Chapter Seventeen
Sebastian needed air.
Not the sort one found, thick, in a London ballroom, nor the stifling scent of hearth fires or mixed perfumes at the castle. No, he needed the kind of air found in taverns: warm, sour with ale, and soaked with male laughter.
“I still don’t understand,” Thomas muttered, scowling over the frothy head of his tankard. “We have an entire bloody brewery. Why are we in this particular pub drinking this horse piss instead of our stout?”
“Because,” Sebastian drawled, slouching comfortably into the battered booth, “I needed a moment outside the castle walls.”
Rotheworth let out a low laugh and knocked his tankard against Sebastian’s. “So you dragged us to this den of spilled pickles and regret. Women really, truly are something.”
“It’s charming,” Sebastian said, eyeing the cracked plaster walls with a tilt of his head. “And it’s exactly what the night calls for.”
Thomas raised a brow. “You’re rattled.”
“Define rattled.”
“Do I really need to put words to it? I just have to look at this place and have my answer.”
Sebastian sipped his ale and said nothing. He was rattled. Thoroughly.
Not because of Maddie. Very well, yes, partly because of Maddie. But also because he didn’t quite know how to approach the matter. He had never courted a woman, and he was pretty sure he was doing everything wrong. In fact, could he be considered courting her at all?
That terrible, lovely woman who had kissed him like it meant something—and then gone to bed, leaving him a man unmoored. He could still taste her on his lips. Sweet. Curious. Bold. He wanted more.
Wanted everything.
“He’s quiet,” Rotheworth noted. “He’s never quiet. This is unsettling.”
“He’s in love,” Thomas muttered. “Or mad. Possibly both. Know I am.”
Rotheworth nodded. “I can drink to that.”
Sebastian gave a slow blink. “Can one be mad with love?” He didn’t read much poetry, but he thought one could be. He just had to look at the men at this table. That is, after all, why he dragged them along.
“Only if you’re an idiot,” Thomas said.
He couldn’t fight the claim. “Then I am a bloody imbecile.”
Rotheworth leaned back and rubbed his jaw. “So what are you planning to do about Miss Madeleine? Her mother is rumored to be quite stubborn.”
Yes, and she’d probably want a duke for her daughter, not a marquess. “What about her father?”
Rotheworth shrugged. “Haven’t met the man, but what I’ve heard he seems to be sensible.”
Sensible didn’t mean much now, did it?
Thomas snorted. “You’ll have to win his favor. After all, you can’t just keep watching the woman like she’s the last éclair on a dessert tray.”
“I don’t watch her.”
“Right. You gaze. Dreamily.”
“Rubbish.” But he could feel a flush rush across his skin. Did he? Probably.
“Then what’s that expression on your face right now?”
Sebastian slumped deeper. “How am I supposed to know? I can’t see my face.”
