Lord Sebastian's Secret

by Jane Ashford

  “You must try harder to clear your mind during the meditation process,” Mr. Mitra replied.

  “Well, but I have a great many thoughts, you see,” the other man replied with every sign of pride.

  “Hello, Papa,” said Georgina. “I’m going to take Sebastian away now.”

  Rising, Sebastian worried that the marquess would object, or protest this breach of convention, but his host merely waved them off with a casual “Very well, my dear.”

  Sebastian followed his fiancée’s slender figure out into the corridor and along it to another. To his delight, he discovered they were headed not to the drawing room but into a small parlor at the end of the wing.

  “I hope you don’t mind being taken from your wine,” Georgina said as she lit a branch of candles from the one she was carrying.

  “Not in the least. Matter of fact, I was dashed happy for the rescue. My head was spinning from the…discussion.”

  “I hope Papa didn’t bore you,” she said without turning from her task.

  Worried that he’d seemed to be criticizing her father, Sebastian said, “No, no. I mean, I didn’t understand half of what he said. I’m too thick. But…” He forgot whatever he was going to add when she turned and looked up at him. In the soft light, her hair gleamed golden, and her eyes were hooded and mysterious. She was so lovely it took his breath away.

  “You’re not thick,” she said.

  Sebastian hesitated, then shrugged. It had been quite clear during their courtship that she was the clever one. She couldn’t be expecting a sudden burst of intellect. “Well, I am. No sense denying it. I’m used to it.”

  “Used to what?”

  He held up one hand with all five fingers extended, then waggled his other thumb. “Being the dimmest Gresham brother.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  It wasn’t a matter of thinking. It was a proven fact. She must have noticed. He thought of telling her that she needn’t worry about wounding his sensibilities by acknowledging the truth. And then Georgina sat down, her skirts spreading around her with a soft slither, and indicated that he should join her. The sofa in here was small; he had to sit very close. All remaining wisps of thought went out of his head as he breathed in the enticing scent she always wore.

  Quiet surrounded them. There wasn’t so much as the ticking of a clock in this little chamber, which didn’t look much used. In fact, it was quite a secluded spot. A thrill went through Sebastian as he understood that Georgina must have known this when she brought him here. At this hour, most of the servants’ work would be finished. It didn’t seem likely they’d be interrupted. Still. “Sisters gone to bed?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He gazed into her gray-green eyes and caught a hint of uncertainty. He wanted to crush her in his arms, but he needed some sign of her wishes. Had she brought him here—please God, no—to talk?

  Georgina raised a hand. Slowly, tentatively, she reached over and touched his cheek with featherlight fingertips.

  That was it. He kissed her.

  It was their second real kiss. He didn’t count the hurried brushes they’d managed in town. And it was tender and sweet. Her lips moved experimentally against his—not at all reluctant, but obviously inexperienced. As his veins filled with fire, Sebastian reveled in the idea that he had something to teach her. He was all right, more than all right, with matters that involved his hands rather than his head. There was no buzzing cloud of words to plague the life out of him. He was dashed good with his hands. And right now, they were like racehorses waiting for the gun. When he thought of all the pleasures they could offer her—in good time, of course, not here and now—it was almost more exciting than his own growing arousal.

  In fact, he couldn’t resist just a hint of what was to come for them. Deepening the kiss, he ventured a caress, running his fingers up the smooth cloth of her gown, letting them stray ever closer to the curve of her bodice. “Oh,” Georgina breathed when they reached their goal. She arched closer, encouraging him to continue.

  Sebastian gladly complied. He teased and tantalized, and when the sleeve of her gown slipped off her shoulder, he took advantage of the opportunity to touch her silken skin directly. Georgina moaned. In an effort to press closer, she slid a leg over his knee. When she tightened her arms around his neck, he drew her nearer automatically. And then somehow she was straddling him, her lithe body straining against his, her lips warm and eager. There was every indication she was about to open to him like a flower. One of his hands had already found its way beneath her dress and was sliding over the top of her silk stocking on its way to show her further delights.

  Somewhere in the castle at their backs, a door shut with a thud.

  Oh God.

