levelly, “the thing that qualifies something for being called a ‘library’ is the presence of books.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather buy a bonnet?” the third dandy said with a hint of desperation. “My mother and sisters love the things. Always getting new ones.”

“Much as I enjoy new bonnets,” she said, “they are not repositories of information about amphibians, nor reptiles.”

“I suppose not,” the second dandy said glumly.

After a long pause, Grace said, “Thank you for the charming conversation, but I’ll be on my way now. To the library. With books. Not bonnets.”

The trio of men bowed again, wishing her a good day, before she moved on.

A wry smile tilted the corners of her mouth. Evidently, she wasn’t missing much by failing to land a husband from the ranks of Society.

Grace and Katie mounted the stairs leading up to the Benezra Library. Pleasure rushed through Grace’s body as she climbed higher and her fingers itched with the knowledge that soon she’d be thumbing through the pages of the latest books in natural philosophy.

She reached the columned portico, then pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the marble-floored foyer. The smell of paper and leather and the faint musk of aged vellum filled her lungs.

Her smile widened with genuine happiness. Far more than any ballroom or parlor, this was her home.

Leonidas Benezra was an extraordinarily prosperous textile merchant with a fascination for the sciences, and his personal collection of natural philosophy texts was so substantial that he’d opened a private circulating library. Its members were vetted by Mr. Benezra himself. Once a person gained entrance, they had access to both ancient tomes and current volumes, covering topics as varied as botany, astronomy, anthropology, and zoology, with occasional forays into mechanics, mathematics, and folk dance, because Mr. Benezra proclaimed himself to be inordinately fond of dancing.

The best part about the library was its policy of admitting anyone, male or female, white or black, young or aged, impoverished or wealthy, provided that the person seeking entrance displayed a genuine love of the sciences.

Grace moved into the library itself, a former house that had been renovated to contain thousands of books. The walls between the rooms had been taken out, with columns added to bear the weight, so that the main chamber was the entire ground floor. Rows of bookshelves lined the perimeter, and stacks took up half of the room. Long tables where one could read undisturbed made up the rest of the chamber’s furnishings.

Upstairs, the living quarters now held specialized subjects, which patrons could either peruse themselves or request a librarian to fetch particular volumes.

“Good afternoon, Lady Grace.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pagett.” She nodded as she passed the library assistant, wheeling a cart down the central aisle.

“Greetings, Lady Grace,” Mrs. Sanford murmured from where she sat at one of the tables.

Grace paused and smiled at the older woman, whose freckles dotted her fair skin with little rosy constellations. In a lowered voice, Grace asked, “How fares your inquiry into orthogonal trajectories of curve families?”

“I’m beginning to believe that Bernoulli wasn’t entirely correct.” Mrs. Sanford patted the open book in front of her. “But I’m not concerned. I know I’ll get to the bottom of it. Won’t we, Khayyam?” She petted the library’s orange tabby cat, curled up on a nearby stack of papers.

“I’ve every confidence in your abilities.” With that, Grace moved on, eager to reach the circulation desk.

“Your parents want you home for supper with Lord and Lady Pugh,” Katie said in a whisper. “Shall I fetch you at three?”

“If you must.”

Following their usual routine, Katie veered off to find a place to read the novel she pulled from her reticule. Grace pressed her lips together to hide her smile when she saw that the author was the Lady of Dubious Quality. Grace herself owned four of the unknown author’s works, but she kept them in her bedside table for late night—solitary—enjoyment. If Katie wanted to read erotic tales in public, well, that was her business.

“Lady Grace.” Chima Okafor, the head librarian, smiled at her from behind his desk. His whispered words were lightly accented with the music of the Igbo language. He bowed. “What a pleasure.”

“You always greet me as though I’ve been away for twelve months, not twelve hours.” She set her reticule on the desk, pencils and the edge of a small notebook poking out from the top.

“Because I am always glad to see our most dedicated patron.”

She laughed quietly. “Somehow I doubt that I hold that honor.”

Mr. Okafor inclined his head. “Perhaps there is a small cadre of individuals who vie for the title.”

“Biggest Bookworm. That’s what the trophy shall read.”

“Don’t mention bookworms here. Mr. Benezra is most particular about the health of his books and has a hatred of anything that feeds upon paper and bindings.”

She held up her hands. “I shall speak of them no more. Has the copy of Cuvier’s Le Règne Animal arrived yet?” Cuvier’s views on different races were highly problematic, yet she had to see what the latest in zoological research contained so that she could position herself within the field.

“I would fetch it for you immediately. But . . .”

A voice behind her said, “I’m afraid that I reached it first.”

The sound of that familiar voice made her heart pump faster. She took a steadying breath before turning around to face Mason Fredericks. He held a substantial book beneath his arm, but she barely noticed it.

“You’re back,” she said, and congratulated herself that she’d managed those two words without stammering.

“The wilds of the Orkney Islands were fascinating,” Mason answered. His eyes sparkled with good humor. “But one’s funds have a tendency to run out when one is in the field.”

“Rather than cozying up to deep pockets here in London.” She smiled, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. All the cool presence of mind she’d summoned for her conversation with the three dandies sizzled away like droplets of water on a skillet.

At the least, her head was level enough for her to refrain from pointing out that, as a viscount’s son, he likely didn’t have to ask anyone for money to subsidize his research. Having met Mason’s father at numerous social events, and hearing the viscount speak glowingly about his naturalist son, there would be no shortage of capital for Mason’s work.

“I must continue cataloging our newest acquisitions, so please do excuse me.” Mr. Okafor bowed before retreating.

Leaving Grace alone with Mason.

Her mouth dried and her pulse hammered as she looked at him. Damn, he was pleasant to look upon. She could study the shape of his curved lips for hours, and fill page upon page in her sketchbook with the angle of his jaw or the dimple in his left cheek. He wore his light brown hair neatly trimmed, revealing a high, intellectual forehead. His green eyes regarded her with fondness.

Only fondness.

Summoning her courage, she said with as much breeziness as she could muster, “Now that you’ve returned to London, perhaps you’ll join my family for dinner tonight? We’re having guests, so it wouldn’t be any trouble to add another.” Her pulse hammered—she’d never before asked Mason to dine.

“Alas, I cannot.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “Within a day of my homecoming, my social calendar became appallingly overcrowded. Especially as I intend to leave for an expedition to Greenland in less than two months.”

She ignored her plunge of disappointment. “Of course.”

“Nothing would please me more than a tête-à-tête with you,” he continued. “Every day brings new developments in the field, new texts with new theories—”

“Such as the Cuvier.” She eyed the book he held.

“Indeed.” He sighed. “But, unfortunately, I’m expected at no fewer than three dinners tonight.”

“To be seated beside young, unmarried ladies,” she said, before silently groaning at her gaucheness. Why did she have to bring that up?

He chuckled. “Highly unlikely. Who would want their daughter to marry a naturalist? No one dreams that their beloved girl will spend her honeymoon tramping through the wastelands of the subarctic, tracking the migration patterns of the local fauna.”

“That sounds ideal.” Just her and Mason, out in the wilderness, devoted to their studies and the expansion of knowledge during the day. And at night . . .

Her cheeks grew warmer.

“Of course you would think so.” He grinned and her insides went gelatinous. “Because you’re a true scholar. But, unfortunately, no prospective bride offers such delights. No,” he said, sobering, “when I do find the right woman to marry, I can only pray she tolerates my work. Ah, well. She’s out there, somewhere. I merely need to be patient and hope to find her.”

Grace made herself smile, but within, she shriveled. “I wish you luck in your search.”

“My thanks.” He regarded her warmly. “You’re always so easy to talk to, Lady Grace. Will you also be at the Creasys’ garden party? I believe it’s next week, and they were adamant I stop by.”

She’d never intended to go. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ll see you there, then, and I’ll finish with the Cuvier quickly.” He bowed before strolling off with the book.

Dejected, she headed into the stacks, barely aware of the rows and rows of comforting books, or how their spines formed trees in a colorful, reassuring forest. She turned at random down an aisle, hardly noticing the little cards that proclaimed the section’s subject matter.

She stopped and rested her hand on a book from the shelf. System and Methodology for Creating Algebraic Taxonomies. Despite knowing next to nothing about algebra, she pulled the volume down.

With the book absent from its place on the shelf, a small gap opened up, revealing the face of a man standing in the next aisle.

