My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  “That’s what you can find out on the expedition.”

  “Ah.” She could not find her balance, and the ground beneath her feet seemed made of shifting sand.

  “As I said,” he went on quickly, “it would have been my greatest joy to give you a leisurely courtship, one filled with shared smiles and long letters. But, sadly,” he went on apologetically, “that isn’t to be. The ship leaves from London’s docks in twenty-eight days, and so I must ask for your hand in a less than ideal manner.”

  She peered at him. “Are you looking for a research partner, or a bride?”

  “A bride,” he answered earnestly. “You do possess a singular ability and understanding of natural philosophy, but . . .” His cheeks reddened. “I’m very fond of you.”

  “Fond.” Not quite the declaration of love she’d dreamt of.

  “Affectionate. Which, I believe, will easily mature into a deeper emotion. And I hope,” he added with a hint of bashfulness, “that you might someday feel such emotion for me. Can you?”

  “This is . . .” Astonishing. Staggering. How could she answer? Her whole life would utterly change.

  Mason, offering her marriage. The opportunity to study in the field. Granted, Greenland wasn’t a place she’d ever desired visiting, but chances to go abroad in a scientific capacity didn’t come around often. Here, she was being offered the prospect to do just that.

  Here was everything she’d wanted, what she had believed she wanted, and yet she could summon no happiness. There was no pleasure in this moment, no sense of triumph.

  Dimly, she thought, I should tell Sebastian. He’d like knowing that they’d achieved their goal, and she wanted to share it with him.

  As she struggled to find words, Mason held up a hand. “You needn’t decide at this moment. Take some time. Discuss it with your family.”

  “All right.” As her mind whirled, she felt herself nod. “I’ll think about it.”

  Thankfully, Mason bid her and her mother farewell once the carriage stopped outside their home. The return journey had been a fraught one, between her own uncertainty and Mason’s anxiety over her answer. If her mother had noticed, she kept up a pretense of cheerful talkativeness, remarking on the abundance of unusual plants that had filled the garden and her intention to speak with her gardener about obtaining a few exotic breeds for their country estate.

  Yet, every now and then during her mother’s monologue, Grace felt her parent’s perceptive gaze on her, assessing, investigating.

  No doubt, Mother would want a thorough debriefing once she and Grace were in private. But what could Grace tell her—that the man she’d thought she’d wanted had offered her marriage, whilst the man she cared for and made love to didn’t want her.

  It was with considerable relief that, as she and her mother stepped into the foyer to hand their bonnets to a waiting maid, a footman handed Grace a folded note.

  Meet me at five o’clock in the reading room at the Benezra.

  —S.H.

  Her heart stuttered as she read the note, and she couldn’t stop her mind from running through scenarios—most of them terrible and resulting in pain.

  She could pretend she didn’t get his note. But that was horrendous, to contemplate deliberately ignoring Sebastian’s request.

  Yet as she stood in the foyer with his note in her hand, understanding struck her with so much strength she lost her breath.

  She’d told herself that Mason was the man who would suit her best, who would check all the boxes of what she wanted in a husband. But she had been so focused on this, she hadn’t seen the truth—the truth about Sebastian.

  He was kind. He possessed generosity and boundless intelligence and curiosity about the world around him—everything that had made him such an excellent friend. She kept returning to him over and over again because he was a genuinely good man, and he valued her for herself.

  The tall clock that stood in the foyer proclaimed it to be quarter to five in the afternoon. She’d just enough time to reach the library.

  “Going to the Benezra.” She pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek and hurried out before her mother could try to detain her.

  After giving the coachman instructions, she climbed into the carriage and attempted to distract herself on the ride to the library by cataloging the species of toads common to Great Britain. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an abundance of different species within the British Isles, which left her with entirely too much time to fret and stew.

  The carriage pulled up outside the library, and she tried to draw comfort and strength from its familiar exterior.