  With every fiber of him aching to rush on, Sebastian drew back. What was he doing? They could easily be discovered here. Her father had seen them go off together. He might be looking for them right now. Sebastian hadn’t even been at Stane Castle one day. And while he yearned to carry Georgina off to his bedchamber and continue, he would never wish to embarrass or humiliate her.

  He forced himself to abandon her lips, pleased to see disappointment on her face. Placing one hand on either side of her waist, he reluctantly lifted her and set her back beside him on the sofa. They were both breathing hard. Sebastian pulled at his ravaged neckcloth, trying to get more air. “Is there any reason to wait until September for the wedding?” he asked with a savage yank at the twisted linen. “Can’t see one myself.”

  Georgina blinked as she emerged from a daze of desire. She was panting as if she’d been running. This must be what her mother had been talking about. Only, she’d had no need to tell Sebastian anything; he seemed to know just what she wanted, before she knew it herself. “None in the world,” she said. But as her mind steadied, countering the demands of her body, she remembered. “Or…your family is set to come here then. Papa is so looking forward to it.”

  “Ah, right,” said Sebastian. “I don’t suppose we can change that. Mama plans their movements like a logistics officer. Always has sixty things to do.”

  He looked morose. Georgina almost felt she needed to apologize. “We Stanes have very few relations, you see. Only some distant cousins that I have never even met. And with living so out of the way as well, there’s been very little opportunity for…family events. Papa likes the idea of gathering everyone together.” In fact, she was aware that this aspect of the occasion outweighed the actual wedding ceremony for him.

  “Ha, it’s just the opposite with us,” replied Sebastian. “I feel like I’m kin to half the country sometimes. I could spend all my time at one do or another.”

  And it occurred to Georgina—only then, for some reason—that the Duke and Duchess of Langford would be making a significant stay with her parents. She’d been so focused on the perils of her betrothed’s arrival that she hadn’t thought ahead. Unbidden, unwelcome, a series of scenes began to unfold in her mind. Sebastian’s oldest brother, Nathaniel, had recently celebrated his own wedding, to the extremely correct Lady Violet Devere.

  Georgina imagined Lady Violet—no, she was the Viscountess Hightower now—being mobbed by the pugs. She always wore ruffles. Some of the younger dogs were driven into a frenzy by the fluttering of ruffles. Georgina closed her eyes on the image of several pugs hanging off the viscountess’s gown by their teeth, like some sort of bizarre ornaments.

  She opened her eyes again as she thought of how her sisters would positively besiege Sebastian’s elegant brother Robert. They would pelt him with questions about the haut ton and the ways of society. As far as she could judge, he was a pleasant man, but could he stand up to such a campaign without giving them a withering setdown?

  She saw the immaculate duke and duchess chatting with Mr. Mitra, perhaps being asked if they wanted to visit their past lives. Oh, they would be polite; they were always polite. But wo
uld they exchange amused, mocking glances when they thought no one saw? Which she would not be able to ignore? Georgina knew she’d be torn between wanting to impress Sebastian’s family and sticking by Papa. There was the scientist brother, Alan, too. Would he view Papa’s activities with contempt?

  Georgina looked into Sebastian’s blue eyes. The warmth she found there was reassuring, but not enough to counter all the worries popping up in her mind.

  And then, just to cap it all, there came the sound of a dog scratching at the closed door of the room and whining to be let in. The scrape of claws on the wood was like an infernal confirmation of all her fears.

  The noise stopped for a moment. There was a sharp bark, like a command. And then the scratching resumed with redoubled intensity. “Aidan doesn’t like being shut out,” Georgina said. “Of anywhere. He’s always escaping the dogs’ room and attacking closed doors.” Feeling a confused mixture of reluctance and urgency, she stood. “Mama will come looking for him. And Papa hates finding marks on the doors. I’d better get him.”

  “You’re going to bring him in here?”

  “No!” She refused to even picture that. “I shall take him to Mama. Excuse me.” She didn’t look at Sebastian as she hurried out to gather up the dog. She was afraid of what she might see on his face.