He glanced up absently from the tome he held. His gaze slid back down to the book, then moved up again before a smile bloomed.

“Lady Grace.”

“Oh!” She lowered her voice when an unseen person shushed her. She pulled herself out of her gloomy haze enough to smile at Sebastian Holloway. As always when she saw him, a little fizz of happiness rose up within her, slightly pushing aside her melancholy. “Sebastian. You know you can call me just ‘Grace.’ I promise it won’t sully your reputation to be on familiar terms with me.”

“Can you be certain? I hear such scandalous things about you.” He pushed his shaggy blond hair off his forehead, but it slid back almost immediately. Light from the window reflected off of his spectacles as he tilted his head. “You’ve developed an interest in mathematics and other numeric subjects?” His eyebrows raised.

She glanced down at the book in her hand. “Have I ever shown the slightest inclination for mathematics?”

“Considering that you still count on your fingers . . .”

She scowled at him, but without malice. “How dare you, sirrah!”

“My most abject apologies. I’m a bookish man, unaware of social niceties.”

“Here in England,” she pointed out. “When it comes to the social customs of villages in the Azores during Lent, you’re an expert.”

He bowed. “Madam, you flatter me.”

They shared sly smiles, and a shard of her unhappiness worked its way free from her mood. Being with Sebastian was always so easy, so comfortable. They didn’t have the same disciplines, but that hardly mattered when they both loved the pursuit of knowledge.

Four years ago, they’d met in this very library. She never would have expected the tall, fair man with a rather strapping frame to be one of England’s most devoted anthropologists—but then, she should know better than believing there was a direct correlation between how someone looked and who they truly were.

Since then, they’d become friends. A handful of times each month, they would attend a lecture together, or visit a museum, or go on some other excursion. Grace always looked forward to these outings. She and Sebastian enjoyed each other’s company, and though they didn’t share a subject of study, they both loved to observe the world around them, often with a slightly wry perspective, and shared their observations over cake and cups of tea at Catton’s.

Over the years, she’d come to know things about him. His love for anthropology and the study of rituals, customs, and cultures stemmed from his perspective as a perennial outsider—a feeling with which she could empathize.

“How did the conversation with your father go?” she asked.

He gave her a wry grin. “Oh, it was as delightful as expected. I stammered for fifteen minutes, he glared at me, and then we both retreated to opposite sides of the study.”

“Oh, no.”

Sebastian exhaled. “It’s a consistent disappointment, trying to get my father to understand that his youngest son has any actual significance.” He undercut this statement with another flash of ironic smile, but Grace saw the hurt beneath it.

“It’s just one man’s opinion,” she offered.

“I know.” His brow furrowed. “I know. But . . .”

“Knowing that your own parent doesn’t understand you . . . I imagine it’s an injury that never quite heals.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Should be used to it by now.”

A sympathetic ache resounded in her chest. “There’s no should when it comes to what we feel. There aren’t scientific laws when it comes to the human heart.”

After a moment, he said, “My father made the charming threat that if I didn’t take a place in the business I wouldn’t see a farthing more than my crumb of an allowance. Pure joy it is to have such a man as my father.”

“Did you tell him that you can’t do any true fieldwork without financial support? That you’re stuck doing research by reading alone? Wouldn’t that move him at all?”

Sebastian gazed at her. “John Holloway, founder and owner of Holloway Ironworks, is . . . I believe the technical term is a closed-fisted bastard.” He coughed. “Beg pardon about the language.”

“By all means, call a bastard a bastard.” She almost reached through the open bookshelf to lay her hand across his.

Almost.

Sebastian might be a fellow natural philosopher, and her friend for several years, but he was still a young man in his prime and she was a woman of marriageable age. She couldn’t just go around touching eligible bachelors, not without consequences.

And . . . whenever she looked at Sebastian’s hands, her belly fluttered with awareness. They were large hands, with long, blunt fingers, and more than once she’d caught herself daydreaming about what it would feel like to have his hand stroke along her arm, or down her back, or tenderly cup the back of her head . . .

Mentally, she shook herself. She wouldn’t throw away four years of friendship on a few uninvited sensual thoughts. Oh, maybe when she’d first met Sebastian, she’d hoped their camaraderie might evolve into something more intimate. But he’d always been scrupulously polite and treated her strictly as a colleague and confidant.

She’d already faced rejection from the belles and beaux of Society—she didn’t need to experience it again with Sebastian. So she’d carefully weeded out the seedlings of attraction, and the garden of their friendship remained tidily maintained.

“We’ve discussed my bastard father enough.” He tilted his head. “I might be a trifle nearsighted, but I’m fairly certain I saw you talking with Mason Fredericks a few minutes ago.”

Heat flooded her face. “He’s back from his latest expedition.”

“So I gathered.” Sebastian peered through the bookshelf. “Your conversation with him looked pleasant enough to an outside observer. But then . . .” His gaze turned sympathetic. “. . . I’m not the one nursing a tendre for him.”

“For the love of everything holy, lower your voice.” She glanced around, hoping no one heard Sebastian.

“Apologies.”

“Oh, Sebastian.” She groaned, tipping her head forward so that it rested against the shelf. “What am I going to do?”

From somewhere in the library, a voice hissed, “Shh! People are trying to work.”

Further mortification worked its way into her bones. God above, but she was a disaster.

But rather than gazing at her with understanding, Sebastian’s expression turned opaque. She’d no idea what he was thinking or felt. Perhaps it was wrong to talk about another man with him, though it was far from the first time the topic of Mason had come up.

To Grace, he said, “Follow me.” Then he strode away.

Had she pushed her friend too far?

Chapter 2

Uncertain where he led her, she followed Sebastian, but since his legs were much longer than hers, she had to hurry to keep up.

She passed Mr. Okafor. The librarian held a substantial book.

“Mr. Fredericks left you the first volume of the Cuvier,” Mr. Okafor murmured.

So, Mason had gone. She was almost relieved so that she didn’t have to wallow in her one-sided attraction anymore today. “If you’d be so kind, please hold on to it for me.”

Sebastian stopped and said over his shoulder, “Lady Grace and I must discuss something in the study room—unless someone is currently using it.”

After glancing with curiosity toward Grace, the librarian shook his head. “It’s unoccupied until four, when Mrs. Graves has reserved it. By all means, make use of the room.” It wasn’t uncommon for patrons to confer with each other about sundry topics, regardless of their specific discipline.

She nodded her thanks and, before she could change her mind about what Sebastian intended to do, moved with him toward the study room.

He opened the door for her, and when she drew close to him she was struck anew—as she always was—by his unusual height.

She herself was of average stature for a woman in this part of the world, but Sebastian must have been descended from Norsemen who had long ago invaded Britain. He certainly possessed the size, fair coloring, and defined features of a Viking.

He gestured for her to enter the study room and she stepped inside.

The room contained a circular table and four chairs, with a single window that looked out into the mews, and a handsome portrait of Mr. Benezra’s mother painted when she was a young bride.

Sebastian glanced at the picture. “Imagine she’s heard some fairly intriguing conversations over the years.”

“The world is changing rapidly,” Grace said. “Who knows where we’ll be in three years, let alone three decades?” She gazed at him. “What are we doing in here?”

“Didn’t seem judicious to discuss your feelings about Mason Fredericks in the middle of the library. And,” he added in a kind voice, “you looked on the verge of either tearing the library down to its foundation or bursting into tears.”

The pressure in her chest loosened at hearing his words of understanding. She could always rely on him. “Can’t I do both?”

“Surely. If you need any help with the former, I believe the library has a Pictish hammer somewhere in its collection.”

She tried for a smile before giving up and dropping down into a chair. “It’s hopeless. Do you know what Mason said to me at the circulation desk? First he said that he was running off to Greenland in less than two months. And then he lamented ever finding a wife who could tolerate his scientific pursuits. That such a woman was nigh impossible to find. All while I was standing right in front of him.”

“Damn.” Sebastian scowled. “That was ruddy thoughtless of him.”

Warmth touched her at Sebastian’s defense. “I suppose. But in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never seen me as anything other than a colleague. He’s always surrounded by flirting belles. And you know more than anyone that I’m decidedly not a belle. Nor do I want to be,” she added with vehemence, “but it’s hard to get someone’s attention when they’re encircled by sparkling fireworks and I’m a laboratory brazier, burning steadily away.”

Unable to sit still any longer, she surged to her feet and began to pace the confines of the small room. Sebastian quickly stood, watching her with concern.

