The Fallon garden was as lovely as Sebastian remembered it. He was sitting at the very back of it, in a corner where the torchlight couldn’t reach. The last time he’d been here, over a year ago, he had shared this bench with the wife of an elderly earl. They’d taken turns sipping from the flask he’d brought before disappearing out a back gate to find his carriage, where they could be truly alone.
He had not seen that woman in ages. The last year of clean living had been an interesting experiment. But it was officially at an end.
If he’d found Cassie sooner, he might have saved himself the trouble of self-improvement. Once she had assured herself that her brother was safe from prosecution, she had not cared one way or the other for his health or character. She had gone contentedly back to her old life and not given him another thought.
He pulled out the same flask he’d used to woo the countess and took a long pull on it, toasted the moon and drank again. It was embarrassing to find that one was but a minor character in the most dramatic events of one’s own life. But there was the truth of it. He had not been important to her.
The recent farce they’d played was even worse. He was now the villain of the piece: a despoiler of virgins. The black-hearted swine who’d seduced and abandoned her after dispensing withanyone who dared to stand in the way of his courtship. Thank God Balard had been waiting in the wings to play the hero.
If he had any sense, he was down on one knee in this very garden, making his offer. The moon was full and the stage was set. It was a damned fine night to be in love.
He took another drink and checked his watch. The waltz had been nearly an hour ago. He’d watched the beginning of the dance, which they’d shared after an hour’s conversation. If his assumptions were correct, the proposal would have come after, and the happy couple would now be making the rounds of the ballroom, sharing the good news. It was an excellent time for him to catch one last glimpse of Cassie, offer her a hurried congratulation and slip away.
He dropped the flask back into his pocket and stood up. Later, when he was home, or in Soho, or whatever dark hole he could crawl into, there would be time for more brandy. Or a woman. Perhaps two. Or maybe he could take up laudanum. It was good for numbing other pains. Why not a broken heart?
He made his way up the garden path along a bank of pink roses, ignoring the couples he passed, with their sighing and discreet handholding. He had no time for such tepid lovemaking. This afternoon, he had lain with a goddess. The rest of his life might be equally divine punishment, but he would not change a minute of the sin.
Then, he rounded a bend in the path and there, sitting by the fountain was his everything. Her white gown glowed pale in the moonlight, as did the pearls at her throat. Her face was tipped up, basking in the cool radiance as if she could soak it up like the sun.
She was alone. The damnable Balard was probably off getting the champagne so they could celebrate. If he was lucky, he could say his farewells and be off without having to shake the bastard’s hand.
He squared his shoulders and walked up to her, face fixed in a polite smile and said, ‘I understand congratulations are in order.’
She turned away from the moon, and stared at him with a faintly baffled expression, as if she’d forgotten his existence in the few hours they’d been apart. Her brow furrowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She was being more polite to him than he deserved, considering the circumstances. But there was a vagueness in her expression that he did not quite understand. She was always so sharp, so focused. Could it be?
His lips twitched. She was drunk. Perhaps he was not the only one who was suffering this evening.
‘Did you say something?’ she said frowning.
‘I offered you congratulations on your engagement,’ he said, more slowly.
‘We are not engaged,’ she reminded him, poking him in the chest with a wavering finger.
‘I am aware of that. I mean your engagement to Balard.’ When she did not respond he added, ‘He was going to propose, tonight.’
‘What do you know about that?’ Now she sounded decidedly cross.
‘I was there, at White’s this morning, when he spoke to your brother,’ he said.
‘You knew.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You knew, all along.’
‘It was hardly a secret,’ he said. ‘The room was quite full when he petitioned your brother. Anyone could have overheard.’
She looked around her and towards the ballroom where the majority of guests were gathered. ‘So everyone knew my business but me.’
‘Well, not everyone,’ he said, wondering if he should have lied to reassure her. ‘But it was no surprise that Balard has been courting you. A proposal was inevitable.’
‘He talked to Julian, first,’ she said. ‘And you.’
‘Not to me, precisely,’ he said. ‘I was there. I wrote to you immediately after.’
‘To tell me?’ she said, her voice slurred but sarcastic.
‘To convince you to meet me,’ he explained patiently. Surely, she had not forgotten the contents of his letter so soon.
‘And then, you took me to your tawdry little apartment and deflowered me.’ She poked him in the chest again.