  She climbed the stairs and greeted Mr. Pagett as he opened the doors for her. Instead of going first to the reference desk, she veered off toward the reading room.

  Grace paused outside the small chamber. The glass inset in the door revealed Sebastian within, caroming back and forth, his eyebrows low in thought.

  Elation lightened her step, but dread also coalesced in her stomach. How was it possible to feel both happiness and worry when looking at someone? Yet she did.

  After taking a breath, she rapped smartly on the door and entered.

  Sebastian halted in midpace. The set of his mouth was tight, his jaw clenched. But his hair was mussed, as if he’d been dragging his hands through it. That couldn’t bode well.

  He waved to a chair, but she shook her head. They stared at each other, words drying up like a creek bed at the height of summer.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” he said after many long moments.

  “I’ll always make time for you.” She bit back a groan—perhaps Sebastian didn’t want to hear her speak of any attachment to him. Especially since they’d been intimate with each other.

  This strained reserve between them didn’t feel right, either. Not when he’d held her so tenderly, or made love to her with such raw passion. The things he’d made her feel . . . the words they’d said . . .

  “Fredericks is a good man,” Sebastian said. “He cares for you.”

  She blinked, momentarily stunned by the idea that Sebastian somehow knew of Mason’s proposal. But that couldn’t be possible. “He is good.”

  “Circumstances have changed between you and me.” The way he spoke, its excessive formality, scraped along her nerves. “Last night, I acted from impulse without considering the repercussions.”

  A wave of cold sheeted through her at his phrasing. “There were two of us in that barn.”

  He nodded stiffly. “So there were. Neither of us were thinking very clearly, and—” He shook his head. “I’ll be plain.”

  “Yes, do.”

  “I’m not a gentleman by birth, and it will be judged a mésalliance, but . . .” He cleared his throat. “I will marry you. If that’s what you desire.”

  She stared at him. She hadn’t permitted herself to think what it might be like to receive an offer of marriage from anyone, and here she’d received two in one day.

  Though she’d never spent much time fantasizing about someone asking her for her hand—she’d actually have to have a suitor for that to happen—this was not how she’d hoped Sebastian might propose to her.

  “Mason asked me to marry him,” she blurted.

  Sebastian stilled, then said, “Today.”

  “And he wants me to accompany him on an expedition to Greenland.”

  Her gaze locked on Sebastian’s face in an attempt to read him. He appeared stunned, his mouth slightly open. A flash of something that might have been sorrow appeared—but it was gone in an instant. In the time between heartbeats, his expression smoothed over.

  “But that’s wonderful,” he said, smiling. “I congratulate you. You’ve achieved your objective—the plan has been a success.”

  A shard of cold pierced her, and immediately after, she was entombed in ice. So. This was how it was to be. It was almost surgical, the severing of the bonds between her and Sebastian. Yet the pain wasn’t contained and clinical. It filled everything.

  �
�It has been.” She forced her mouth to form a smile, when all she wanted to do was drop to her knees and sob brokenly.

  So easily. Sebastian let her go so easily. As if he was relieved she hadn’t forced him into matrimony. That he’d escaped a terrible fate of being her husband.

  “When does the expedition leave?” he asked.

  “In twenty-eight days,” she said with remarkable evenness despite the fact that she’d been eviscerated.

  His mouth tightened, yet he answered calmly, “Barely a month from now.” He brought his hand up, as if to adjust his spectacles, before he seemed to realize that he didn’t wear them. “I imagine you’ll be quite busy between now and then.”

  Her mouth opened to tell him that she hadn’t accepted Mason’s proposal. Yet it didn’t matter. Sebastian had said nothing of regret, no hint that he might feel sadness that she’d soon depart, or that there was a very real likelihood that, if they ever did see each other again, it would be in the distant future, when she might be married to someone else.

  “You’ve performed your role of admirer admirably.” Her lips felt numb. Everything had gone numb. Which perhaps was better than actually feeling the pain caused by his easy acceptance of losing her to Mason. So, like an actress speaking her lines, she said, “Thank you for that. I imagine you’ll have much to write about for your book, as well.”

