Sebastian ate on as though nothing extraordinary had happened, cool, collected, every bit the man she remembered.
He was harder, edgier somehow. His high cheekbones were angular and more defined; his entire profile was more chiselled. There was nothing soft about him at all.
Except those lips. Sensuously curved, unsmiling. But when they did smile…
She shifted restlessly in her chair.
A footman appeared and poured her tea.
Sebastian was drinking coffee, strong, black, and surely so bitter it would make her toes curl. Ah yes. She remembered. She’d taken a sip from his coffee once at Westwood Hall, when he wasn’t looking. She’d nearly gagged, for she preferred her tea weak, with a good dollop of milk, and very sweet.
This was only one of many, many differences they’d had.
She reached for the sugar receptacle and picked a big lump of rock sugar and popped it into her mouth. Then she picked upher teacup and slurped from it. The hot, sweet liquid calmed her nerves. It was good.
Sebastian lowered the newspaper and watched her with an odd expression on his face.
She tilted her head sideways inquisitively.
He cleared his throat. “You still do that.”
“What?”
He made a motion with his hand. “Eat the sugar instead of putting it in the tea.”
“Well. Yes? I happen to like it that way. Is that a problem?”
“No, no. By all means. Do continue. Eat all the sugar pieces you want. The entire receptacle, if you please.” He retreated behind his newspaper, stiff and unapproachable as always.
Baffled, she pulled out her own book and began reading.
It was a hopeless task, of course. Because she felt tempted to sneak glances at him, she had great difficulty focusing on her book. That was always the game they’d played. Pretending to be occupied with their books when they were not.
It had always turned into a game of who gave in first.
She would eat the teapot warmer if she gave in first. Grinding her teeth, she flipped the page and read on bravely, not really taking in any words.
After a while, he folded his newspaper together and set it aside.
Ha! She’d won that round. Triumphantly, she lowered her book and snapped it shut and met his gaze with a smug expression on her face.
He smiled, faintly contemptuous. “Not reading Mrs Radcliffe, it appears. You have moved on to Mrs Sable. Who, I heard, is even worse.”
“Worse?” Viola sat up, stung.
“Even more of a sensationalist, if that is possible.”
“Indeed,” she replied airily. “And that is a good thing. She writes better than Mrs Radcliffe. Infinitely.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
Viola threw a quick prayer of thanks to heaven that he did not. She wondered, somewhat uneasily, whether she should tell him. The thought of how he would react once she outed herself as Selina Sable, of how his face would contort with that appalled expression that he so frequently wore whenever she did something that he did not understand, mixed with contempt, possibly scorn—that made her shut her mouth again quickly.
She would keep quiet for now. It wasn’t the right time to tell him.
“So, you will really stay here the entire Season. I mean, in this house.”
“For as long as renovations are conducted at the other house, yes. I trust you have no objections?”
