“What?” The marquess looked at the footman, brow creased. “I heard no word of her stepping out. Thought she was in her room. Told me she was, in fact. Had some new dresses to try on or something.” He waved towards the stairs. “Go up, go up, my friend. Knock on her antechamber door, you know you’re quite at home here. And I say that with a father’s permission. Her maid will be up there anyway if she’s got dresses to try.”
Sebastian wouldn’t have, not normally, though he’d seen Lady Frances’s rooms before.
She’d showed him once, part of her shiny, imperturbable facade, daring him to the impropriety under the guise of showing him the new decorating style she’d chosen. He’d not been the only member of the party. A dozen of them had trooped through her rooms, admiring the curtains, the furniture. She’d put her hand on his elbow, lingering by the canopied bed. Her initials were embroidered on her silk pillowcases. Playing the game, he’d duly admired them. He’d gone to her dressing table and smelt her perfume while she watched, smiling. Then they’d all been allowed to escape downstairs.
He hadn’t spent a moment thinking of it since.
Now the memory annoyed him, greasy and juvenile. But he was also, seeing the terrified look on the footman’s face, entirely sure it wasn’t the first time she’d had visitors to her rooms.
Who was up there now?
It was brandy, or anger, or just a sick despair to make the rotten world even worse that drove him up the stairs. He didn’t run but walked calmly, quietly, and opened the door without knocking.
Her maid was in the dressing room, guarding the bedroom door. She squawked at his sudden appearance, jumping to her feet and dropping the mending from her lap. He ignored herprotests, moving her gently but firmly aside, and opened the bedroom door.
The canopies weren’t even down. Broad sunlight illuminated the scene. Thighs and buttocks and grunting, panting flesh. The lady underneath was pale cream. The man above was broad and scarred and coarse.
“Uncle,” Sebastian said, closing the door behind him. “Lady Frances.” He walked over and took a seat, crossing a booted ankle upon his knee as the couple in bed scrambled apart.
Lady Frances made some effort to cover herself, grabbing for the bed clothes. His uncle, unfortunately, only sat back on his heels and laughed.
Sebastian had seen it all before. This very scene, more or less, but it was normally a whore giggling in the bed, beckoning him to join in, not his almost betrothed, staring at him in horror.
But not in guilt.
“Do you pay that poor boy downstairs, your footman, Frederick? Or does he protect you out of love?”
Lady Frances smiled, pulling the covers only as far as her belly and settling to sit back against the covers. “Both, Cote, of course. I like to be sure of my helpers.”
He nodded. He looked at his uncle. “How long?”
The smile his uncle gave him was familiar. Slow and full of malice. He glanced over at Lady Frances, wrapping a possessive finger around one of her curls and giving it a tweak.
Sebastian wasn’t surprised at the displeasure that flickered over her face. She might be all bravado and feigned unconcern, but he knew this was not what she wanted. The major was an amusement, a vicious rebellion against him, her father, and the whole world, just to prove that shecould. But he wasn’t the prize. She’d truly wanted to be his countess.
“How long…? Hmm.” His uncle crooned, still playing with that lock of hair, unaware his victory fell short. Only Sebastian knewLady Frances’s hopes had been over even before he’d stepped foot in this room. “A twelvemonth, is it, Franny? Give or take.”
“No,” she said. “Not that long. Since the autumn.”
Sebastian met her eyes. He was sorry for her, and she saw it, the sympathy causing her courage to crack.
“Cote…”
“I know. I’ll tell no one. I came up here. I found you alone. We spoke in your antechamber, with your maid present. She’s loyal, I presume?”
Lady Frances nodded.
His uncle laughed. “Good Lord, boy, are you still planning to wed the girl?”
He gave his answer to her, as softly as he could. “No. But not because of this.”
How could he object? They’d both known what their marriage would be. His wife would have been in other men’s beds just as often after their vows as she was before them. And he would have taken a lover too… Oh, God, how could he have ever thought this sordid farce was good enough for the Thornes? Good enough for any of them?
Lady Frances bowed her head, fidgeting with the covers, perhaps wishing she’d pulled them all the way up. She’d probably wanted to taunt him with what he was missing, but there was only one woman on earth who had any power over him at all.
When he stood up, his joints felt stiff. His muscles ached as though he really had been sick for a week. Exhaustion washed over him, sour as the brandy in his stomach.
He cast one last eye over the scene, Lady Frances cold as marble now, his uncle watching him, still burning with dark wrath, as though he hadn’t quite done enough. The man had never done enough, his appetite for cruelty was never sated.
