One Tempting Proposal (17 page)

Bess and Kitty looked at each other as Cynthia pulled on her gloves, exchanging questioning glances, and mouthing
Mollie
in unison. Then Bess pressed her lips together and Kitty covered her mouth, both determined to keep their mirth suppressed.

What nickname might she choose for Sebastian? Kitty couldn't imagine adopting Violet's habit of assigning everything a girlish diminutive and calling him something like Sebbie or Wrexie. He was such a tall imposing man. Dainty and frivolous would never suit.

But as she watched Cynthia take care with slipping her left glove over the hand where she wore Lord Molstrey's emerald engagement ring, her mouth went slack, her body tight, and she clenched the ribbon at the edge of her gown.

Cynth assigned Molstrey a pet name because she would soon be his wife. That future did not await her with Sebastian. Why even waste a minute on the thought? Marriage may not be her fate. She'd accepted that long ago.

The Duke of Wrexford would be a brother-­in-­law of sorts, and nothing more.

Releasing the wrinkled ribbon, she lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest where she suddenly felt chilled.

Cynthia and Bess were saying their thank-­yous as Kitty herded them toward the drawing room door, but it swung open as they approached and a housemaid popped her head in.

“The Duke of Wrexford to see you, my lady.”

“Oh, goodness. Perhaps we should stay awhile.” Cynthia's voice had gone even higher, and her eyes grew large and panicked at the notion she might miss out on some juicy bit of intelligence to be gathered by seeing the two of them in the same room together.

“No, Cynthia. We don't wish to be late for meeting Mollie.” Bess managed to keep a straight face as she said the nickname, but she turned a beaming smile on Kitty as she shooed Cynthia out of the room.

There was a moment of awkwardness as the ladies stopped to greet and then offer parting words to Sebastian, but when they'd finally left and he stood facing Kitty in the entry hall, her legs began to quiver.

He looked dreadful, his skin ashen and hair askew, but more than the physical dishevelment, he looked . . . bereft. His broad mouth was fixed in a grimace and he clenched both of his hands at his sides. Her first instinct was to go to him, to embrace and comfort him. She'd never seen a man who looked more in need of it.

Instead, she lifted her hand and indicated the drawing room door, inviting him inside.

“May we go to your conservatory instead?”

“Yes, of course.” She never invited anyone there. Other families entertained in their conservatories, taking tea or even luncheon in the well-­lit space, but her parents disdained the scents and dirtiness of the room. It had become sacrosanct as her private retreat.

His footsteps fell heavy behind her, not at all his usual firm, clipped gait as she led him to the back of the house. He followed so closely she could feel his breath displacing the fine hairs at her nape.

She didn't take him to her work area, but to a whitewashed wrought iron bench near a small pool in the center of the room. She'd managed to grow a few thriving lily pads in the pond and hoped to add more.

“Shall I ring for tea?” she asked him.

“Have you not had your tea?”

“I meant for you.”

He shook his head before leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and dipping his head down toward his hands.

“I don't want tea. I just . . . wished to see you.”

An odd thing to say when his eyes were fixed on the black and white honeycomb tiles of the conservatory floor.

“Will you sit with me, Kitty?”

He'd never called her by that name, and it wasn't until she heard him say it that the realization came—­she much preferred the nickname he'd chosen for her.

Gathering her skirt so as not to crowd him on the narrow bench, she sat and waited for him to lift his head.

With his back rounded, his muscular frame straining against the seams of his overcoat, he looked beaten, so bowed by troubles he didn't wish to raise his head and face to the world around him.

Kitty gripped the cool metal of the bench's frame, slipping her fingers into the swirling vines of the design to keep herself from reaching out to stroke his back and smooth his wildly ruffled hair. It looked as if he'd stuck his fingers through the locks, and then again, or tried to yank them out altogether.

Silence was common in this room. She often worked for hours without speaking a word to anyone, though she sometimes hummed a tune or rambled on to her plants. But sitting with Sebastian, misery rolling off of him in waves, made her want to fill the emptiness with words that might soothe him. What might they be? As she'd said to him that night in his study, they knew little of each other.

“Sebastian.”

He lifted his head enough to glance at her lap.

“I am . . . willing to hear whatever it is you need to say.”

Surely there was something weighing on his mind. Some reason he'd called unexpectedly and looked so forlorn.

He offered her nothing. No answer. Not even another glance in her direction.

But he moved, flexing his arm so that he could rest his right hand on the bench next to her left one. He spread his fingers so that the edge of his hand pressed against her own.

Lifting her smallest finger, she stroked against the edge of his, allowing herself that tiny means of reassuring him.

“Tell me what scent you're wearing today. It's deeper, but still sweet.”