“I only want . . .” She shook her head, trying to make sense of her tangled feelings. “I only want him to see me. As I am. Not merely a fellow natural philosopher, but as a woman.”

“I’m certain he knows you’re a woman,” Sebastian said drily.

“In an abstract sense. But no one ever held hands in a moonlit garden with an abstract sense.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Point taken. And he’s no notion of your feelings for him.”

“You and Jane Argyle are the only two who know.” She wouldn’t trust anyone but her two closest friends with the knowledge.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate that.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the table. “He’s ideal, isn’t he? A man who’s respected in his field as well the larger world of society. The best of both worlds.”

“Never thought of it like that.” Mason had always drawn her attention and admiration, from the first time she’d met him during her debut. Yes, he was handsome, but it was the substance of him that ensnared her. Considering it now, he did possess everything she desired but feared to reach for.

She went on, “I never told you this, but in the first months of my debut, I’d been candid with fellow debutantes and prospective suitors about my love of reptiles, my fascination with amphibians. The looks I’d received, the laughter . . .” She shook her head as if she could dispel the hurt that still resounded. Being snubbed was a terrible thing. It struck to the very heart of the need to belong. “Only Mason was kind. Only he listened and asked questions and seemed to believe that my work was worthwhile. That I was worthwhile.”

In those months, she’d come to see Mason as the lone beacon of light in the dark cavern that was the Season.

“Oh, Grace.” Sebastian’s look was one of deep sympathy. “I . . . we here at the library, we think you’re worthwhile.”

“And I’m grateful for it, truly.” She dipped her head, humbled by the kindness of her colleagues. With them, she didn’t have to retreat behind a shield of irony. She didn’t need to pretend to disregard their opinions using a protective barrier of wit.

“But it’s not the same as winning the heart of a man you admire,” he added.

“I’m being foolish, aren’t I?” Yet the need within her, the palpable ache to be seen and accepted and loved—that didn’t feel foolish. It felt alive and so very close, as if the pain lodged just beside her heart, cutting into her with each beat, reminding her over and over that she wasn’t enough. She would never be enough.

At least she had Jane. And Sebastian. Her two friends. That was something. It was more than many people had, and she ought to be grateful.

“Not foolish.” Sebastian regarded her sympathetically. “It lies at the core of us, the need for love and recognition. All my years of watching people, observing them as they go about the rituals of their lives . . . it always comes back to love.”

Seeking relief from the oppressiveness of her feelings, she teased, “How deeply romantic. Are you turning from anthropology to poetry?”

“What rhymes with kinship systems?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Flagship Tristams?”

He kissed his fingertips. “Perfection.”

A moment later, they both broke into laughter. She leaned into the release, allowing the absurdity to ease pressure from the hurt at the center of her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He looked baffled. “For what?”

“For listening to my self-indulgent diatribe. The next time we meet, I’ll be less of a sapskull.”

“Reminds me.” He rifled around in his pockets before producing a crumpled piece of paper, which he held out to her. As she read it, he went on. “At a private home in Chelsea, there’s a temporary exhibition of medieval woodcuts that’s open to the public. I heard that some examples of early studies of reptiles were included. Come with me tomorrow?”

“I would,” she said at once. “Only . . . woodcuts of lizards aren’t exactly your bailiwick. Is there anything there that would interest you?.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “The whole world interests me.”

“If I was talking to anyone else, I’d say that statement was an exaggeration. However, it’s you, so I know that you mean that with complete honesty.” She smiled fondly at him, her good friend.

It was a wonder that he was still a bachelor. He never even spoke of lovers. Why could no woman ever see what a wonderful man he was? But, then, finding people who could support your scientific interests was a difficult task. He was also poor as a churchmouse, which, unfortunately, meant that he hadn’t the financial means to court anyone.

Sebastian returned her smile, then pulled out his timepiece. “Damn. Supposed to be at McKinnon’s bookstore to pick up a special order.” He bowed, then asked, “I’ll see you tomorrow? We’ll meet at the exhibition?”

“Tomorrow at the exhibition,” she said brightly. Grace shooed him toward the door. “Now go, and enjoy your new books.”

“There is nothing more enjoyable than new books,” he said solemnly. “Except old books.”

“Truer words . . .”

With a wave, he left the reading room. She stood alone, torn between gratitude and despair. Gratitude for Sebastian’s camaraderie, and despair that Mason had put her firmly in the classification Amica asexualis.

Nothing would ever change that. She was as fixed as a pin through a butterfly.

Seb took advantage of his long legs to walk quickly from the Benezra. Brisk afternoon air cooled his face.

He needed distance between himself and Grace, distance that would help clear his head and remind him of some Very Important Facts.

 She was the daughter of an earl and could trace her ancestry back to before the Tudors.

 He was the son of a man who’d made his fortune from mining and selling iron, and his grandfather had been a blacksmith with barely any literacy.

 Her pin money was likely ten times the amount of the pittance that was his quarterly allowance.

 In four years, not once had she looked at him with anything warmer than friendliness.

 She was besotted by Mason Fredericks and only Mason Fredericks.

She owed Seb nothing. He couldn’t feel anger or resentment that she considered him strictly a friend.

But, damn, none of that made it easier to hear about her infatuation.

He neatly dodged around a liveried messenger hurrying down the street, and sidestepped around a fallen meat pie someone had dropped. Physical action came so easily and without thought. He could settle into the movement, confident that his body would perform as it needed to, even excel in the motions required. At least in that regard, he had full confidence.

Oh, and thanks to the fact that he couldn’t secure money to fund field research, he knew his way around a library.

That totaled up to two areas of expertise. When it came to talking—more specifically, wooing—he devolved into a stammering blancmange.

Which was one of the reasons why he never tried to say anything remotely flirtatious with Grace. He’d never tell her that her gray-blue eyes reminded him of the sea at dusk. Or that he could spend hours contemplating the curve of her neck. Or give voice to the fact that when he saw her, he forgot anything unpleasant that had happened to him earlier in the day and it was as though the sun had broken out from behind a heavy cloudbank, brightening everything within him.

The reason—the only reason—why he could talk to Grace at all was because she thought of him merely as a friend. He didn’t lose his awareness of her as a woman, but so long as she valued his platonic companionship, he’d keep all thoughts of kissing his way across her collarbone to a minimum, thank you very much.

The sign for McKinnon’s came into view. He breathed out, letting the last of tension slip from his body.

“Afternoon, Mr. Holloway,” the bookseller called from behind a table laden with tomes of every size. “A moment, and I’ll head back to fetch your order.”

“At your leisure, Mr. McKinnon.” Seb slipped between the bookshelves, which, along with the Benezra Library, formed the walls of his spiritual home. He had to content himself with other people’s research, since having the funds to actually go out into the field—outside of England—and conduct research of his own was a distant dream.

Grace stepped into the foyer of her home, her face heating as she recalled her mortifying conversation with Mason. Then Sebastian had listened so patiently to her bemoaning that humiliating interaction. He always listened—one of the reasons why she was so grateful to call him a friend.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re home, my lady!”

She paused in the act of handing Katie her bonnet as Grenville, the butler, hurried forward. Grenville’s mouth was tight, and creases of worry fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

Considering how he had once calmly announced at teatime that a fire had broken out in the kitchen, the butler’s tense expression shot alarm through Grace.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“The earl . . . your father . . .” Grenville’s gaze lifted to the top of the staircase, toward her father’s bedchamber.

Grace shot up the stairs, hiking up her skirts to take them two at a time. Every stride made her heart pound harder as countless disastrous scenarios played out in her mind.

In the hallway outside her father’s bedchamber, she nearly collided with a middle-aged man in dark and serious clothing. A servant carrying a covered basin was on his heels. It took her addled thoughts a moment to recall that he was Dr. Campbell, the family physician.

“Lady Grace.” Dr. Campbell bowed. “I’ve just been attending the earl.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with him.” She gripped the physician’s sleeve, dimly noting the whiteness of her knuckles.

“I’ve bled him, and he’s resting now.”

“But what happened?”

Dr. Campbell hesitated. “I don’t want to overset you. Young ladies can have delicate temperaments.”

She fought down a wave of impatience. “You attended my birth, Dr. Campbell, so by now you should know I have no delicate temperament.”

“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.

