As I am eager to talk to Sebastian, I wholeheartedly agree.
An early riser, he might already be out for a ride or attending to estate business.
In fact, he is arguing with his father.
The three Holcroft daughters are standing outside their father’s study, their ears pressed to the door, and spotting me, Mrs. Dowell extends her arm, loops it through mine, and pulls me in closer. I protest that it is unseemly, and all three of them say, “Hush.”
Mrs. Dowell whispers, “Father and Seb are having the most awful row. It is about grandmother’s ring. It is a gorgeous thing, all sapphires and diamonds. Father says it is too valuable to take out of the safe, and Seb thinks that is absurd. A ring is meant to be worn. They have been quarreling for about fifteen minutes now.”
“But it is not really about the ring,” Sarah says softly.
“It is a proxy for a more meaningful difference of opinion,” Eleanor adds archly. “But you must not worry that you shall be tied to an ogre, for Mother will take Father in hand now and demand that he behave. He knows he is in the wrong and will eventually admit it.”
Blushing at the implication, I mumble something nonsensical about the preciousness of family heirlooms, then scurry away before I am caught eavesdropping.
I take refuge in the breakfast room, which is empty due to the lateness of the hour. Perching over a newspaper as though enthralled by its contents, I sip tea and tell myself not to build castles in the air. Sometimes an argument about a ring is just an argument about a ring, and regardless, this article aboutthe local theater’s production of Molière is fascinating. The director’s decision to have an English king, rather than the king of France, set matters to right is a bold move. I am sure it befits the story.
Sebastian enters as I turn the page, and he dispatches the footman on an errand that will not be easy to complete. Then he closes the door, strides across the room, takes me into his arms, and kisses me with little respect for either the broadsheet or its intrepid reporter who sat through three performances ofTartuffe.
It is a long kiss, a wild kiss, a kiss unbecoming the breakfast room or the footman’s errand or Vera Hyde-Clare’s daughter, and I begin to perceive that sometimes a ring is the most gorgeous, glorious, stunning, exhilarating, humbling, beautiful proxy in the entire world.
Thrilled by the knowledge, I pull back and murmur, “I will only be a moment.”
Then I walk sedately to the door, casting a flirtatious glance back as I step into the corridor, and run at breakneck speed to my room to fetch the necessary items. Taking them in hand, I dash back to the breakfast room, pause to regain my breath, and return as though nothing peculiar has happened. Appearing to continue the previous conversation, I thank him for the display of affection. “It was most gratifying,” I say with practiced dignity as I press pen to paper to make my list.
Sebastian takes my theatrics in stride, displaying not a hint of curiosity or confusion as he says with straightforward simplicity, “I love you, Flora.”
Does the hand holding the pen turn to jelly?
Of course it does!
It is a protestation of love from a kind and handsome man for whom I have developed a tendre.
I am not made of stone.
Indeed, I am made of the opposite of stone.
All mush and treacle.
Determinedly, I persevere, my fingers tightening on the implement as I continue to write, and I reply, “I love you too, Sebastian.”
It is a first—thefirst—and my beloved responds with all sorts of delightful nonsense, tugging me into his arms for another devastating kiss.
Oh, it is perfect.
Will everything always be this perfect?
I cannot wait to find out.
But first my schedule.
Breathing quite heavily, I pull away. “No, no, you must let me finish.”
Intrigued, he glances at the sheet of paper on the table, compelling me to hide it with my arm and chastise him for his impatience.
“That is not impatience,” he says huskily, tightening his arms around me before lowering his mouth again. “Thisis impatience.”
At the touch of his lips, all thoughts scatter from my brain.