She felt the roughness in his voice as if he'd dragged it across her skin.

“Jasmine and a few notes of rose.”

“You must have dozens of bottles of perfume.”

Kitty bowed her head. How many times had her father chastised her for spending too much on scent?

“It's my weakness. Some ladies have too many shoes or can never buy enough hats. I buy too much perfume.”

He finally straightened and turned his head to gaze at her.

“You like hats too. Don't forget your ill-­fated feathered one.”

“That was the first new hat I'd had in months. Will you forever remind me of that one?”

“I probably will. It was unforgettable.” The skin around his mouth lost some of its tension, the hint of a grin chiseling at the edges. But his eyes. His beautiful gray blue eyes and the lines at their corners, the dip of his brow above, signaled so much anguish that Kitty felt it, a tight, sharp little knot of pain in the center of her chest.

“Is there anything I might do?”

He had come to her, and she'd happily ease his pain if she had the power to do so.

Finally, the grin she'd glimpsed the seed of bloomed into a devastatingly tender smile. And he heightened the punch of it by reaching for her, easing his hand over hers where it rested on the bench.

“You already have.” He stroked a thumb over her hand. “And as to the rest, I haven't wrestled with it long enough to face the truth myself.”

“My father says—­”

In one swift movement he lifted his hand to stop her.

“Let's not invite your father into this moment.”

Kitty drew her hand away from his and straightened her back. He was right, but the realization made her feel foolish and small. At three and twenty, was she truly still parroting her father's philosophies at every turn?

“I'm sorry, Kat. Tell me what your father says.”

When she pressed her lips together, he reached for her hand again.

“Please. I want to hear it.”

“He says . . .” Her voice sounded tiny and childish, and she cleared her throat to recapture a bit of self-­possession. “The test of a great man isn't whether he tells the truth, but whether he can face the truth, no matter how difficult.”

He edged away from her on the bench to turn his body toward hers, his long legs tangling in her skirts.

“For once, I think I might agree with your father.” He grinned, but like the last, it didn't wash away the pain brimming in his gaze. “But what if a man can't tell? What if he's proven himself a fool and believed so many lies that he can no longer discern the truth at all?”

 

Chapter Seventeen

A
GREEING TO A
dinner at Clayborne House was probably a mistake. Seb's patience was a thread beyond frayed and the likelihood of holding his tongue when Clayborne said something insulting to Kat seemed unlikely. Not to mention the fact that he'd kept the matter of his possible offspring from her when visiting her conservatory. Just sitting with her quietly had calmed his nerves. But he'd seen the question in her eyes. She was a clever woman and knew something was amiss. If she asked him tonight, he was liable to tell her all of it.

Kat deserved to know all of it. She would have to know all of it, because the longer their feigned engagement went on, the more he wanted her in his life, and not just until Ollie and Harriet wed. Perhaps Alecia's allegation had worn down his defenses. Perhaps they weren't as solid as he'd imagined them to be in the first place. Kat, his feelings for her, had slipped beyond his guard and ignited him.

“Are you all right, Sebastian?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

Pippa sat across from him in the Wrexford carriage and shot him an incredulous look. “You returned late this afternoon and locked yourself in your study. You took no luncheon that I'm aware of, and you were surly about having to dress for dinner. If you did not wish to dine with the Adderlys, we shouldn't have accepted their invitation.”

Pippa was ever the practical one, but she didn't seem to comprehend that social niceties sometimes required one to be less than practical. It was natural for the Adderlys to invite them to reciprocate the meal they'd all shared at Wrexford House. And as their eldest daughter's fiancé, it would've been the height of rudeness for him to refuse.

“It's not quite that simple, Pippa.”

“I see. Then perhaps I'm missing something.”

“I believe you are. She is my fiancée. Clayborne will be my father-­in-­law.”

He didn't even choke when he said it. In sifting his feelings for Kat, he couldn't ignore her father. If she was to be part of his life, the marquess would be too. Which probably meant throttling the fellow wasn't an option.

Good grief, man.
Now he was getting too far ahead of himself. She might have enjoyed their kisses as much as he did. And she'd proved herself willing to invite him into her conservatory and give him a bit of comfort when he was sorely in need of it. They'd formed a companionship of sorts, but at times she retreated behind that cool self-­possession he'd encountered the first night he'd met her. He had no real notion whether she might welcome a genuine courtship. Why would she accept his attentions when he was the fool who might have fathered a child and known nothing about it for years?

Seb looked across the carriage interior at his sister, noted the concern etched on her face, and tried to force the frown from his own.

“Thank you for being concerned about me.”

