by Bec McMaster
She's not yours.
You can't have her.
But some part of him laughed at himself, as though it saw straight through the lies.
This was no longer the virginal miss who'd first caught his eye.
Nor was she openly enticing, the way most of the female sorcerers in the ballroom were. No, she stood apart. Shy. Breathless. Somehow untouchable, and yet yearning to be touched. Cleo gazed down over the ballroom, her eyes covered by a delicate gold mask. He saw the moment she noticed him staring at her, and the sense of connection slammed through him.
The soul-bond roared to life through his veins.
"Cat caught your tongue, brother?" Bishop appeared out of nowhere, bringing him back into the present. There was a knowing look in Bishop's eyes as Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath and looked away from her.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
Bishop straightened his gloves. "If you won't have her, then some lucky man will. Look at them. They're all watching her with appreciation."
Bishop might as well have been bloody prophetic, for there were heads turning all across the ballroom. Appreciation was one word for it.
And she'd be free to take up any offers she received if they got an annulment. A knot tightened in his gut. He wanted her to be happy. He did. But there was something ugly inside him too, something primeval that wanted to beat its fists on his chest and claim her for his own.
The thought of another man touching her almost undid him.
"Well, she's mine for tonight," he said coldly. "So they can all go hang." Sebastian drained his champagne glass, setting it on a passing tray as he strode away from Bishop.
Catching her skirts up in her hands, Cleo began the descent, her eyes hesitantly meeting his through the eyeholes of the mask. This was her night, the ball she'd always dreamed of. He couldn't destroy the moment for her.
And maybe it would be something he could remember when—if—he left England.
Playing the part, he captured her hand as she took the last step, lifting it to his lips. "You look beautiful."
She smiled shyly. "So do you."
His smile slipped. Women had called him beautiful as they'd forced him into their beds.
The heat in Cleo's eyes as she eyed him appreciatively made him feel uncertain. Lust mixed together with the horrible sensation of other women's hands pawing at him. He wanted this to be her night, and he wanted to be the man she thought him, but it was too late. He'd thought of the past, and his mouth tasted sour.
"Are you all right?" she asked with a frown.
He lowered her hand from his lips, holding on to it tightly. He wanted to hold on to the purity of her. Not think of the other. "I'm fine. Are you going to save me a dance?"
"Do you want to dance with me?"
He needed something more than flirtation to take his mind off things. Stroking her cheek, he bent his head and swiftly kissed her on the mouth. "Yes."
As far as kisses went, it hearkened straight back to their first awkward attempt, when she'd caught him by surprise. He hadn't reacted then, and he'd surprised her now.
Cleo blinked. "What was that for?"
Merciful mother of night, but he was making a hash of this. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Her hand pressed to his chest. "Never be sorry for kissing me."
"Even if it is as terrible as that?" Simply holding her hand was relaxing him, though the back of his neck still felt clammy.
She touched her lips. "Terrible is not the word I was looking for. Perhaps we simply need more practice?"
There was the distraction he needed. He looked down and finally saw her—truly saw her—pulling out of the spell that had bound him for several seconds. "Are you offering to practice kissing with me?"
A heretofore-unknown flirtatious side emerged from her. "Only if you promise to lure me somewhere dark and mysterious."
Sebastian stroked the back of her hand. "I could potentially do that." There were dozens of places around Rathbourne Manor that were secluded.
But once there, would he be able to contain himself to mere kisses? I want to do many, many things to you beyond kissing. Heat stirred through his skin. What would it be like to hold a woman in his arms who meant something to him?
What would it be like to kiss her naked skin? To take his time exploring all the secret dips and valleys that made up Cleo's body?
It would be perfect.
"I will hold you to that promise," she said, with the smile that left him breathless.
The smile that captured his heart and squeezed it.
Sebastian took a minute step toward her, half tempted to steal her away now, lust coursing through his veins. He couldn't always promise that it would feel as pure as it did now, and he wanted to capture the moment. To bottle it. He almost suspected he could do this in truth—be her husband—if he could only continue to feel this way, pure and clean.
"Don't look at me like that," she said breathlessly. "Don't you dare. I want my dance first."
His gloved hand brushed against her skirts, and he captured a fold of it between thumb and forefinger, the movement so subtle only she would know. His voice lowered, "We don't have to dance in the ballroom."
Cleo rapped him on the arm with her fan, glancing over his shoulder as if to see if anyone watched. This was allowed. She was his wife, and he could damned well touch her when he wanted in the eyes of the world, but he felt the illicit thrill sweep through him too.
"The waltz?" she whispered. "Just once. In the ballroom."
Over the top of her head, he caught a glimpse of a woman in a feathered black swan mask eyeing him with appreciation.
The sight froze him.
Utterly.
Full red lips curved as the swan realized he'd seen her, and then the woman in black turned and sauntered into the hallway, casting one more glance behind her as if in invitation.
"Are you all right?" Cleo asked, resting her hand on his arm. "You've gone awfully pale. Don't tell me I've frightened you away from dancing forever? I promise I won't step on your toes."
He reined his emotions in sharply, and gave her a thin smile. "Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew. Would you care for some champagne?"