“Rural communities’ courtship rituals,” he said. “The stages of wooing, how a suit is presented, the patterns of behavior between courting couples.” As he spoke, animation filled his words, but then he caught himself and added in a more contained voice, “That sort of thing.”

“Now you can study London high society, too.” She spread her hands encouragingly. “Just imagine the book you could write. A thorough investigation into British courtship rituals of both commoners and nobility.”

His gaze turned faraway, and she couldn’t stop the tiny curl of pleasure she felt in knowing that, of all the things he valued most, the acquisition of knowledge was the most significant to him.

“An anthropological work that could be truly groundbreaking . . .” he murmured.

For many heartbeats, she held her breath. She was balanced on the very narrowest of ledges, with her father’s wish to see her wed impelling her forward.

“I know what I’m asking of you is monumental.” Hope and terror clashed within her, half fearing and half desiring his answer. “But it would mean so much to my family. To me.”

A pause. She died and was reborn a thousand times within that pause.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’ll do it.”

Impulsively, she flung herself at Sebastian and wrapped her arms around him. Giddy happiness swirled around her. “Thank you, thank you!”

Half a breath later, she realized something.

She was pressed tightly against Sebastian. Her body snug to his. And he was quite warm and quite tall and quite, quite muscular—far more brawny than she’d suspected. He also smelled delicious, like the scent of paper and wood smoke and leather mingled into one intoxicating fragrance that was heated by his skin.

They’d never stood close enough for her to catch his scent. Until now. It was like her first drink of claret, when she’d realized that she’d have to be very careful not to let the wine lead her into danger.

Oh, goodness.

Abruptly, she released him and took several steps backward. She cleared her throat, striving for some fragment of lucidity. “We can start tomorrow afternoon at my home. You know where it is? The house on the corner of Weymouth and Harley Streets.”

“I’ll find it.” He looked perplexed. As perplexed as she felt.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

She hurried away, aware of his gaze on her back. Aware of the fact that she’d just convinced Sebastian and herself to do something truly outrageous.

Jane Argyle paused in the middle of polishing her telescope’s eyepiece and set the device on the sofa cushion beside her. Books, equipment, and half-drunk cups of tea filled the parlor of her snug Greenwich home, attesting to the fact that both Jane and her husband, Douglas, devoted the majority of their time to the study of astronomy.

Grace sat on the floor of the parlor, sorting through the stack of books Jane had requested help with categorizing. Periodically, the Argyles’ personal library required herding, especially after Jane had visited booksellers’ shops.

“I have serious reservations about this plan of yours, Grace.” Jane’s gentle tone took the sting out of her words, but Grace felt her invisible hackles rise. “Is this what your father meant by finding yourself a husband?”

“He didn’t specify which methodology I should use, only that I’m to wed someone.” Grace checked the spine of a book. “Johannis Hevelii, Annus climactericus?”

“Put that in the stack for Uranus.” Jane shot Grace a quelling look when a giggle escaped Grace’s lips. “Do grow up.”

“Can’t help it! Why name a planet Uranus if you don’t want people snickering?”

Jane sighed, then smiled. “Yes, well, we haven’t even gotten into discussions about galactic bulges.”

Tension released from Grace’s chest as she and Jane shared a cackle. She hadn’t felt this sense of relief for over twenty-four hours, and the pressure of her father’s health and his desperate request for her to marry was a vise constantly squeezing her.

“Of all men to play your dashing suitor,” Jane said when their laughter quieted, “why Sebastian Holloway? He’s an agreeable fellow, but not quite rake material.”

“Without his spectacles, and with his mane of disheveled hair off his face, he’s quite . . .” Grace cleared her throat. She’d known, in a way, that he was a fine figure of a man, but she hadn’t truly understood the depths of his allure until today. What a revelation that had been. Her body still resonated with the shock. Her friend had the face and form of a Corinthian.

She’d been tricked by his camouflage. But he wasn’t Chamaeleo chamaeleon, shifting the colors of his skin to blend in with a leafy canopy. He was a spectacularly handsome man, hidden behind the facade of a reserved scholar.

“He’ll make a convincing Society beau,” she continued. “Just needs a little polish.”

Jane raised her eyebrow. “And you propose to polish him. Forgive me, my dear, but your expertise is in the study of reptiles and amphibians, not London bucks.”

“Not all of my expertise comes from fieldwork. Recall that you and I first met in the Benezra Library, conducting research.” Grace stood and walked to a table overflowing with more texts. She picked up a volume and held it up. “Books can provide a wealth of information.”

“True enough.” Jane tucked a lock of her tightly curled black hair into her cap, a legacy from her West Indian father.

Grace examined the book in her hand. It was coming loose from its bindings, and the pages were speckled with foxing. “This one’s a loss.”

“No! That’s Mayer’s Opera inedita! His images of the moon are irreplaceable.”

Grace smiled wryly as she set the book down. “Why invite me over to help with your books when I don’t know the first thing about astronomy?”

“Douglas can’t sort—he starts reading and then he’s lost for the rest of the day.” Jane tilted her head. “When does this monumental task with Sebastian Holloway begin?”

“Tomorrow. Which will give me enough time to go through my father’s library and search out relevant works. I have a night of research ahead of me,” she added with glee. An evening spent poring over books and learning new facts was truly the closest one came to Heaven, though tromping around in a field and turning over logs and rocks in search of reptiles was just as wonderful.

“Is he the man you’ve got your heart settled on?” Jane rose and walked to Grace.

“Sebastian?”

“Mason Fredericks.”

“Oh . . . yes.” Her pulse thudded just to think of him. “The passion in his voice when he talks about life cycles and habitat variation . . .” She sighed. “He cares, Jane. Truly cares about his work. Nothing could be more attractive to me. And when we discuss the benefits of conducting field research versus keeping specimens in a laboratory, I feel the connection between us. If I need to wed someone, he’s the perfect choice for me.”

She could picture their life together. Mornings spent lingering over the breakfast table, discussing the very latest in scientific developments. Afternoons would be out in the field as they observed and recorded creatures in their native environments. Then there would be fascinating suppers with like-minded friends and colleagues. And afterward, she and Mason would retire to their bed . . .

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome, too.” Her friend winked.

Heat crept into Grace’s cheeks. “Females use appearance to help judge the health and viability of future offspring.”

Jane pursed her lips knowingly. Of course, Grace’s closest friend could recognize that she sometimes resorted to technical terminology whenever she felt flustered. And Mason certainly flustered her.

“One would have to engage in copulation with a mate first.” Jane’s gaze twinkled. “So? Are you thinking about copulating with Mason Fredericks?”

Grace covered her eyes with her hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, I need to get him to notice me as more than a colleague.”

“And then copulation.”

“Let’s hope so.” When it came to sex—with someone other than herself—she had no actual experience. But from what she’d heard and read, it was one of the great pleasures of life. With two people in profound communion it had to be extraordinary.

Jane smirked. “If you need any additional information on that topic, I’m happy to provide my wealth of knowledge. Douglas is a very thorough lover.”

“We play whist together! Don’t talk about him that way.” Imagining Douglas engaged in carnal pursuits was . . . disquieting.

“And he’s my husband.” Jane laughed as she tapped a finger on the tip of Grace’s nose. “But I’ll spare your tender sensibilities. For now.” She tilted her head and looked at Grace, her gaze soft. “I only want you to get your heart’s desire.”

“Thank you.” Warmth gently stole through Grace. How fortunate she was to count Jane as her friend. “As do I.”

And it would all begin with ensuring that Sebastian was sufficiently proficient in the art of being a Society beau.

She and Sebastian had a considerable amount of work to do.

Chapter 4

Seb spent the evening in his rooms on Howland Street, attempting to read but failing as he jumped to his feet every five minutes to pace the creaky floorboards.

Anxiety over tomorrow shot bolts of energy through his limbs, making it impossible for him to remain still or concentrate. When his downstairs neighbor shouted, “Keep it down, Ironfoot!” he compelled himself to sit. Yet focusing on a text was hopeless, and so he stared at the weblike crack on the ceiling until St. Patrick’s chimed one o’clock in the morning and he went to bed. He fell into a fitful sleep but kept jolting awake from dreams of Grace either jeering at him in disdain or weeping in dejection at his horrific botching of the job.

He had to do right by Grace. He had to become the rake she needed. For her sake, and his own. No room for failure. No room for failure.

That refrain chased itself in circles in his mind whenever he startled into wakefulness.

He’d had better nights.