“Until you're married, I believe that's still my job.” Pippa seemed to lighten a moment, almost letting the worry slip from her expression and giving into a grin. “Since mother and father are gone, we must always look out for each other.”

“And Ollie,” Seb added solemnly.

Pippa looked down at her clasped hands and rubbed her thumbs together, a habit she'd had since childhood, one of her few outward signs of distress.

“Yes, and Ollie.” Pippa lifted her head and looked out into the fiery dusk of the Mayfair skyline. Fragments of light pierced the empty slices between buildings. “No matter what choices he makes.”

She still struggled with acceptance. And he couldn't blame her one whit. How long had he spun aimlessly in denial before finally embracing the end of his relationship with Alecia?

Turning his head toward his own carriage window, he hid a wry twist of his mouth. And now the poisonous relationship wasn't over at all. An innocent boy was in the middle of it, and Seb mourned for Archie most of all. Whether the child was his son or not, he'd become his mother's pawn.

When the footman assisted Pippa from their carriage, Seb finally realized the vehicle had stopped moving and stepped down.

Clayborne House blazed as if Queen Victoria herself would be joining them, gaslight and candlelight glowing from every window, and liveried footman standing sentry on each side of the hallway as they entered. Far more fuss than Seb had encountered on any of his previous visits, and he wondered why Clayborne was suddenly so concerned with presenting a glamorous façade.

When they stepped into the drawing room, he saw Ollie's smiling face first and then scanned the room for Kat. His shoulders tightened when he didn't see her in the drawing room, but then he caught a whiff of fragrance, the same lavender-­vanilla blend she'd worn to dinner at Wrexford House.

“I wasn't certain you'd come this evening.” Kat's tone was soothingly light as she moved to stand beside him.

He offered her his arm. Together they walked to stand near the unlit fireplace rather than taking a seat among the guests.

“Perhaps I shouldn't have, particularly if you're expecting wit or charm. I'm not sure I have it in me tonight.”

Finally, she turned toward him, and he watched her eyes move over each feature of his face and then sweep down to take in his evening clothes before meeting his eyes again.

“Do you always assess men so boldly?”

“No, and certainly not when they can see me doing so. But with you, I thought I might be allowed.”

She seemed to sense he needed banter, or at least a conversation that did not delve into the reason for his unplanned visit earlier in the afternoon.

Reaching up to straighten his lapels and ease his shoulders back, he let himself be drawn into her mirth.

“So, what's your assessment, Lady Katherine?”

“Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Inhaling sharply, he nodded. “Do your worst.”

“I was simply trying to find it.”

“Find it? Find what?”

“Whatever it is about you that's so different from every other man of my acquaintance.” She skimmed her gaze from his head to his toes and back up again. “You look every inch the titled gentleman, as well tailored and elegant as any. But you readily admit your faults and honestly answer each question I put to you. That alone marks you as extraordinary.”

She'd been kind enough to avoid questioning him earlier in the afternoon, and those crucial answers would no doubt have soured the admiration in her gaze.

“And do you prefer honesty or polite and proper answers?”

Her sigh was loud enough to draw her mother's attention.

“If I am remarking on your honesty, then I must find it to my liking. Otherwise, if I loathed it, I'd be polite and proper and not mention it at all.”

“I don't recall that I spent my engagement to your father involved in nearly so much whispering in corners.”

Seb pivoted to face the Marchioness of Clayborne. He'd yet to exchange more than niceties with Kat's mother, but on first impression the lady was far less fearsome than her husband. If not for the way her narrow blue eyes took in every detail around her, he would have considered the woman a charming antidote to her husband's sharp edges.

“But I suppose I can forgive you for monopolizing my daughter, Your Grace. We are so pleased. The prospect of two daughters married in one season. I may be the luckiest mother in London.”

Talk of matches caused Seb to lift his gaze to Ollie and Harriet, who stood conversing with Pippa. Pippa seemed to sense his attention and turned to look at him, lifting her chin a notch.

She would come out of this challenge as she did each one life had dealt her, with courage and grace.

While Seb watched his sister, Clayborne drew up next to his wife. “Yes, my dear. Fortuitous, indeed, especially when one considers this was to be Katherine's fifth season. If not for you, Wrexford, the dusty old maid's shelf would have been her fate.”

Kat didn't blush or drain of color as some young ladies might at such a declaration, but fire sparked in her gaze, more anger than hurt, as she looked in her father's direction.

The man refused to acknowledge her glare.

Ignoring propriety, Seb reached for Kat's hand to draw her attention.

“Thank goodness you had the sense to refuse all your other suitors.”