He didn't fool her. Cleo's lips pressed together. But then she nodded. "That would be wonderful. Are you sure you're—"
"I'll fetch it for you," he said curtly, striding away, an icy sweat springing up along his spine.
It had to be a mistake. The lighting in here was dim, after all, and it had been over ten years since he'd seen her last. Champagne. He turned, trying to think where he'd seen the servants last. Sweeps of color swam around him as he found himself in the middle of a waltz; every woman in here looked like some floral bloom, and the press of swagged skirts brushed against his trousers, making him shake. They couldn't know, but right now he didn't think he could stand to be touched, even if it were the innocuous brush of a skirt. The crush of perfume became almost overpowering, and he wiped his numb mouth.
Too many people. Too much scent. Sebastian shoved his way between a woman in red and her dancing partner, escaping through one of the doors—
The swan waited for him at the end of the hallway, lowering the mask she held to her face.
There was no mistake.
It was Julia Camden.
Sebastian shoved blindly through a doorway in the wall, heading for the terrace. He had to get out of there, before he drenched the entire ballroom in ice.
* * *
Sebastian burst out into the gardens, sucking in a lungful of cold air. He was shaking, practically vibrating with energy and fury. He held his hands out and stared at them, trying all of Bishop's methods to control himself; his breathing, clearing his mind, trying to focus on something, anything else...
Skirts swished.
Sebastian gathered himself, turning to face his worst nightmare. The black swan eased the glass doors shut behind her, leaning back against them for a moment, as if to capture the look o
f his face.
"All that youthful promise," Lady Beaumont whispered, twirling a lock of her brown hair around her finger. "Haven't you more than fulfilled it?"
"What are you doing here?" Lady Beaumont had allied herself with Morgana in the past. The only reason for her to be here right now was for mischief's sake.
"Greeting my new Prime," she said, with a pout. "Who was far more welcoming than you."
"We're not friends."
"We were... once." She took a step toward him, her words dropping to a purr. "We could be friends again, Sebastian."
He caught her hand as she reached for him. "If you touch me, I'll make you regret it."
Lady Beaumont gasped, but he could see the words thrilled her, more than they should have. "You weren't nearly so forceful the last time we met."
"I was seventeen," he said bluntly. "What did you expect?"
Her free hand stroked his waistcoat, and he could feel that touch on his skin, see her laughing down at him from his memories, as she kissed her way down his chained body. "The boy has grown up," Lady Beaumont said in a smoky voice that made him want to vomit, even as her hands delved beneath his waistcoat. "What I wouldn't give to renew our acquaintance. You liked it the last time I—"
Sebastian shoved her away, the world around him vanishing. He could barely see for the sheer, blinding rage that obliterated his thoughts. All he could smell was her perfume—the sickening, overpowering scent of orange blossom, a scent that had stayed with him all these years. Lady Beaumont hadn't been the first to use him, but she'd been the first to wring any sort of reaction from his helpless body.
"Don't touch me," he warned again, and this time his breath misted in the air in front of him.
Tendrils of ice began to crawl up the windowpanes, almost as if Jack Frost painted delicate stars upon them. The air was so cold it bit the back of his throat, making his chest heave, and Lady Beaumont shook the ice from her skirts.
He'd done this.
Sebastian swallowed hard, trembling with power he couldn't even recall gathering. It took everything he had to disperse it, letting the trembling ground subside.
Lady Beaumont eyed him with hungry eyes. "You want to hurt me."
"I want you to leave."
"I'd let you, you know?" She pressed a hand to her throat. "Think of all the things I'd let you do to me—"
"I'm married."
"So I'd heard. Tremayne's brat. The blind girl. She wouldn't have to know."
Killing her wouldn't solve a damned thing. But he had to remind himself of that. How could he touch Cleo after having the feel of this woman on his skin? "You disgust me. You always have."
"That's not the entire truth, is it now?" Lady Beaumont's skirts whispered over the tiles, and he could feel those skirts slithering over his bare thighs again, her nails raking down his chest.
Sebastian turned his face away, breathing hard. "What do you want?" he repeated, a little more coldly. "I assume there's a reason for this?"
"I could be your friend, Sebastian. And from what I hear, you could use a friend right about now."
Her words caught his attention. He shot her a dark glance. He'd thought her an old friend of his mother's, and knew Lady Beaumont wasn't brave enough to play her games too far in the open. But what if she was still allied with his mother?
What if there was a reason she was here?
He moved swiftly, slamming her back against the walls of the house. Lady Beaumont gasped, then laughed her husky laugh, biting her lip as she looked up at him.
"No games," he told her. "Did my mother send you?"
"I haven't seen your mother in an age," she taunted, though her eyes glittered. "It would be rather foolish of me to make an appearance here if anyone were to know I had ties to Morgana, wouldn't it?" She tsked under her breath. "And your mother is known to stab her acquaintances in the back."
Sebastian's hand settled over her throat. She'd liked that once, and her eyes told him she liked it now.
"A little harder," she breathed.
