Then enough tears to fill the Thames would burst the dam and flow.
And there was but one man to blame for tonight’s triumph turned to ashes.
Ravensworth.
She wouldn’t soon forget.
Chapter One
Lincolnshire, England
August 1822
Sebastian spotted hisquarry across the spacious ballroom and began to move.
Tonight was the final night of the house party he’d been throwing in the wilds of Lincolnshire, which meant a ballroom flowing with champagne and laughter, packed with aristocratic and local bodies alike swathed in superfine, silk, and diamonds—bodies sheened in the perspiration specific to a lively late-summer gathering.
Navigating the room, all eight chandeliers lit to rival the heavens, Sebastian’s usual opaque smile remained firmly affixed to his mouth as he kept the lord who had been pointedly avoiding him all night in his sights. This smile of Sebastian’s happened to be his mouth’s natural resting place. It also happened to be a smile that was expected of him. Thetonwould be sorely disappointed if the Duke of Ravensworth suddenly threw a jolly laugh up to the chandeliers and sprayed joy all over the gathering.
He was the Duke.
And he was more than that.
He was the very image of a duke that people formed in their minds when they thought of a duke—serious-minded…not easily amused…not an ounce of frivolity on him. Which wasn’t to say he was a dour, humorless piece of work, but the world he inhabited had taught him one very important lesson.
Everyone wanted something from a duke—his attention…his approval…his smile.
But here was what he knew.
He didn’t have to give them any of it.
Although what the man he sought—Viscount Wakeley—wanted from him was to be left alone.
A chuckle escaped Sebastian, which the lady he happened to be slipping past at the moment—the newly wed Countess of Bridgewater, who had promised £200 for the new arts building in London this house party was in the service of funding—must’ve thought was for her given the saucy flash of the eye she tossed him over her shoulder.
Sebastian kept moving. That particular lady’s husband was known to have been deeply possessive of his mistresses. Sebastian assumed a wife would be no different. Nothing he wanted to get tangled up with, anyway.
Most—lords and ladies alike—vied for his attention, albeit usually for differing reasons. The lords were generally easier to manage than their ladies, who viewed the imminently eligible Duke of Ravensworth’s unattached status as invitation or challenge for conquest. In general, he’d learned early to steer clear of such entanglements, leaving him with a reputation more salacious than his lived reality.
The fact was he wasn’t a licentious or idle duke. Instead, he maintained tight control of every aspect of his life, as many depended and relied upon him. Yet over the years, the image and truth of the Duke of Ravensworth had become so intertwined, he wasn’t sure if at this point in his three and thirty years even he would be able to separate them—if he felt the urge.
Which he didn’t, for the record.
Ahead, Wakeley made a mistake. He allowed his wife to pull him into conversation with a large group. Sebastian saw his opportunity and seized it, efficiently cutting across gleaming mahogany and only stopping once he reached the periphery of the loose circle, which parted in an instant to allow him a place.
In truth, he appreciated the way people responded to his presence. Expectations were set and clear. All who attended a soirée, house party, or ball thrown by the Duke of Ravensworth knew why they’d been invited, and if they accepted the invitation—which, of course, they would—they’d end the evening lighter in the pockets.
Such was the price to attend this duke’s gatherings, for Sebastian didn’t invite just anyone. Meticulous curation went into his lists. Some nobles he invited because of their freedom with their purses—whether by true wealth or credit wasn’t his concern. Others were motivated by appearances—to be seen at a duke’s ball. He was more than happy to emblazon their names on a building for a generous donation.
“Ravensworth,” said one lord in greeting.Mossdown.He’d pledged £500 a few months ago.
Sebastian gave a nod. “I must offer my appreciation for your generous promise of a donation last spring.”
“’Twas nothing, Your Grace,” said Mossdown, a crimson blush creeping above his cravat.
Appreciation from a duke… It was a coveted thing.
Yet another power Sebastian was able to wield.