For a moment all the rest receded—­the chilly drawing room, their gathered family chatting and laughing over something Ollie said, and the pinprick gazes of Kat's parents. She wasn't wearing gloves and he slid his fingers over her warm skin, breathing in her scent, attempting to offer her the comfort she'd given him so freely earlier in the day.

“Lord Clayborne and I considered a party to celebrate both engagements.” The marchioness's voice cut in.

“No.” They called out the word emphatically and in unison.

Kat's mother reared back and clutched the diamond choker at her throat. “Well. Perhaps we can discuss a party another time.”

Before the conversation with her parents could become any more awkward, the blessed dinner gong sounded and they begin filing in ­couple by ­couple to the dining room. Seb had been impressed with Wrexford House's staff and the effort they'd put into preparing the dining room for its first formal use since he'd assumed his title. But Lord Clayborne and his wife seemed determined to outdo him. Their table boasted twice as many silver serving dishes, thrice as many glasses, and more pieces of silverware than seemed necessary for the number of guests. Flowers dominated the space and Seb glanced over at Kat, wondering if her conservatory had been stripped bare to decorate the small dinner party.

Seb didn't have the advantage of sitting at the opposite end of the table from Clayborne this time. He had to endure the man's pointed questions to Ollie about his progress at the Inns of Court, his brags about his own accomplishments in Parliament, and his thinly veiled attacks on his eldest daughter.

Not all families were happy ones. He'd always known that his was one of the lucky few, but he'd never encountered a father who expressed such naked enmity toward his own daughter. His ire seemed especially reserved for Kat. Lady Harriet drew almost none of his attention, favorable or otherwise.

Much like Pippa, Kat seemed to bear pain with stoicism and grace, often ignoring her father altogether to speak to her sister or Pippa, but the more the marquess drank, and the more she ignored him, the more he seemed increasingly determined to pierce her poise with his words.

“You can't take that damned conservatory with you, you know.”

“Pardon, Papa?” Seb knew she'd heard him, and he admired how calmly she responded to her father's provocation.

“When you marry the duke, you must leave your filthy hobby behind. You'll be a duchess, and duchesses don't dig in the dirt with their fingers like some farm laborer.”

Seb slammed his palm on the table and shot up from his chair.

“Might I have a word with you, Clayborne?”

The man's eyes were glassy when he glared back at Seb. “I'm not sure you're aware, Wrexford, but we're in the middle of dinner ser­vice, and it's not yet time to leave the table.”

“Make an exception.”

The marquess didn't allow the smirk to slide off his face, but Seb could see in Clayborne's cloudy gray eyes that the man sensed his seriousness. As daintily as any fine lady, the marquess lifted his napkin and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before throwing the snow-­white fabric on his plate.

“Very well, Wrexford, as you are our guest, I shall make this single exception. If you'll excuse us, ladies and Mr. Treadwell. It seems I must impart a few of the rules of decorum to the new duke. Shouldn't take long.”

Seb expected Kat's father to lead him back into the drawing room, but he took a right into a cool dark room that smelled of pipe smoke and liquor. He only turned up the gaslight enough to lift the darkness, and Seb noted rows of book-­lined shelves, well-­worn leather furniture, and a massive desk that dwarfed his own.

“Have a seat, Wrexford. I'd like to get back for the main course.”

“This won't require sitting. Your daughter, Katherine, is an extraordinary woman and yet after twenty-­three years of knowing her, you seem unaware of that fact. Or perhaps you are, and the pain of losing her to any man has turned you bitter and angry. I don't know you, Clayborne, and I can't begin to understand you, but I can tell you this. As long as Kat is my fiancée, as long as she is my wife, you will never speak to her that way again.”

The marquess dipped his head, but he didn't bend his shoulders or sag in defeat. In fact, he straightened to his rather diminutive height and reached up to smooth his beard before turning a Cheshire cat smile on Seb.

“Are we to speak plainly then? I have been so looking forward to the two of us speaking plainly to one another. Do you think I believe you're truly interested in my daughter? Do you think I believe you have any intention of marrying her? Do you think I'm such a fool that I accept the coincidence of your choice of my very challenging daughter at the very moment her sister needs approval to marry your, what shall we call him, not quite a brother?”

Seb doubted his ability to convince Clayborne from the beginning. But why had the man let them carry on with their ruse?

“You thought you'd done it so well. I've heard of your very public outings. Apparently you decided to go for a swim in the pond at Hyde Park and take liberties with my daughter at the Royal Botanical Gardens.”

If Alecia's pursuit unnerved him, how must Kat feel to know her father watched her every move?

“Nothing goes on with my children or my family or any other cause in which I have an interest without my knowledge. Your Grace, you are a novice at this game. It takes decades to learn the rules.”

“I'm not interested in the game, Clayborne. Nor the rules.”