He let his voice drop to a whisper. "If you know anything, you would be wise to mention it before you try my patience. There are people inside whom I care about. I wouldn't like to see anything happen to them. Indeed, if something were to happen to them and I thought you knew anything about it—"
He let his power spill through his fingers, controlling the sorcerous weaves with ease. Ice was his natural inclination, and the first element he'd ever controlled. Lady Beaumont choked as he froze the inside of her throat, her eyes popping wide in disbelief.
Sharp nails raked his hand, and she clutched at it, her chest heaving. Sebastian held the weft of power for another three seconds, before letting it vanish.
He turned away from her as she slumped, a hacking cough tearing through her slim frame. The thin glove he wore couldn't seem to check the touch of her skin. He stripped it off, casting it aside, but he still felt dirty.
"Do you have anything to tell me?" he asked, turning around to survey her.
There was blood on her lips. She'd bitten her tongue, and she smiled at him with bloodied teeth. "I hope your mother is working against you. Perhaps I'll even look her up, and see if she'll offer me your leash for the night, once she brings you to heel again. Or maybe a month." Lady Beaumont licked her lips. "Breaking you would be almost enough incentive for a girl like me to do something foolish...."
He took a menacing step toward her.
"Ah, Sebastian, there you are," called a firm voice.
He came back to himself, staring down at her, every muscle in his body locked tight. Her mocking laughter grated across his nerves as he tilted his head to watch Lucien saunter along the terrace.
His half brother looked relaxed, with hands in pockets, and a loose step, but his amber eyes locked on the pair of them. "Lady Beaumont, what a surprise to see you out here."
"Oh, please," she said coyly, dropping one shoulder. "Call me Julia."
"We missed you inside during the receiving line," Lucien said, still smiling that faint, graceful smile, though his eyes sharpened in a predatory manner. "You must go congratulate my wife on her Ascension. Before she thinks you've slighted her."
She'd lied about meeting the Prime. Sebastian turned toward her swiftly.
Lady Beaumont's smile froze. "Of course. I... must have missed her in the crush."
"Ianthe has quite a temper," Lucien said fondly. "Perhaps you should go now, before it has time to brew."
"An excellent suggestion, my lord." She glanced coquettishly at Sebastian. "It was lovely to see you again. I've missed you, darling. Until we meet again...."
"We won't."
Lady Beaumont merely smiled, as if to tell him he was deluding himself, and then she slid her greedy little hand over Lucien's sleeve.
Over. It was over. Sebastian turned away as Lucien hastened her inside, with firm instructions for the footman to deliver her to the Prime.
He strode down the stairs, into the garden. He couldn't go back in there.
Stalking through the gardens mindlessly, he found a small clearing where the moonlight streamed down upon him. It was nothing like Malachi Gray's estate, but he touched one of the pruned rosebushes, stroking the bare branches. Channeling his power into the plant, he forced a flower to form, its lush petals tightly budded and pale. Another lash of sorcery, and those petals opened like the twirl of a lady’s skirt, color staining them and darkening as he let his magic surge.
A red rose.
Plucking it from the bush, he pressed it to his nose, thinking of Cleo. The tight band around his chest eased somewhat, as the sweet perfume filled him.
It took him a long time to realize he wasn't alone. Lucien had returned with two glasses of champagne, his shoes slowly crunching on the gravel path.
"Shouldn't you be inside?" he asked flatly, lowering the rose.
Lucien handed one of his champagne flutes to Sebastian. "Here."
Everything he'd been holding inside him burst out, sendi
ng chills all across his skin. He gripped the champagne flute, turning and staring blindly into the garden. A thorn pricked his finger, and it was almost the only thing holding him together. "I think I should take a carriage back to Bishop's."
"You have rooms here for the night," Lucien said.
"I don't think I would be very good company." He turned away.
A hand settled on his shoulder. Bile soured his mouth—that Lucien should see him like this—but he didn't force him to remove his hand.
"I take it your acquaintance with Lady Beaumont is not a happy one."
She raped me. Sebastian ran a hand over his mouth instead, swallowing down the bile. Worse than that, she got a reaction from me. "No."
"Do you want me to evict her from the manor?"
The offer shocked him a little. He barely knew this brother. All his attention had been focused upon Bishop, and Lucien... Lucien had more cause to hate him than even Bishop did. "Won't it cause a commotion?"
"Probably." Lucien shrugged.
"But isn't tonight meant to allay the Order's concerns? Won't it fracture Ianthe's support base if they see us casting one of them out?"
"Haven't you heard? I'm the mad, bad Earl of Rathbourne, fresh out of Bedlam. They'll expect that sort of thing from me." Lucien's amber eyes locked on his. "And the Order's not as unstable as all that. Ianthe's worried, for she wants everything to be perfect. Yes, it will cause gossip, but I can quell it. Or threaten to set Lady E on any rabble-rousers."
"Thank you." He barely breathed the words. The bubbles in the champagne fizzed down his dry throat. "I wouldn't take your eyes off Lady Beaumont though. She dabbles in the Black Arts, and she's enjoyed my mother's games in the past."
"I won't." Lucien hesitated. "I don't know everything that's happened to you, but I'm an Empath. Your emotions when you saw Lady Beaumont... they sliced right through me. I would have said you were screaming on the inside."
