My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  God fucking damn it.

  This was precisely what he did not want to happen. Yet, despite his repeated warnings to himself, in spite of his intellectual understanding that he could not, should not, desire Grace—he’d gone and done it, anyway.

  She wanted Fredericks. Not him. Fredericks was her goal. To subvert that and undermine her would be the height of caddishness.

  “Not a bit.” Seb had to give himself credit for not sounding as though he choked the words out. “I do admire her, but, at present, we’re friends.” That wasn’t untrue.

  The pleat of concern between Fredericks’s brow smoothed. “Ah. Excellent.” He beamed. “She’s highly regarded within scientific circles, and I eagerly await learning more about her. Beyond her work with reptiles.”

  “And amphibians.” Seb waited for Fredericks to wrinkle his nose in disgust that a woman should care about toads and frogs.

  Instead, Fredericks nodded eagerly. “Such an intriguing field of study. It’s still in its infancy, you know. We cannot begin to comprehend the scale of discoveries yet to be made.” The naturalist laughed. “Forgive me. I’m enthusiastic about these things.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed about.”

  “Must be dull for you, to hear me ramble on about the natural realm matters. You’re a . . . I believe Mr. Okafor said you study human societies.”

  “I’m an anthropologist, yes.”

  “So you’ve no interest in things such as flora and fauna.”

  Seb stared levelly at him. “You’d be surprised at what interests me. Not everything is to be judged from its appearance.”

  “Quite right. Not the first time I’ve been guilty of failing to look beneath the surface, but,” Fredericks added hopefully, “I intend to remedy it. We share that, Lady Grace and I. A deep, abiding love for the world of nature.”

  A dark, angry miasma clung to Seb, and his limbs sizzled with the need to lash out, to break something. Because Fredericks was, in truth, a decent bloke. Though Seb and Grace were both devoted scholars, they didn’t share a discipline, as she did with Fredericks. There would always be a divide between Grace and Seb, a lack of shared passion, unlike her and Fredericks.

  He had plenty of money, and was beloved by both the scientific community and society circles.

  The naturalist was precisely the right man for Grace. She’d seen that from the beginning.

  Despite their kiss, she had never thought that about Seb. And she never would, now that Fredericks had come to his senses and recognized her magnificence.

  “Coming, Holloway?” Rotherby stood at the entrance to one of the boxes, eyeing Fredericks. He sent Seb a silent look. Need help? That look promised to beat Fredericks into an afterthought, if Seb gave the word.

  That was friendship. The willingness to thrash another man at a moment’s notice.

  But gratitude over Rotherby’s preparedness to commit violence couldn’t dispel the crackling, furious haze encircling Seb. The narrow corridor between the private boxes stifled him, and sitting through theatrical performances was absolutely impossible, not when Seb finally recognized how well and truly fucked he was.

  He made himself smile, though it likely cracked at the edges.

  “Another night, perhaps,” he said to Rotherby. He tipped his head at Fredericks. “Enjoy your evening, and best of luck with . . . with everything.”

  Before Rotherby or Fredericks could respond, Seb turned on his heel and sped away. He didn’t stop, plowing down the stairs and through the lobby. He emerged from the theater and waved away offers of a cab. Instead, he paced so quickly down the street he practically ran. A film of sweat coated his back, making his fine shirt cling to his skin. But he didn’t care. He prayed the gymnasium he frequented was open at this late hour. It would be a fine night to perfect his pugilism skills, and, since he couldn’t very well punch himself, he had a blazing need to pound his fists into something.

  The night of Viscount and Viscountess Marwood’s ball arrived, and despite Grace’s full knowledge of its approach, she couldn’t quell her nervousness.

  As the family carriage rolled toward the hosts’ home, the vehicle was too well-sprung to rock excessively, yet Grace’s stomach churned all the same.

  “Shall we turn back, dearest?” her mother asked gently. “You don’t need to put yourself through anything unpleasant.” She reached across the carriage to pat Grace’s hands twisted together.