Fortunately, his landlady forgot to heat his bath, so he managed to startle himself awake with icy water the next morning. As he bathed, he attempted to distract himself from fretful brooding by singing a taproom melody. When he finished the last refrain, his downstairs neighbor yelled, “Bravo! Now do ‘A Lusty Young Smith’!”

By the time Seb reached the final jingle bang, jingle, hi ho! his spirits were much improved. There was something in a tune about a blacksmith and a buxom young maiden rogering each other six times in a row that cheered up a fellow.

His elevated mood came crashing down as he approached Grace’s Mayfair home that afternoon. Never before had he been to the imposingly large house, and as he stood in its shadow, a cold feeling coagulated in his stomach.

God. They came from such vastly different worlds. Oh, his father had built himself a grand home with no fewer than six bedchambers in St. John’s Wood, but that house was less than half a decade old whilst the London residence of the Earl of Pembroke surely predated that by at least fifty years—and that was only its most recent iteration. Morbid curiosity had once made Seb look up Grace’s family’s entry in Debrett’s to discover that the earldom originated during the war between the Yorks and the Lancasters.

Now he walked up the steps leading to the Earl of Pembroke’s sprawling yet refined home and two words echoed in his head.

Fuck. Me.

His classmates at Eton had come from old power and wealth, but he’d never had to walk into their homes and pretend as though the sight of a literal coat of arms on the door knocker didn’t shake him to his nouveau riche core.

He raised his hand to use the door knocker, drawing a steadying breath. The fact that a person happened to be born to a particular family and was the by-product of generations of selective propagation didn’t make anyone better than anyone else. If anything, aristocrats seemed determined to breed away health and vitality.

If peers wanted to make themselves less viable and more irrelevant, they were doing a bang-up job.

The door swung open before he could knock, revealing Grace. She smiled at him—was there a hint of relief in her smile, as though she’d feared he wouldn’t come?—and he forgot all his high-handed thoughts about the titled and elite.

“Come in, come in.” She waved for him to step into the foyer. “I don’t usually answer the door, but I’m trying to keep your presence here known to as few as possible, and I’ve only so much pin money to bribe the servants. My father left this morning and my mother’s out, so other than the servants, we’re on our own.”

Dazed, he entered her home. The foyer was large enough to host a good-sized assembly, complete with dancing. “It’s taking me considerable effort to keep from trying out the acoustics in here.”

“Charlie and I used to stand at different ends of the foyer and whisper naughty words to test if the other person could hear them.”

Unable to stop himself, Seb walked to the farthest point in the vestibule. “Give it a go now.”

She raised her brow, then brought her cupped hands to her mouth. “Bum.”

Her whisper resonated close enough as if he could feel her breath softly against his ear. He started as a stroke of heat licked up his spine.

What the devil?

Seb shook himself. This was merely an amusing diversion with a friend, nothing more. He could play this game without finding himself mired in unexpected desire.

“That hardly qualifies as a naughty word.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Suddenly you’re Dr. Johnson,” she said irritably. But she whispered into her hands again. “Arse.”

Damn and hell. It happened again, that same caress of arousal that rose up from hearing her speak mildly profane terms. It had to be the novelty of hearing a lady of gentle birth—and his friend—utter coarse words.

Nonetheless . . . He’d have to think about this later, hearing Grace swear. Delightful was too mild a term for it.

As if donning an invisible coat of platonic interest, he said with easy affability, “Much better.”

“Your turn,” she instructed. When he was silent for a moment, she added, “Now you’ve grown demure. What a shame that all the books you’ve read have left no impression on your vocabulary.”

“Trying not to shock you, dearest.” He started. Damn—had he actually called her dearest? Out loud?

Praise God, she didn’t seem to notice. She put her hands on her hips. “Try me.”

He debated before raising his hands to his mouth. “Shag.” It was a fairly tame word, but he wasn’t about to give her a full lexicon of all the filthy words he knew. And he knew quite a lot.

Her cheeks reddened, which also ranked highly in his enchanting moments of the day. But, heavens help him, this little game he’d orchestrated had not gone as planned. It had started as an amusing whim between two friends and shifted into his uncomfortable awareness of her as woman.

“Think we’ve proved the acoustics work.” Thankfully, he sounded properly sardonic and didn’t growl with arousal. “Shall we get down to business?”

“Follow me.” Grace ascended the stairs, and he followed.

Do not look at her arse. Don’t look—

He looked at her arse.

To his dismay, it was perfectly delicious, round, and full, and his palms itched to stroke along her ripe curves. He could have been happy living out the rest of his life without knowing that Lady Grace Wyatt possessed a spectacular behind, but, thanks to his roving gaze, he’d been expelled from that innocent Eden.

Stop it, churl.

Feeling like a randy buffoon, he forced himself to look down at his feet, concentrating on the steps beneath him. It didn’t quite assuage his guilt, but better that than leer at a woman he considered a friend.

On the next floor, she walked down a corridor before opening a set of double doors, revealing an exceptionally large, handsome room with parquet floors and not one but two unlit chandeliers. A few elegant chairs and small tables ringed the chamber. At one end stood a lacquered pianoforte, awaiting a pair of hands to bring it to life.

Seb slowly moved into the ballroom, his gaze drifting upward to the coved ceiling adorned with ornate but elegant plasterwork. He measured the length of the room by pacing from one end to the other. With his rather long stride of thirty-six inches, he calculated that the ballroom was nearly eighty feet long.

“We could hold an archery contest in here,” he murmured.

Grace grinned. “Charlie and I used to play cricket in this room when the day was too rainy to venture outside.” She pointed to an impression the size of a cricket ball that marked one of the walls. “That was him throwing too wide.”

“You must have left your own souvenirs.”

She grimaced as she nodded toward one of the tall windows lining one side of the chamber. “They had to replace that glass.” She shook her head. “As punishment, I didn’t get pudding for a week.”

“A couple of wild creatures, you and Charlie,” Seb noted.

“Perfect beasts, it’s true. We were torments to our parents.”

“And now . . . ?”

“Charlie’s got his own family to torment him. And my mother and father are surprisingly tolerant of a daughter who likes to muck about with amphibians and lizards.”

He shoved aside the sudden press of envy. His own parents wanted a different son, and Seb wanted a different family. No one had what they wanted, and, in a way, he’d come to peace with it. He couldn’t change himself into a future giant of industry.

“They’re also worried,” she grumbled, “that such a daughter needs a husband.”

“And you?” he asked.

“What of me?”

“Do you think you need a husband?” The question slipped out, yet once he’d spoken it, he craved the answer—to know what she wanted. In their four years of friendship, though they had shared details of their lives, they’d never fully explored their deeper desires, or shared their most secret hopes.

As if raising an unseen shield, her expression turned cynical. “I don’t keep specimens. It’s too cruel to confine a wild creature.”

“Grace.” He took a step toward her. “Tell me honestly. Do you truly want to marry?”

Fascinated, he watched the play of emotions across her face as she fought to keep her scorn in place—but the mask slipped, and her gaze turned dreamy, her mouth soft.

She let out a long breath. “I used to fantasize, when I was younger, before I was out. Not about a husband, but about a man who’d walk beside me in the field. Who would ask me about my work and genuinely listen rather than hear me with amused or fond forbearance. He wouldn’t merely tolerate me. He’d—” She caught herself, and snorted as if she found herself ridiculous.

But she wasn’t ridiculous. Not to him. And the tangible longing in her voice had reached into him and wrapped itself around his heart. True, he’d known that Mason Fredericks had long been the object of her infatuation, but Seb hadn’t fully comprehended that Grace had wants and needs that went beyond her studies.

“It’s just us, Grace.” He spread open his hands. “You and me. I promise I won’t laugh or say something cutting.”

“He’d . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t talk about this now.”

Seb nodded. If she wanted to open herself to him, it would happen as she desired it, and when she was ready. He was humbled that she’d given him as much as she had.

She cleared her throat. “Returning to our purpose for being here . . .” She walked quickly to the pianoforte, where books were stacked atop its shiny surface. Picking up a volume, she said, “These came from my father’s collection. Conduct manuals, given to him when he was a young man navigating Society and the marriage mart.”

Seb headed toward her. “If he received those books as a young man, they must be rather archaic by now.”

“They’re about forty years old, according to the frontispieces. But,” she said decisively, “proper decorum is timeless. Things can’t have changed all that much.”

