She was asking why he’d exposed her.
He released her waist, but held on to her hand and led her through the bacchanal of raucous singing and laughing and dancing bodies. Past the edge of light, their eyes adjusted to the dark as they made their way along the beach and around a bend to a snug, sandy cove populated by only them, music and laughter echoing in the far distance.
He shed his coat and spread it flat, just out of reach of the shoreline, before extending a hand and gesturing for her to take a seat. Once settled, she glanced up and patted the remaining patch of cloth beside her—an invitation.
He accepted, angling himself so he could look out to sea, but also keep an eye on her. She was watching him expectantly, waiting for him—to explain his past self.
Best to start at the very beginning. “I’d received an invitation to visit my old stomping ground of Eton College,” he said. “On the surface, it was to celebrate some anniversary, but the real reason was to inveigle funds from me for a new arts wing. A game I know well.” He snorted. “I may have invented it.”
Delilah canted her head. “How many arts wings have your name emblazoned on them, anyway?”
His eyes screwed up. “Eight? Nine?” He shrugged. “One loses count.”
Delilah snorted. “Not one for false modesty, are you?”
“I’m not,” he returned. “I’m a duke. It would be disingenuous.”
Her teasing smile slipped into one more considering.
He needed her to understand something about him. “Patron of the artsis the role I’ve carved out for myself in society. It’s my privilege, too—shaping the artistic tastes of England.”
A note of mischief entered Delilah’s eye. “And here I thought you were a lech who was only in it for the mistresses.”
He accepted the teasing. She wasn’t entirely wrong. “I won’t deny there have been a few opera singers along the way, but that’s not my primary, or even secondary, motivation. I’m sure you know that many are fooled into thinking bad art is good art. But through patronage, I have placed myself in the position to ensure good art wins.”
“What? You’re the self-appointed art god? The Zeus of the arts?” she asked, not without a little scorn. “Art is subjective. Why is it for you to decide what’s good and what isn’t? People like what they like.”
She wasn’t wrong—but she wasn’t altogether right, either. “But you must allow that what’s popular isn’t always good.” He would take it a step further. “In fact, it’s often bad.”
“You are truly a snob,” she said, incredulous. “You know that, don’t you?”
He wasn’t here to make excuses for himself. So, he continued with the plain truth. “I cannot tolerate the idea of an artist possessed of genius slipping through the cracks of obscurity. Not when I have the means to do something about it.”
The expression on Delilah’s face as she took in his words… He’d never seen it—at least, not directed at him.Respect.“You’re so…”
Her brow crinkled as she searched for the correct word. Sebastian’s hands clenched at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms, as he waited.
“Responsible.”
A laugh escaped him. No small amount of relief in that laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
The way her azure gaze was taking him in, as if she were only now seeing him for the first time… Sebastian felt suddenly winded, as if an arrow had struck dead center in his chest. He could easily veer off course here—the largest part of him wanted to—but to do so wouldn’t serve his larger purpose. For tonight—this moment—wasn’t about immediate gratification. It was part of a longer game.
A game he was playing to win.
Though she didn’t know it yet.
She would.
He cleared his throat. “That day,” he said, continuing with the past, “I noticed a particular student straggling behind a large group. Tall, slender, a bit gangly with curly blond hair streaked with platinum.”
Delilah squirmed uncomfortably.
“He was the spitting image of one of my oldest friends, the Viscount Archer. But for one not-insignificant fact.”
Delilah shook her head. “Impossible. I was perfect in that role.”