  Grace worked carefully to untangle her fingers. “Why would I think the viscount’s ball unpleasant? He and the viscountess are celebrated for their hospitality. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

  “It’s been some time, though, hasn’t it?” Her mother regarded her with sympathy. “Since you’ve been to a ball. It’s reasonable to be uneasy about it.”

  “My last few balls were . . . not especially pleasant.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. She’d vowed to herself after enduring one too many unwilling dance partners that she wouldn’t return unless she had a very good reason.

  Tonight, she did have a reason, and that alone would engender worry in anybody. But her apprehension had another reason for being. Namely, whether or not Sebastian would attend tonight’s gala. The note he’d sent her confirmed that he would, in fact, be there. Yet after last night . . . she wasn’t certain.

  Her hands wove back together in a snarl. Perhaps he had outgrown her. Perhaps he’d become so successful within Society that he’d moved on to better things, more exciting and advantageous people.

  In truth, she could no longer hold him to their bargain. He’d accomplished the goal they’d set out for themselves. The handful of public appearances they had made together achieved her desired aim—she’d secured Mason Fredericks’s attention. Mason had even asked her to save him a dance at tonight’s ball. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation through her, even as she battled with her complicated emotions where Sebastian was concerned.

  “I’ve something that will cheer you,” her mother said with a smile. “I believe Mr. Fredericks will be at Viscount Marwood’s tonight.”

  “Will he?” Grace kept her words light, since she hadn’t discussed with her mother her encounter with Mason on Rotten Row. Better to remain silent on her promise of dancing with him.

  “Go on, now, sweetheart.” Her mother pursed her lips in a playful smile. “Pretending to your own flesh and blood that you aren’t mad for that chap.”

  Was she? She honestly didn’t know anymore. Something had changed—ever since she and Sebastian had kissed. She could no longer pretend that she wasn’t aware of him as a man. Yet if she was bold enough to tell him that perhaps they might be more than friends, he might tell her that he didn’t reciprocate her feelings, and everything would be ruined. She had to direct her attention to Mason.

  Perchance she merely needed to spend more time with Mason now that he regarded her as more than simply a fellow naturalist. Surely if she came to know him as a woman knows a man, all those giddy feelings that he used to inspire would return—possibly even stronger than before.

  God above, she didn’t know. Everything was a muddle right now, including how she felt about Mason and Sebastian. Her heart was as murky as the most stagnant bog. And while she loved bogs for the abundance of creatures they supported, when it came to her feelings, she much preferred clear water.

  The carriage slowed as it joined a queue of similarly elegant vehicles outside Viscount Marwood’s home on Mount Street. Men and women in their glittering finery alit and climbed the steps, where they were met by a row of servants who took coats and hats and presented the guests with flutes of sparkling wine. Music curled out onto the street, joined by the sounds of chatter and laughter.

  Grace exhaled, pushing back her nerves. Visions of her previous humiliations spun through her head in their own dances. Retaining her sense of self in the face of the ton’s rejection had nearly been her undoing. She’d pretended that she hadn’t wanted anyone’s approval, but she knew the truth, that it had hurt to be scorned for
the thing she loved.

  The carriage finally came to a stop, and footmen helped her mother and Grace get down from the vehicle. Like the other guests, they climbed the steps and gave servants sundry garments in the foyer. When a footman offered Grace a flute of wine, she quickly grabbed it and downed the contents in two swallows.

  The wine did nothing to set her at ease.

  As she and her mother climbed the stairs to the ballroom, guests’ gazes lit upon her like bees in search of pollen. She felt the probing touch, the search for something useful, yet instead of flitting away in pursuit of other, showier flowers, they lingered on her—the result of Sebastian’s notice. It was nearly impossible not to feel some bitterness. It had taken a man valuing her to persuade these people that she was worthwhile. The unfairness of that fact stuck in her throat like a bone.