Having reached the pianoforte, he plucked one of the books from the pile. He flipped it open and the image of a bewigged young gentleman looked back at him with an expression that could only be described as privileged.

“Seems logical enough,” he said. “But these books might not be necessary. You’ve been out for some time now. Surely you’ve seen the behavior of rakish noblemen, so you can simply instruct me on how to act.”

She pressed her lips together in a wry smile. “Never paid much attention to rakes. Perhaps because they’ve shown a marked lack of interest in me.”

Anger bubbled up hotly. “What the deuce is wrong with those nobs? It’s a sure sign of societal decay when a woman like you is overlooked.” He scowled, outraged on her behalf.

Another hint of pink stole into her cheeks, and he couldn’t look away. In all their years of friendship, they’d never truly been alone, in private. She seemed more fully herself, less guarded. Each moment with her was a new discovery, and he awaited these unfolding revelations with bated breath. It felt as though he’d been given a new book filled with knowledge he didn’t know he craved until he opened the cover.

“We’re friends, Sebastian. No need for hyperbolic blandishments.”

“We’re both natural philosophers, Grace,” he corrected gently. “Exaggeration has no place in our world.”

Their gazes met. And held. It was vertiginous—in the best possible way. As though he tumbled through an endless, warm ocean. At the same time, electric awareness spread along his limbs.

Disappointment scored him as she looked away, breaking the spell. Yet the blush didn’t leave her face.

“There are new developments in the sciences,” she said crisply, “but Society remains a constant. Surely these books will tell us everything we need to know.”

An hour later, Seb stood in the middle in the ballroom, silently thankful for all the time he spent conditioning his body. Unlike his social clumsiness, physical activity had never been an obstacle, yet today, he’d never felt so awkward. Of a certain there had to be some kind of award . . . perhaps a ribbon pinned directly to the skin of his pectoral.

“Keep your shoulders back,” Grace instructed as she circled him, an open book in her hands. “Chin high. Arms held slightly away from the body with a slight bend in each.”

In an attempt to replicate what she described, he stuck his chest out and lifted his chin as his arms stuck out in ungainly angles, but damn if his normally adaptable body felt as cumbersome and graceless as a musk ox.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Of course it doesn’t. Manners are supposed to run contrary to our natural impulses.” She tapped her fingers against the underside of his jaw. “Lift this higher.”

Little explosions of heat went off where she touched him. He shoved the unwanted reaction aside.

“If I lift my chin up any more,” he muttered, “I’m going to tip onto my back and flail around like an overturned turtle.”

“If you do, I’ll just flip you back onto your stomach.”

“Comforting to know.” He struggled to hold the posture, which became even more difficult as she stood close to him, emanating her subtly floral scent.

His awareness of her grew with each moment they spent alone together. When they had met over the years at the library, or on their occasional scientific forays around London, it had been much easier. They’d been two colleagues who shared an interest in observing the world around them. But with no one else around, and his attention fixed solely on her, he became more and more responsive to her. The set of her mouth as she worked through a problem. The way her smiles began in the corners of her eyes before her lips curved.

He didn’t welcome this new attunement to her. It made things sodding complicated.

“I’m supposed to just pose here like this? Rakes simply stand around social gatherings like absurd statues?”

“There’s walking, too.” She glanced down at her book.

He exhaled slightly as she backed up. Which was more difficult—attempting to emulate rakishness, or ignoring the way his body flared to life whenever she was near him? “God help me.”

“It says here that your pace must be elegant and measured. No, go slower,” she instructed as he took a step. “And your feet need to be pointed and slightly turned with each step. Draw attention to your calves and ankles.”

Seb did as she instructed, walking unsteadily as he attempted to force his body into yet more uncomfortable positions. His muscles silently protested the peculiar movement. Yet it was a relief to concentrate on an external task rather than observe the lines of her wrists.

“This can’t be right.”

“It isn’t.” She looked between him and the book, her expression intent. “Do you have a walking stick? It seems to be required.”

“Don’t have one.” A trickle of perspiration rolled down the back of his neck. He sweated less during the weekly football matches he played on Hampstead Heath.

“Just a moment.” She dashed from the room.

He scowled in mingled alarm and dismay. Had he frightened her off? Perhaps he was so ridiculous she had to run away to laugh in private. Ridicule wasn’t pleasant—God knew he’d experienced his share—but he’d learned how to ignore the derision of people he didn’t respect.

If she mocked him, however, the wounds would take forever to heal.

Soft, quick footfalls sounded in the hallway, and then she appeared in the ballroom doorway, holding a yard-long tree branch that was roughly two inches wide.

Relief shot through him, followed quickly by puzzlement.

“Found this.” She approached, holding the tree limb out to him.

“Did that come from the garden?” Gingerly, he took the branch from her.

“My bedroom.”

He frowned down at the thick piece of wood. “Why do you have a tree branch in your bedchamber?”

“What do you suggest I use for turning over logs and rocks when I’m looking for reptiles?” She looked at him as though he had sprouted antennae. “I can’t very well use my bare hands and risk injuring myself or the animal.”

A very good point.

“I’m to use this as my walking stick?” He swiped it through the air, careful not to hit her with it. The branch had the same heft and size as a fencing foil. Its familiarity helped anchor him a little, reminding him that he wasn’t entirely lost in this endeavor. Still, a bit of solid ground beneath his feet would be welcome.

“For now, it fills the role of walking stick.” She gestured in invitation. “Try strolling with it. Swing it carefully but with aplomb.”

“Aplomb?”

“That’s what it says in the book. And remember, take your time. Be leisurely.”

He exhaled in an attempt to breathe past his frustration. No one had promised him this enterprise would be easy. There was pleasure, too, in overcoming obstacles—or so he reminded himself.

Steeling himself, he began to walk. It was a challenge, maintaining an exaggeratedly upright bearing while pointing his toes and swinging the branch-cum-walking-stick, and after a few steps, his every muscle was white-hot with effort.

“What the deuce do gentlemen do if they’re in a hurry?” he said through clenched teeth. “It’d take me a quarter of an hour to walk ten yards.”

“Perhaps gentlemen of fashion are never in a hurry,” she suggested.

“It could be an emergency. Someone could be on fire and I’m carrying a bucket of water.”

She shrugged. “Bring them the bucket—elegantly.”

“Christ above, this is ridiculous.” Exasperation sizzled through him, and he couldn’t decide which aggravated him most: the cryptic rules of polite society that seemed to flout common sense, or himself, for being unable to decipher the encoded rules.

“It is,” she said with a nod. “But it’s what we have to do.”

He resisted the impulse to curse even more floridly. Being unable to perform for himself was an annoyance, but being unable to perform for Grace charred him with self-directed fury.

“Sebastian.” She lay a hand on his arm. The feel of her was both a thrill and a balm. “Look at me.”

He fixed his gaze with hers, and the flames of his frustration were quenched by the cool blue of her eyes. The crush of thoughts whirling in his mind calmed. He couldn’t quite recall what had made him so angry, not with her touching him and her gaze holding his.

“The only person who expects you to immediately get this right is you,” she said softly.

“They used to pay me to write their papers for them,” he said. “Students at Eton, and then at Oxford. Hardly mattered the topic. Present me with an assignment, and I can figure out precisely what to say and how to say it. That’s never in doubt. The same can be said for a physical task. Swim from one end of a lake to the other, or run a mile as quickly as possible—I can do all that.”

“But this stymies you.”

He nodded, relieved that she understood him, yet that relief guttered when she took her hand from his arm.

“You’ll do this, Sebastian. I’ve every faith that you can meet this challenge.”

The gentle conviction in her words lifted him. It was a benediction, to have her trust, when he knew she gave it so sparingly.

“How about we move on to bowing,” she suggested. “We can circle back to walking another time.”

Seb straightened his shoulders as his hands curled into fists at his sides. He could do this. He would do this.

“Yes, bowing.” He shook out his body, loosening it. “What do I have to do?”

Bent over her book, she read aloud. “‘A gentleman must present himself as the epitome of effortless grace and studied artlessness.’” She looked up with a frown. “How can one study artlessness?”

“That’s what you get with a culture that loves its stratifications.” He snorted. “Try, but not too hard. The more effort you expend, the less likely you are to attain your goal.”

She blew at the strands of hair that had worked free from their pins to charmingly frame her face. “It’s so much easier in the animal kingdom. Eat, sleep, procreate.”

