“I have asked three times if we might come to stay.”
Sebastian did not even attempt to tamp down his irritation. “I believe such an honor rests on the shoulders of those hosting,” he said, and looked down at Eleanor’s head. “My wife and I are enjoying the beginning of our married life together, and wish for no interference.”
“I had not thought you would consider it interference, Your Grace.” Mrs. Bennett sent Eleanor a poisonous glance. “We would not stay long. Just for tea. Eleanor knows what she owes us.”
“Indeed?” Sebastian raised his brows. “I have an idea of what my wife owes you, and it certainly is not tea, and not in my house. I thank you, ma’am, but I have claimed Eleanor’s hand for the next dance.” He gave her a small inclination of the head, nothingapproaching a bow, and tugged at Eleanor’s arm. She came meekly, following him out onto the dance floor and standing opposite him in the line of ladies.
Sebastian did not miss the hectic flush in her cheeks, or the way she finally relaxed now she was out of her stepmother’s gaze. It irritated him to no end that he noticed these things at all, and he found himself grinding his teeth as he prepared himself for the torture that was to come.
He had not danced in a very long time. It was an abominably dull way for a healthy young man to spend the evening, and if he had any need for female company, he would not have chosen to come to one of these obnoxious balls and held insipid hands with a lady for half an hour.
No, there were far better options for a man of such vigor.
Yet, when he glanced up to find Eleanor’s gaze locked on his, and when her hand brushed his and he took it more firmly, he found himself more aware of her existence than he had ever been before. Her proximity, the way her curls framed her face. He wondered at the silkiness of them. The way her fingers tightened infinitesimally around his when he guided her, and the loss of her hand when the dance parted them. Every time her skirts brushed his legs, he wondered what lay beneath them.
What man had taken a wife for over a week and had yet to see what she looked like without her clothes?
He could remember in vivid detail how she had looked in her nightgown when she had entered his bedchamber. The pebbled press of her nipples against the soft silk, and her hair loose around her shoulders.
Dash it all, he detested that she occupied so much space in his thoughts.
The problem was that he had not had her the way a husband ought to have a wife. Once he had given in to his urges, his infernal preoccupation with her would desist, and he would be free to go about his life as he always had.
Yet if he was to see his plan through, he would not grant himself the chance to give in to his urges.
“Well, Sebastian?” she asked, raising her gaze to his when they met in the dance once more. “Are you going to say nothing to me?”
“Why?” he asked curtly. “Do you have something in particular to say?”
She glanced down, eyelashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. “Thank you for intervening with my stepmother.”
“You were terrified.”
“Yes,” she breathed, still not looking at him. “She… often has that effect on me.”
“Then do not be scared any longer. You outrank her. She may do nothing to harm you.”
“Even a Duchess can at times be subject to scandal.”
“By God,” he muttered, frowning down into her sweet face. “Is there much of scandal to be said about you?”
“Well, I think not, but she may not speak the truth.”
“Then you will no doubt have some gratification in dismissing the rumors.” He felt his irritation growing. “And if they persist, I shall act myself. Let it not be said that I have no power.” In fact, he had more power than ever now his inheritance had been released and he was finally at liberty to draw on the funds his father had left him.
“I doubt anyone would say you were powerless, Sebastian,” she said, and smiled shyly at him. He found himself staring at her a moment too long until the dance parted them once more. He had never experienced such a thing—the urge, in that moment, not to kiss her or push her skirts about her legs or any of the coarse thoughts he often had about a woman he desired, but to return her smile.
Age was getting to him after all, no doubt. Thirty approached, and perhaps he had overindulged a few too many times.
“Tell me what you were thinking dancing with Lord Sinclair,” he said when they returned together. He gripped her fingers morefirmly this time. “That was the first dance. You ought to have danced it with me.”
“Well, I looked to you for direction,” she said. “But you were engaged in conversation, and you said nothing about dancing. I know many young gentlemen do not care for dancing, and I supposed you were one of them.”
Just as he’d thought. And a small pang reminded him that he had, as she said, been engaged in conversation, and although he had intended broadly to dance with her, he had not thought to communicate such a thing. He had assumed, more foolishly of him, that when he searched for her, she would be patiently waiting.
Getting rid of her would be harder than he had hoped if she was prepared to find enjoyment and engagement elsewhere if he did not deliver.
“In the future, presume that I will wish to dance the first set with you,” he said crisply.