  She resisted the impulse to touch her hand to her upswept hair or give in to the urge to shake out the skirts of her celadon-green silk gown. For two solid hours, she and Katie had wrestled with all the components of her ensemble for tonight. She’d told herself that appearance didn’t matter, but this was a lie she couldn’t believe.

  “The Countess of Pembroke, and Lady Grace Wyatt,” the butler announced as she and her mother entered the vaulted chamber.

  The vast space was illuminated by huge crystal chandeliers, which cast their light upon scores of London’s elite. Dancers dominated the parquet floor, while many more guests circled the room, greeting each other, assessing the relative significance of the other attendees, and watching for anyone who could affect their own status for good or for ill. Servants circulated with more trays of sparkling wine. Punch was served from an enormous bowl that sat atop a long table heaped with sweet and savory delicacies.

  The teeming room was hot enough to delight any cold-blooded animal. Surely the beings that populated this chamber were far colder than any reptile or amphibian.

  Upon her announcement, more heads turned in Grace’s direction with the same speculative notice as the people she had passed on the stairs.

  She scanned the many faces for Sebastian, looking for his height, his fair coloring. There were other tall men, other blond men, and she gazed at each of them, most likely with an intensity that some would consider gauche.

  Heaviness settled in her belly. Sebastian wasn’t here.

  “Lady Pembroke, Lady Grace, we’re honored.” Viscount Marwood approached, favoring them with a dazzling smile.

  “Welcome to our, ah, unassuming home.” The viscountess, a petite brunette with a charming gap between her teeth, gave her words a slight ironic inflection. Grace recalled that Lady Marwood had been born a commoner, and, judging by the hint of London in her accent, she’d never quite developed a comfortable relationship with the sparkling spectacle that was a Society ballroom. “We’ve invited two hundred of our closest friends. What are their names again, my love?”

  Grace liked the viscountess immediately. “Who wouldn’t be pleased to be included in such a small, tightly knit circle? I hope that later, we can exchange confidences and plait each other’s hair.”

  Lady Marwood’s lips twitched.

  “Can I resist showing off my delightful wife?” Lord Marwood asked. “More to the point, should I?” He shook his head, as if the absurdity of the question didn’t warrant an answer.

  “Are you expecting—” Grace bit back her words just before Sebastian’s name fell from her lips. “Expecting more guests?”

  “Who can keep track of anybody in this . . . abundance?” Lady Marwood said. “Is there someone you particularly want to see?”

  “No one,” Grace began.

  Her mother said in a sly voice, “Only a certain young naturalist recently returned to the city.”

  Grace managed a weak chuckle, but was it too much to ask for a rhinoceros stampede?

  “That gentleman is currently engaged in conversation with Lord and Lady Blakemere.” The viscount tipped his head toward a corner of the room, where Mason chatted with a blond man and a woman with vibrantly red hair.

  Grace’s stomach gave a slight jump, which was something of a relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t entirely inured to Mason’s presence.

  “It’s the work of a moment to gain his attention. Especially,” Lord Marwood added with a grin, “if it paves the road toward tender feelings.”

  “You must never stifle your feelings,” the viscountess said with a sage nod. “It’s a sentiment that ensures a full house every night at the Imperial.”

  “My thanks,” Grace said quickly, “but that isn’t—”

  Before she could stop him, Lord Marwood strode across the ballroom. Straight toward Mason.

  Chapter 17

  Don’t stare. Look anywhere else other than him. Oh, isn’t that a pretty potted fern? Yes, it’s a fine example of . . . Adiantum capillus-veneris, with its clusters of bipinnate fronds.

  But it was no use. Grace’s gaze kept returning to the mortifying sight of Lord Marwood talking to Mason, and nodding in her direction with an encouraging smile. God preserve her from well-intentioned people.

  For his part, Mason glanced over at her with an expression that might have actually been eagerness. Might have been. Yet it was impossible to know if he was merely acting interested for the benefit of his wealthy and well-connected host, or if he genuinely desired to search out her company. Knots of apprehension formed in her muscles. Memories of past mortifications flashed in her mind—men at balls just like this one snickering at her or staring at her like she was some variety of tree fungus.