  He bowed, but said nothing.

  “I should go.” She glanced toward the door, wanting to tear it off its hinges and go running out, howling, through the streets of London.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She hesitated. Was this to be it, then? She managed to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him. Instead, she stuck out her hand. “Again, my thanks.”

  After a slight hesitation—as if he didn’t ever want to touch her again—he took her hand. But it wasn’t a warm enfolding of his fingers around hers. Instead, he shook her hand as if they were polite colleagues.

  She bit back a cry of despair. Even their friendship had died.

  “I—” His lips pressed together. “My felicitations.”

  She nodded, then slid her grip from his. Not trusting herself to speak without dissolving into angry, confused tears, she spun on her heel, pulled the door open, and walked quickly out.

  Chapter 23

  “The trouble with moodily gazing into the fire,” Seb said as he stared at the flames burning in Rotherby’s study fireplace, “is how very appealing it seems to simply chuck myself in there.”

  “Here, now,” his friend chided from behind his desk. “Since when are you given to melodramatic pronouncements?”

  “Since Grace cheerfully announced that Fredericks had proposed.” That wasn’t entirely true. Grace hadn’t been quite cheerful. Yet over and over all he could hear was the way in which she’d countered his own offer of marriage with the stunning announcement.

  It hadn’t quite been a complete surprise. Only logical that the naturalist would see her as an ideal spouse, the sort that her family would readily accept as the man who should be her husband. Grace and Fredericks would be perfect for each other. Grace loved natural philosophy. She was kind and intelligent and had a radiance that never failed to rob Seb of breath. Fredericks was . . . reasonably attractive. Marginally intelligent. Well, Fredericks possessed enough intelligence to finally recognize Grace’s magnificence, so he wasn’t all bad.

  Nevertheless . . .

  “Bloody hell,” Seb muttered. He picked up the fire poker and gave the burning logs several stabs. “Didn’t think the knave would work so sodding fast. A proposal. Less than twenty-four hours after dancing his first goddamned dance with her.”

  “Leaving for an expedition to Greenland can urge a man to action.”

  “He ought to take an expedition to Hades. Study the flora and fauna. Maybe he’ll be devoured by a hellhound.”

  It wasn’t fair to hate Fredericks—but that didn’t stop Seb from happily imagining the naturalist being eternally eviscerated by a denizen of Hell.

  A rap sounded at the door to the study, and a moment later, McCameron strolled into the chamber. He peered at Seb.

  “God above,” McCameron exclaimed, “you look like the bottom of the Thames, only less cheerful. What happened?”

  “Lady Grace is going to marry Fredericks,” Rotherby said before Seb could answer.

  But hearing it spoken of so plainly felt like being flayed alive. Seb pushed away from his place by the fire and went to the window. Dusk had deepened into night, and carriages rattled past on their way to the evening’s entertainments. The occasional linkboy escorted pedestrians and sedan chairs. Everyone was going about their lives with no consideration for Seb’s agony. The bastards.

  McCameron clicked his tongue. “Come out tonight, Holloway. Rotherby and I will take you to the Eagle chophouse and we can get roaring drunk.”

  “I’ve no desire to go out.” The window’s glass chilled Seb’s palm. Perhaps its deadening cold might take away his blazing fury and sadness.

  “But you’re London’s darling rake,” McCameron said.

  “Sod that.” He pivoted to face his two friends, who both looked at him with concern. “I don’t want to be a rake any longer.” Even for the sake of science, becoming Society’s latest object of admiration had been a worthless crown to wear.

  Rotherby spread his hands. “What do you want?”

  “Grace!” Seb didn’t realize he’d shouted until he saw Rotherby and McCameron step backward. With an attempt at controlling his voice, he went on. “I want Grace. But she’s got Fredericks now. The man she desired all this time.” Saying the words made it all the more real, more concrete.

