“Not to worry, my dear. I shall keep the worst of the harridans at bay,” he murmured back.
“Faulk, Lady Faulk, Martindale, Lady Martindale. And, lastly, Peachornsby and Lady Peachornsby. May I present the Duke of Ryleigh and his duchess,” her father announced grandly. Proudly.
Rebecca’s groan was drowned out by Sebastian’s timely cough of thanks.
A round of brandy filled glasses appeared on a tray.
Rebecca snatched hers up with trembling fingers.
Raised glasses and congratulations rang out. Escape was within reach. She tossed back her brandy in one quick gulp. It burned all the way down.
“How absolutely thrilling for you, my dear,” Lady Peachornsby said. She was a kindly woman who smelled of summer.
For once, Rebecca sidled closer to Sebastian, allowing him to serve as a badly needed buffer as the other ladies stepped forward. Rebecca feared swooning as an imaginary noose tightened about her neck.
Sebastian quickly took her glass from her slack fingers and set both his and hers on the now empty tray. He then took Rebecca’s gloved hand. “We thank you for the well wishes. Now, if you’ll forgive us, we must depart.”
Papa frowned. “Nonsense. It is much too late. You’ll stay here tonight.”
Rebecca knew her father. He would not be taking no for an answer. She glanced at Sebastian, fully expecting his ducal rancor. Instead, he was tipping his head. In a nod.
“Thank you, sir. We appreciate your hospitality. It’s been a trying day.”
Rebecca’s horror morphed to suppressed outrage. But she was forced to smile her way through the situation.
Papa took her face in his large palms. “You’re the light of my life, my dear. I couldn’t be more proud.” He kissed her cheek, and again, his words served as an emotional valve stuck straight into the function that moderated her tears.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered. Heavens, she might have to go through with marrying a man who believed her a wanton fabricator.
With all the graciousness and aplomb afforded a duke, Sebastian made their escape appear extemporaneous, like the lovers they portended as a newly wedded couple.
Lars awaited them just outside the parlour. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing your apartments, Your Graces. If you’ll follow me, please.”
She walked over the threshold of her apartments and dropped her reticule on a small table. It landed with a thunk from the book she carried and hadn’t had time to read and her very precious small pearl-handled dagger. London was full of dangerous miscreants like Finch Cromwell.
~~~
Sebastian stood back and surveyed Rebecca’s chamber. It was spring personified. The dark wood made cheerful by the white, greens, and light purple. The lack of clutter also suited her. No porcelain figurines or framed portraits. Everything was polished to a shine. The room smelled fresh with the hint of lavender in the air. There was a door across the room. She walked over, opened it, and peered inside. “This is the sitting room. You may sleep there.” Her breath left her in a rush of relief. She turned a bright, irritating smile on him.
Sebastian let out a resigned sigh. “Relegated once more to the sitting room, I see.”
“You can’t possibly think to sleep in my chamber, sir. Serena knows the truth.Iknow the truth. We arenotwedded.” She’d matched her tone to his. A duchess’s rancor. Yes, she would make a fine duchess.
“Of course not, but I can’t very well leave. The servants would talk. At least when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She pressed her fingers into her temple.
“Good God, you are dead on your feet. You should have slept in the carriage.”
“I wasn’t sleepy. In case you’ve forgotten, I slept the last three days.” There was a cushy bench at the base of the huge bed. Rebecca went over and sank down on it. “Can you ring for Serena? I can’t possibly get out of this dress by myself.”
He followed, lowering beside her. “There’s no need to disturb your maid when I am available and perfectly willing to assist you.” He stood and pulling her to her feet, spun her about and worked quickly. Unable to resist, he leaned forward, rubbed his bearded chin on soft skin, and set his lips against the column of her neck where her bodice had loosened and fallen away.
“I shall sleep in your sitting room, my future duchess,” he whispered. The tendrils at her nape stirred and tickled his nose. He brushed his lips against the raised bumps prickling her skin. “But rest assured that will not be the case once we are wed. Sleep well, my dear.”
He turned her to face him, stunned anew by the very strength in her features. He took her hand in his and removed her glove, turned her wrist up, ran his fingertips over her mangled skin.
She struggled against his hold.