  She swallowed around a wave of nausea.

  “He’s a fine man, Lord Marwood,” Grace’s mother said.

  “Erp.” Grace watched the whole scene between the viscount and Mason as though watching the world’s most humiliating pantomime.

  Her and Mason’s eyes met.

  She managed a small wave. Please don’t feel obligated to talk to me, she hoped her wave communicated. Her body sparked with the need to bolt, but she gripped hard on the reins of her impulse, and instead kept her feet fastened to the floor.

  Mason said something to Lord Marwood before bowing to the viscount, as well as Lord and Lady Blakemere. Then he detached from the group and headed in her direction.

  “I do believe I need some refreshment,” Grace’s mother said. She moved on, leaving Grace alone to await Mason’s arrival. Time moved with agonizing slowness as he neared.

  “Lady Grace.” He bowed, and she inclined her head.

  “Mas—I mean, Mr. Fredericks.” Her voice was remarkably steady, and she tried to take comfort in that.

  He looked exceedingly well in his simple but finely tailored evening clothes, his sandy hair brushed forward, and his green eyes bright.

  “I’m exceptionally glad to see you here,” he said, then added in a confiding tone, “Chatting with Lord and Lady Blakemere is pleasant enough, but neither one of them have any understanding about patterns of seasonal migration.”

  “For humans, or for animals?”

  He chuckled. “Animals, of course, but surely a lengthy treatise could be written about the migratory patterns of gently bred Englishmen.”

  “Certainly,” she said wryly, “the plumage changes depending on whether one is In Town or, as they say, rusticating.”

  “Not very sturdy plumage.” He plucked at his cream-colored waistcoat. “Can’t keep out a brisk wind and far from waterproof.”

  “As a species, the English aristocrat is very poorly equipped for withstanding variances in climate and habitat.” She tried not to feel too much pride that she’d managed to actually chat with him without sounding completely foolish.

  They smiled at each other, and it was strange . . . her heart didn’t precisely throb with pleasure from their conversation. Still, she was left with a soft glow that came only from communicating with a like-minded soul.

  But her pleasure held an edge, faintly cutting, and after a moment, she said, “You’ve done your due diligence, so now I liberate y
ou.”

  “How do you mean?” He tilted his head.

  “Obliging our host. You’ve talked to me for a sufficient length of time, so you’re free to search out other companions.”

  Mason’s brow furrowed. “A poor opinion of your company.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fredericks,” she heard herself say, “but until quite recently, you yourself seemed disinclined to engage with me in any realm outside of the scientific. My opinion of myself is as fixed and assured as ever. Your perception is the only thing that has altered.”

  Good God—where had that come from? She almost stammered an apology, taken aback by the sudden vehemence of her words. After all, Mason had only done as he was supposed to.

  Yet resentment bubbled up acidly within her. Shouldn’t someone take an interest in her on the basis of who she was, rather than who they believed her to be? Yet that was precisely what she had done, and couldn’t help but feel some regret that she’d set her sights on someone who needed to be shown—by another man—that she was worthwhile.

  The machine, however, was in motion, and she’d set out to ease her father’s worry for her future. No turning back now.

  “Entirely correct.” Mason lowered his gaze, and a shadow passed over his face. “I must own my foolishness. There is no excuse but my ridiculous blindness. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness now, and pray that you and I might move forward as not just colleagues, but friends.”

  Tendrils of her indignation dissolved—though it would take more than a few contrite words to soothe the hurt caused by his disregard.

  Still. “We may be friends,” she said.

  “Brilliant.” His smile was wide and appeared sincere. “If it isn’t too presumptuous, might I prevail upon you to remember your assurance from the other day that we might share a dance together.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  How very curious. She combed through her emotions, hunting down that spinning exhilaration she usually felt whenever she was near Mason. Yet all she could muster was a gentle lift of pleasure—a far cry from the dizzying heights she expected.