  “Don’t see why that ought to upset you so.” McCameron crossed his arms over his chest as he frowned.

  “Because, you dolt,” Seb snarled, “I love her.”

  Rotherby cursed softly and McCameron looked dumbfounded.

  It took Seb a moment to understand what he’d just said, and what it meant.

  Holy God. I love her.

  This was more than attraction, deeper than friendship, stronger than affection. He wanted only her happiness. Her troubles were his. To see her smile with genuine pleasure had become the greatest gift he could ever receive. He wanted to stand beside her as she conquered the world. Because she would conquer the world—of that he had no doubt.

  Somewhere in the past few weeks, he’d given her his heart.

  But she was to undertake her journey through life with someone else. She might bear that other man’s children. They’d make discoveries that would enrich the sciences for centuries. She’d grow old with him and anticipate sharing eternity with him.

  With Fredericks, not Seb. Fury and misery filled his body, his mind. It was as though his blood had been replaced by knives, and each beat of his heart pulsed cutting blades through him.

  Seb had worked so very hard to win Grace her prize, little thinking of the cost to himself, or the fact that he’d guided her straight into Fredericks’s arms.

  “Tell her.” Rotherby took a step toward him. “If you love her, you must tell her.”

  Seb exhaled raggedly. “That would make me ten kinds of bastard, to ruin her happiness with my own selfish desires. I will not undermine her.”

  “Damn,” Rotherby grumbled.

  “My apologies, old man.” McCameron gave Seb’s shoulder a gentle shake. “It’s a hard place to be in, to love someone who doesn’t love you back.”

  Seb shared a quick glance with Rotherby. Neither of them had ever truly addressed McCameron’s heartbreak, as if not speaking to him about it somehow protected their friend from feeling its pain. But clearly, they’d been wrong, because the wound sounded as fresh as ever in McCameron’s voice.

  “You don’t want to go out,” Rotherby said, “which is fine. Only tell us what it is you do want. There’s surely something that will help you through this. How about writing up that book, the one about becoming a rake?”

  Internally, Seb recoiled
. “The last goddamn thing I want to do is dwell on this disaster. No, I think it’s time.”

  “Time for what?” Rotherby asked.

  “To go on one of my wanders.” Now that he’d proposed it, the idea made sense. He already pictured himself shielded behind his role as disinterested observer, studying the people and traditions of far-flung villages. “Surely losing myself in England’s most remote places will take my mind from losing Grace.”

  “Will it?” McCameron asked, his voice gentle.

  Seb offered his friends a weary smile. “What choice do I have?”

  The night sky stretched over Hampstead Heath like the profundity of dreams, and Grace tried to lose herself in its endless black-and-indigo reaches. Unlike Jane, who stood nearby, adjusting her telescope as Douglas held a lantern for illumination, Grace couldn’t name any of the stars, which she rather liked. It kept them beautiful and mysterious. Unreachable.

  “For a woman who has fielded an offer of marriage from the man she’s adored for years,” Jane said, “there’s a good deal of pensive silence coming from your quadrant.”

  “I’d have thought you would be capering around Hampstead Heath like a lamb,” Douglas added.

  “There’s a distinct lack of capering,” Jane agreed.

  “It’s disturbing,” Douglas said.

  “Quite so,” Jane said. “Disturbing is just the word I’m thinking of. Perhaps even distressing.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. Distressing. I like it.”

  Hearing the easy camaraderie and warmth between the Argyles normally soothed Grace. Tonight, however, she wanted to kick over their telescope and shout for them to both shut their mouths.

  She didn’t do either, but her hands formed into fists at her sides as she breathed and prayed for calm. Yet she hadn’t felt calm since . . . she honestly couldn’t remember. The past few weeks had been a tempest. Having Sebastian offer his hand but then eagerly rescind that offer when hearing about Mason’s proposal certainly didn’t soothe her mind or heart.