Heat crept up his neck to hear her say procreate. Again, a word that itself wasn’t particularly salacious, but on her lips . . . Mentally, he gave himself a shake. Stay focused on the task.

“There’s also avoiding becoming someone’s dinner,” he said. “Seems similar to life amongst human elite. Wait—I could put that in my book.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and scribbled on a blank page.

“I’ve seen packs of ravening matrons devour helpless debutantes like lionesses tearing into gazelles on the savannah.” She shuddered. “A sight that will haunt me to my grave. And one of the reasons why, after my first Season, I’ve avoided balls, assemblies, and any other festive gatherings. I was easy prey.”

“Hold a moment.” He planted his hands on his hips as the truth behind her words sank in. “Help me understand—why you, of all people, aren’t considered . . . what do they call it? An excellent catch. What’s valued in the ranks of the elite, if not intellect? You have it, in abundance.”

She coughed as her cheeks reddened. “Thank you. It’s a quality not much esteemed in aristocratic females. Or English females in general.”

“Needs a thorough reexamination,” he muttered. A surge of anger pulsed through him. The most insidious parts of cultures were the ones so deeply ingrained that no one could question or challenge them without appearing like the veriest madman.

He marshaled his anger enough to write down more notes. Women of intelligence not prized. Why???

“It does,” she said with a nod. “But not today. Today, we focus on bowing.” She cleared her throat as she tapped the book in her hands. “It says here that to bow properly, a man must stick his leg forward, while also bending at the waist. At the same time, he removes his hat with a sweeping, polished motion. It must be smooth and elegant.”

“I’m supposed to do all of those things at once?” He swallowed as he set the tree branch aside. “Can I pick two out of the three?”

Her finger moved over the open page. “It doesn’t appear so. Oh! It also notes that the lower and longer the bow, the greater respect you show someone.”

Good God above, send me help.

“Very well,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. “Here I go.”

Seb thrust his right leg forward. As he did this, he hinged from his hips. Before he could reach for his invisible hat, his balance swung wildly out of control and he stumbled. He barely managed to swallow his profanity before straightening.

Grace’s look of concern was quickly replaced by an artificial smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am,” she agreed with a sigh.

“I can master this.” He spoke with far more conviction than he felt, but the stakes to this were much greater than when he’d learned how to swing a cricket bat or climb a tree.

He tried the movement again, feeling ten kinds of foolish and awkward as a wolfhound on its hind legs. Thank God no one was watching. Or were they? Did he hear footsteps and giggling out in the hall?

Maybe the servants watched him. Maybe they didn’t. He’d have to get used to an audience.

He bent forward, and pretended to doff his hat. Since he was likely going to be in rarified company, he ought to keep his bows low and respectful, so he went deep.

When he stood upright, a fillip of happiness danced through him to see admiration in Grace’s eyes.

It was an addictive feeling, making her happy.

She clapped her hands together. “Much better. Although . . .” She consulted the book again as a worried look flitted across her face. “That’s just for meeting people in the street. If you’re going to approach a woman in a ballroom for a dance, you do the first bow, and then a ceremonial bow after.”

“Another kind of bow?” He groaned.

“Your legs are open, and as you bend at the waist, stick your arm out to the side. Like this.” She set the book down on the pianoforte and then, with a lithe economy of movement, demonstrated the bow.

As she leaned down, Seb was afforded the most spectacular glimpse down the front of her dress. Her breasts pressed in soft rises above the neckline of her sprigged muslin gown, and, feeling like the worst kind of cad, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight.

He forced himself to look away. Stay focused, jackass. Grace is your friend. She trusts you. Don’t betray that.

After mentally shaking himself, he copied her movement. To his surprise, he didn’t pitch over like a drunken stevedore.

“Very good,” she said as she rose back up. “You’re nearly there.”

He nodded, trying to suppress the pleasure that coursed along his limbs whenever she gave him even a teaspoon of praise. It dawned on him that for all the years of their friendship, they’d never actually complimented each other, as if to do so would disrupt their platonic balance. Today, they’d crossed that line, and there was no going back to their old roles.

He did and he did not want to go back.

“Is there more?” he asked.

“Perhaps we should practice how to take snuff. That’s what the book says gentlemen do.”

“Sorry, but no.” He glanced past her, seeing the garden through the windows—and not seeing them. A hundred images coursed into his brain, and none of them were pleasant. “Tobacco serves a ceremonial and spiritual purpose for many tribes in the Americas. If I used it, it would be like stealing from them.”

To his relief, she didn’t look upset or irritated by his refusal. “Of course.” She added with a pained expression, “Most commercial tobacco crops are tended and harvested by slaves. It’s . . . repugnant.”

Thank God she understood. “We’ll get by without snuff.”

“We will.” She knotted her fingers together, and her expression turned sheepish. “I ought to mention that, in a week from today, Lord and Lady Creasy are hosting their annual garden party. It’s one of the highlights of the Season. Mason will be there. And . . .” She swallowed. “You will make your debut.”

It was as though someone had thrown him into a freezing lake. He couldn’t catch his breath. “A week? That’s not much time.”

“He leaves for Greenland in less than two months, so we must work quickly.” She strode to him, and when she once more placed her hand on his forearm, he felt reasonably confident that he’d never breathe again. He couldn’t understand it—unlike common wisdom that said he’d grow inured to something the more he was exposed to it, he was growing more sensitized to her touch.

“You can do it, Sebastian.” She looked up into his face, her eyes lovely and serious.

“Glad one of us believes that,” he muttered.

“Our next step is a crucial one.” She smiled, and his gut unclenched. “Fieldwork.”

Chapter 5

With Katie in tow for the sake of propriety, Grace and Sebastian left her home and walked north to Park Square. Grace kept her hand lightly resting on Sebastian’s arm as they strolled together. He felt delightfully firm beneath her gloved hand—but perhaps that could be attributed to the tension silently emanating from him.

“It’s just a practice run,” she assured her friend. “The stakes are very low.”

“But they aren’t.” His voice was taut. “Even a trial of my abilities will determine the course of the next week, and whether or not this project has any chance of succeeding.”

“You will,” she said firmly. “Besides, hardly any hypothesis requires only one test to see whether or not it can be proven. There aren’t failures in scientific methodology. Only opportunities to learn.”

He made a soft exhalation through his nose. “I’ve quite a lot to learn.”

Was it his apprehension she felt or hers? This scheme had to work, and yet she was taut with concern on his behalf. She hadn’t known until now how much Sebastian was eager to please—at the library, he would assist others with tasks such as fetching books from high shelves or carrying someone’s stacks of tomes, but he didn’t seem to extend himself overmuch.

Yet here, with this plan to become a rake, he was trying so very hard, and she ached with sympathy.

Was he fighting so fiercely to succeed for the sake of his future book—or was it for her?

It had to be for the book. If he worked this much because of her . . .

She banished the thought. Or she tried. A tiny voice whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, she was his motivation. And if that was the case, then he felt a good deal more than friendliness toward her.

He could. Did he? And did she want him to?

Lord knew, she’d revealed things about herself to him that she’d never told anyone before, not even Jane. She had not permitted herself to think about such thoughts. Yet he’d drawn confessions from her, and it had felt so natural to speak to him of the most secret chambers of her heart.

She’d had enough sense to keep from blurting of her hope for love. That much truth was too much. Yet perhaps he was exactly the person with whom she could be entirely vulnerable, no barriers, no protective wit. Just her and him.

She wouldn’t allow herself to entertain such thoughts. They led to dangerous places, places she did not know how to navigate.

Fortunately, she didn’t have time to consider that any further when they reached Park Square. The green park was ringed with stylish terraced homes in the process of being constructed along the crescent and surrounding the square. The elegant residents of Marylebone Road in their pristine and fashionable garb mixed with laborers coated with stucco, paint, and sawdust.

“I assume you have your methodology already planned,” Sebastian said drily.

“That’s where Katie and I are going to sit.” She nodded toward a bench. “I brought a book to camouflage myself while observing as you practice your newfound skills.”

Katie had already buried herself in her Lady of Dubious Quality novel and barely glanced up when her name was mentioned.

“Walk around a little,” he said, “attempt to bow, that sort of thing?”

“Exactly. Even better if you approach a woman and strike up a conversation.”

Other than the time in the foyer earlier today, never in the course of her friendship with Sebastian had she ever heard him say any coarse imprecation. Surely he didn’t mutter Fucking hell under his breath just now. Surely not.