  Alone, Sebastian sat back on the sofa and tried to take comfort in the fact that he’d done the right thing. They would indeed have been discovered. He’d protected Georgina from that.

  This effort failed. He wished for some of the port he’d passed up in the dining room earlier. Or something stronger, brandy by choice. But he didn’t know where to look for it, and he didn’t want to ring for it. So he took himself off to his bedchamber instead. It had been a very long day.

  * * *

  Sebastian’s valet arrived at Stane Castle two days later, his post chaise pulling up late in the afternoon behind a tired team. Sebastian was exceedingly pleased to see him, for William Sykes brought far more than clean shirts and expert care for his master’s top boots. After a most unconventional beginning, Sykes had been with him for sixteen years and grown into a staunch ally over that time. His tall, gangling, immaculate figure would be a source of reassurance in this unpredictable household—unflappable, ingenious, discreet. Indeed, now and then, Sebastian suspected Sykes was omniscient.

  Sebastian felt sorely in need of his valet’s help. His visit was not going particularly well, at least from his point of view. There’d been no recurrence of the tantalizing encounter with Georgina in the small parlor. In fact, he hadn’t managed to get her alone again at all. She wasn’t avoiding him, which would have been disheartening. He could tell it wasn’t that. It was simply everything else.

  There was the pack of pugs roaming the house, for one. Sometimes they gave no yapping early warning, but simply flowed into his path, surrounding him, tumbling about his feet, drooling—or worse—on his trouser legs. Sykes would have a good deal to say about the scratches on Sebastian’s boots. And one of the smaller beasts had developed the trick of hopping onto a sofa whenever Sebastian sat down, running along the back, and jumping onto his shoulder to slaver over his face.

  Rather than reprimanding the dog, Georgina’s mother watched indulgently, informing Sebastian that this was a mark of great affection. Since she clearly took Nuala’s—that was the creature’s name, Nuala—attentions as a favorable comment on his character, Sebastian couldn’t complain. But he was feeling positively hunted. He’d taken to sitting in isolated straight chairs, and dashed uncomfortable they were. It was enough to make a fellow feel aggrieved, because he liked dogs.

  When he did escape the pugs for a bit, there was still the problem of Georgina’s sisters. They followed him about, founts of insatiable curiosity, able to track him down wherever he went. Hilda, in particular, seemed to have an almost preternatural instinct for the hunt. And she didn’t scruple to knock on his bedchamber door if they couldn’t find him elsewhere.

  How was he supposed to know what a voucher for Almack’s looked like? Or whether hoop skirts were still worn for a court presentation? He had managed to remember that Gunter’s was the best place to purchase lemon ices in London. But then Emma pulled out some devilish book about the language of fans, and the two girls kept him captive in the drawing room for more than an hour trying to get him to say whether they were performing each gesture correctly.

  If they snapped the fan open and shut at this rate, was that angry, or simply impatient? Did one flirt with this sort of twist and flutter? Was this peek over the top edge coy? Sebastian had no idea. Quite the opposite. He’d been horrified by the idea that girls had been trying to tell him things with their fans all this time. He’d thought they were just too warm.

  He did know how to waltz. Well, of course he did. Dancing was a skill of the body that he’d easily mastered, and he rather prided himself on his ability. But he’d assured Georgina’s sisters that he had two left feet and no memory for steps to avoid holding dancing classes in the schoolroom. Fortunately he’d had the support of their governess on that one. Miss Byngham found other subjects far more important.

  Sebastian waited while Sykes saw that the luggage was carried upstairs. He allowed his valet sufficient time to be introduced to the resident staff and shown his own quarters. But when Sykes returned to begin unpacking the trunks, Sebastian could wait no longer. “I need to write Nathaniel,” he told Sykes.

  The valet nodded. He went to sit at the writing desk by the window and readied the pen and paper he found in its drawer.

  “In the usual style, eh?” said Sebastian.

  Sykes simply nodded. They didn’t discuss the matter any further. In fact, they never had, not since the day Sykes had discovered his future master, a hulking lad of fifteen, bent over a blotted page, wrestling with a pen as if it was a writhing snake, and perilously near tears. Humiliated, Sebastian had turned away, crushing the page in one fist and throwing the treacherous writing instrument across the room.

