Page 4 of His Mad Duchess
“I… I do try to play properly—” Arabella stammered.
“I’ve no doubt,” Sebastian murmured, eyes lingering long enough to make her mother shift at her side.
“Your Grace is too kind,” Lady Worthing said tightly. “Arabella’s talent is… quite suitable for very refined company.”
“Ah,” he said lightly. “Then I must count myself blessed to stand so near refinement tonight.”
Honoria’s fingers found his sleeve with two fingertips, polite as a pistol pressed to his ribs.
“Sebastian,” she murmured, her tone low, edged with steel. Then, to Lady Worthing, “My son is dreadfully fond of teasing. Forgive him, the hour is long, and the brandy scarce tonight.”
He turned to Arabella, voice low enough to earn a look from both mothers.
“I look forward to your music, Miss Worthing. If it pleases you, perhaps something soft.”
Arabella’s blush climbed to her hairline. Lady Worthing’s eye twitched.
Sebastian dipped into a slight bow, courtly, flawless, and polite as sin. “As you wish, Mother.”
He rose just enough to catch his mother’s narrowed eyes. The look he gave her was all polite courtesy, but the edge beneath it gleamed.This is how easy it is—a smile here, a blush there, and no one’s the wiser. Is this really what you want? See, this is why this won’t work.
“Ladies,” he murmured, smooth as warm brandy. “Excuse me.”
Before Honoria could tighten her grip, he stepped back into the swirl of silk and chatter, the polite suffocation that never quite touched him if he didn’t let it.
He found Edward Pembroke by the far wall, Wrexford himself, half-buried by a knot of lesser lords and an abandoned glass of brandy.
“Wrexford,” Sebastian said, sliding in beside him like a blade. “Save me. Tell me you’ve hidden a bottle somewhere decent.”
Edward arched a brow, his mouth twitching. “You look like you’ve just eaten something sour. Who was the unlucky debutante?”
“Arabella Worthing. Sweet and harmless. No idea what to do with a man like me, which is precisely why I shouldn’t be near her. She’ll be telling her grandchildren one day about the dreadful duke who nearly ruined her nerves with a single wink.”
Edward gave a low, warm laugh. “Careful, Ravenscourt. Keep that up and half the mothers here will mistake you for a fox who bites as well as winks.”
Sebastian let out a sharp breath, his expression tired. “I’d rather spend an hour with your hounds than charm another trembling debutante. I hate playing at wolves when I have no taste for lamb.”
Edward raised his glass only to find it missing from his own hand. Sebastian had already tipped it back, draining the last drop of decent brandy.
“And here I thought you came for the dancing,” Edward drawled.
Sebastian wiped a thumb over the rim, handed it back with a crooked grin, the sort that made footmen scatter and sensible women look twice. “Not unless they serve the waltz with a bottle and a locked door. Which, incidentally, is my plan for the next hour, but with cards instead of coquettes.”
“Brooksley again?” Edward arched a brow. “You’re predictable.”
“No, I’m loyal,” Sebastian said. “Predictable is dancing attendance on mothers who pretend not to notice they’ve handed you a lamb to fatten for slaughter. Brooksley’s honest. If I lose there, it’s my coin, not my soul.”
Edward huffed a laugh. “You know, one day you’ll have to stop saying that. Sooner or later, the hounds won’t be enough.”
Sebastian flicked him a look, all mock horror. “If you start talking about marriage, I’ll start talking about your poetry. I know you write it. Don’t lie.”
“Verse is respectable,” Edward protested.
“So is fun if you do it properly.” Sebastian’s grin slanted into that rakish tilt that always made people whisper. “At Brooksley,there’s no gossip, only grown men, cards, and a fair chance of walking away lighter than you came in. Which is how life should be if you ask me.”
“You do realize you sound like a scoundrel, don’t you?”
“Better a scoundrel than a liar. I never promise what I won’t give. I leave that to half this room.”