“All right.”

He gave a decisive nod before stepping back. It was a shame, because there was something warm and tingly about standing near him. She’d felt it earlier in the ballroom, and she felt it now, and it wasn’t entirely wanted. Over the duration of their friendship, she hadn’t permitted herself responsiveness to his physical self. But there was no denying it now.

“I still don’t have a walking stick,” he said, “and grabbing a branch from one of these plane trees is likely considered gauche.”

“Do your best. And good luck.”

She walked quickly toward the bench, barely aware of the pleasant spring afternoon, or the sounds of construction, or indeed much of anything at all except nervous anticipation. It wasn’t unlike directing a play, and watching the performance from the wings. There was nothing she could do but watch, and hope.

Their afternoon efforts had been . . . not quite what she’d anticipated. But everything had to have a beginning, and a rocky start was to be expected. Again, he tried so hard. She couldn’t help but be touched by how earnestly he was working, and the way in which he threw himself fully into the project. For all his easygoing manner, Sebastian had a core of determination and perseverance. He didn’t give up.

And if she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t entirely difficult to look at him. She’d known it years ago and she most decisively knew it to be so now. True, he hadn’t quite mastered the dashing air of a rake, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself from observing the pull of fabric across his shoulders and legs. As if beneath his clothing, gentle and thoughtful Sebastian Holloway possessed the body of an athlete, lean and taut with muscle.

Come to think of it, in the past, he’d mentioned football and cricket matches and other physical endeavors. She’d never fully understood how such activities could reap such delightful benefits. Now she knew.

Certainly, her more primal self had taken notice. And liked what it saw.

He’s your friend. Don’t be rude.

Grace lowered herself onto the bench. Katie sat at the other end of the bench, her nose buried in her novel. From her reticule, Grace produced a slim treatise on the reproductive behavior of lobsters—which wasn’t precisely in her area of study, but she had heard very good things about the treatise’s author, a fellow female naturalist.

Despite the quality of the writing, Grace barely saw the words marching across the page. Instead, her focus honed in on Sebastian, who seemed to be preparing to enter a pugilism bout as he stood at the head of a path.

He tipped his head from side to side and swung his arms in wide arcs before shaking out his hands, and jumping up and down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

A passing nanny with a pram gave him wide berth, and a bewhiskered gentleman immediately turned and walked hurriedly in the opposite direction.

Sebastian appeared not to notice. But after a few moments of this, he seemed as though he had properly loosened his muscles. And then he began to walk.

He moved in the deliberate, stylized way that the guide had instructed. His feet were pointed, his shoulders back, while each movement carried a purposeful elegance. His motion verged on languid, precisely how the book had instructed. A dancing master would have been proud, had Sebastian been his student.

He executed a flawlessly elaborate bow to a trio of gentlemen, and a glow of satisfaction spread through her.

All the work they had done earlier in the afternoon came to fruition. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

Except . . .

Anxiety chewed on Grace’s insides, banishing her sense of ease. Everyone who espied Sebastian looked at him as though he’d recently fled from Bedlam. People skirted around him or walked to other paths so that they didn’t have to encounter him.

Was something wrong with the book we used? Was our approach flawed?

Oh, God. No.

Sebastian stopped in front of a young lady, also accompanied by her maid, and proceeded to bow so low his nose nearly scraped the gravel. He was near enough to Grace that she could hear him.

“A most beauteous afternoon to you, lady fair,” he said in a strange, nasal voice. “Indeed, mine eyes consider themselves blessed to look upon your countenance.”

The lady’s eyes went wide. She clutched her shawl tightly around herself, as if for protection. A strangled laugh escaped her maid before the servant said, “Come along, miss.”

She herded her charge away like two lambs narrowly escaping the butcher’s knife.

The crushed look on Sebastian’s face struck deep in Grace’s heart. His shoulders bowed and he shook his head slowly in what appeared to be weary resignation.

Grace leapt up from her bench intending to go to him, but before she could, a man of exceptionally striking features strode forward. The newcomer was nearly as tall as Sebastian, but the quality of his clothing was much finer. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

“What the deuce was that, Holloway?” the man demanded.

Sebastian groaned. “You saw that?”

“Most of it. Thought I was going to have to shove a stick between your teeth to keep you from biting off your own tongue.”

“Here, now,” Grace said hotly, coming to stand in front of the two men. She set her hands on her hips. “No need to be insulting—whoever you are.”

Hot indignation pulsed along her veins. It mattered little that the man in question was clearly a wealthy gentleman, or the possessor of startling good looks. He couldn’t mock Sebastian.

“Rotherby,” Sebastian said on an exhale, “I mean, Your Grace, may I present Lady Grace Wyatt? Grace, this is the Duke of Rotherby.”

The Duke? Oh, dear.

No wonder he looked familiar. She’d been introduced to him years ago during her come out, and occasionally crossed his path at various social functions her parents forced her to attend.

She dipped into a curtsy. Perhaps manners could salvage the situation. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Grace.” The duke nodded. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m rather alarmed by the state of my friend’s health. We may need to call for a leech.”

“No need.” Looking spent, Sebastian dragged himself away to lean against a plane tree. “There’s nothing wrong with my physical health. But my mental state has taken a drubbing. Especially my pride.”

Both Grace and the duke moved toward Sebastian.

“I’m sure we only need more practice,” she said.

“Practice doing what?” Rotherby demanded. “Terrifying the local populace? If that was your intent, you’ve done a brilliant job.”

Sebastian gazed at her cautiously. “Should I tell him?”

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

“Is he standing right here so there’s no need to speak of him in the third person?” the duke added.

Ignoring him, Sebastian said, “He’s one of my oldest friends. Kept me safe from the worst bullies at Eton. He’s trustworthy.”

Well—she couldn’t take issue with anyone who had protected young Sebastian from harassment. “I have faith in your judgment.”

Concisely, Sebastian explained to Rotherby what he and Grace attempted. She fought to keep from wincing when Sebastian came to the part about her lack of cachet in Society . . . but then, the duke was part of that world, and already knew what a nonentity she was within its confines.

No wonder she liked it so much better in the field. No one judged her. No one expected her to be someone she was not, or change to fit an ideal she didn’t value. There was only dispassionate Nature, who didn’t give a fig about things like ladies’ accomplishments.

“Fredericks, the naturalist?” Rotherby asked.

“The same, Your Grace,” she said.

“Not a bad fellow,” the duke mused. “So that . . . display I just witnessed . . . that’s what you’ve determined a Society gentleman and rake does?”

“We found it in a book,” Sebastian said.

“Was it by chance the Domesday Book?”

“It belonged to my father when he was making his entrée into Society,” Grace replied curtly. “Given the wear on its pages, it appears that he’d made good use of it. Surely manners cannot change so much in that time.”

“Forty years in London Society is a millennium. But neither of you understand that.” Rotherby looked back and forth between her and Sebastian, an expression of disbelief writ plainly on his face. “It’s the blind leading the bespectacled.”

“We can find other books,” Sebastian said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Recent ones. Surely McKinnon’s has an ample stock. All we need to do is a bit more research.”

Grace nodded in agreement. “Research solves everything.”

The duke pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Good. God.” He exhaled jaggedly before lowering his hand and opening his eyes. “I’ll just have to clear my schedule. That way we can get to work as soon as possible. Time’s slipping away.”

Grace shot Sebastian a befuddled look. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what do you mean by ‘We can get to work’?”

“It’s patently obvious,” Rotherby said with deliberate patience. “You both are extremely intelligent when it comes to scholarly knowledge, but utter naïfs when it comes to navigating the treacherous London social scene. You need a guide. Someone who knows every twist and turn of the labyrinth.”

“You, Rotherby?” Sebastian’s mouth opened in shock. “That’s not necessary.”

“It most assuredly is necessary. You’re my friend, and like hell will I let you founder and drown.” Rotherby looked at Sebastian with wry fondness, before pulling a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “I’m due home to meet with my men of business. But I shall see you both tomorrow at two o’clock. Bond Street, outside Walton’s tobacconist shop.”

He said this as a command, not a request. Not much of a surprise, given his lofty status.

“Certain about this, Rotherby?” Sebastian asked.

“We’re asking quite a lot of you,” Grace noted.

“If what I witnessed today is any indicator of your trajectory,” the duke said grimly, “then it’s not a matter of certainty. It’s necessity.”

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