  And in that long-ago moment, he’d discovered that William Sykes was a master at ignoring things that were better not mentioned.

  They hadn’t been acquainted then. Several years older than Sebastian, Sykes was the son of an upper servant’s family at Eton. He was allowed to attend classes by some special arrangement. Sebastian didn’t know the details. There was no reason he should. It had nothing to do with him.

  Sebastian had been about to stomp out of the school library, using his best scowl to deflect questions, when young Sykes dropped into an armchair and said, “Would you do me a great favor?”

  This was so unexpected that it stopped Sebastian in his tracks. They’d never even been introduced.

  “I’m hoping to be a playwright,” Sykes had continued, even more surprisingly. “For the London stage. My family thinks I’m an idiot, of course.”

  Sebastian had stared at the skinny, bright-eyed boy, with his wrists sticking out of his outgrown shirtsleeves.

  “They think I should aspire no higher than schoolmaster or tutor. Can you imagine anything more dreary?”

  Sebastian hadn’t found a thing to say in response to this.

  “But I’m absolutely determined to find a way. So, I wondered if you might allow me to write your letter for you. It would be such a useful exercise, you see. Developing a character, with his own particular voice. Very renaissance.”

  Sebastian had gaped at him, and an entire conversation had passed in one long gaze. Sebastian had understood that Sykes was an alarmingly bright and observant fellow and that, relegated to the sidelines by his ambiguous status at Eton, he’d noticed things Sebastian had labored hard to conceal. He offered no hint of threat; Sebastian would have thrashed him for that. Rather, he was silently suggesting an arrangement for their mutual benefit. Which need never be admitted, still less actually spoken aloud.

  Even back then, Sebastian was a good judge of character. He�
��d trusted young Sykes, and he’d never been sorry. Without a word, the fellow had thought to mimic Sebastian’s disgraceful handwriting as he penned the letter. Later on, Sebastian had seen Sykes’s personal copperplate hand, a thing of beauty compared with that scrawl. He’d said nothing about that either. The whole exchange had been simply astonishing.

  They’d gone on to formalize the connection when Sykes suggested that Sebastian take him on as valet once they’d left school. He’d made the scheme seem perfectly reasonable, nothing like an act of charity or a crutch. The position would give him many priceless opportunities to observe society, he’d said, and enrich the “texture” of his plays. Sebastian made certain that Sykes was paid very well and allowed ample time to go to the theater and write. To their mutual amusement, Sykes had thrown himself into the role, becoming such an exemplary valet, in public, that other young men routinely tried to lure him away.

  Sebastian looked at the elegant figure seated at the desk, poised and alert, with pen in hand. He’d become a companion as much as a servant by this time.

  “The usual greetings,” began Sebastian. “Arrived safely at Stane Castle and all that.”

  Lately, since Sebastian’s last promotion, they’d put it about that Sykes served as his secretary as well as valet. It sounded unexceptionable. Busy men had private secretaries to manage their affairs. His father the duke had two to handle his voluminous correspondence.

  Sykes began to write. Sebastian knew he would transform his offhand remarks into the proper phrases. By now, Sykes was an expert at producing a missive in the style Sebastian’s family was accustomed to from their second son. Or, to be more accurate, as Sykes put it, such letters were a genre Sykes had created from whole cloth.

  Sebastian narrated some highlights of his visit so far. When he uttered the phrase, “a deuced sea of furry, yapping little rats,” Sykes cleared his throat. It was his way of suggesting that perhaps another expression would be more apt.

  “You haven’t fought an engagement with the pugs yet,” Sebastian explained. “I swear they planned that assault on Mitra. He’s the Hindu fellow; the dogs make him nervous. Drustan—he’s the ringleader, the beast who keeps going at my leg, evil little sod—got them all nipping at Mitra’s ankles in turn. Diversionary actions, see? Then, at just the right moment, Drustan rushed in and tripped him. If you’d seen Mitra staggering about like a drunken sailor yesterday, trying not to step on the creatures, and then falling flat on the drawing room carpet, you’d grant that there’s no other way to describe them.”