Page 38 of The Season of Lady Chastity

“She hasn’t so much as accepted a dance all Season, Mansfield.” Triston shook his head, as if the state of his sister’s future were of utmost import to him. “My father and I had begun to accept the fact that Pru and Chas were happy seeing themselves into spinsterhood—together. Resolved to remain unwed and childless.”

“If that is what Lady Chastity wants, who are we—you or I—to persuade her otherwise?” Bastian asked.

“See! Did I not tell you both?” Triston threw a knowing look towards Montrose and Hawke. “Bastian here is perfect for Chastity. And with my youngest sister duly spoken for, Prudence will have little choice but to follow.”

“Congratulations,” Hawke said, raising his empty tumbler in salute.

“Drinks!” Montrose barked. “There is cause to celebrate.”

Bastian glanced between the trio, shaking his head at the offer of brandy. Torrington was too brash in announcing his victory without knowing what Chastity’s heart desired…or more importantly, who her heart wanted.

They’d shared an innocent enough kiss, likely not Lady Chastity’s first despite it being the kiss Bastian would forever compare every future kiss to.

“Do not look so glum, Mansfield.” Montrose handed a fresh glass to Torrington and Hawke.

“My apologies.” Bastian stood. “Do you truly think she has taken a liking to me?”

All three men nodded in unison, sending a giddy wave of anticipation through him—at the same time his neck heated. He could not be blushing like a young lord with his first infatuation. What would Torrington and his friends think of him?

He could not risk remaining to hear what the lords truly thought—or if they jested with him. “I think it best I go check on my mother. I do not wish to lend a solemn air to your celebration.”

He suspected that his mother was safely at rest and, truthfully, he hoped to catch Chastity before she returned to her private chamber. There was much they needed to discuss: their kiss, their connection, and the bloody love note of sorts.

“How is she?” Montrose asked.

For a brief moment, Bastian thought the man asked after Chastity, but then his excuse to depart returned. “My mother?”

“Yes.” Montrose swirled the liquid in his tumbler but did not sip from the glass. He was relaxed, but concern clouded his expression. “My butler informed me that Lady Mansfield had turned ill. I had my physician fetched. Doc Durpentire will remain in residence until you and Lady Mansfield depart.”

“That is kind of you, Your Grace.”

“It is the least I can do for my mother’s dear friend.” He saluted Bastian. “I wish I could do more, Lord Mansfield.”

In any other situation, Bastian would be waiting for the three men to share a knowing glance, a whispered jest, or in some way make light of Bastian’s dedication to his mother’s well-being. Instead, each man nodded to him in turn and then shifted back to whatever conversation they’d been having before he and Chastity had barged into the library and interrupted.

He longed to stay, to be a part of this group of worthy gentlemen.

But something pulled him from the room. Certainly, he needed to stop by his mother’s chamber and see to her comfort. But there was another woman on his mind. Another who filled his thoughts and had a kind of longing growing within him that he’d never experienced before.

Blessedly, the corridor was empty of wedding guests, but Chastity was nowhere in sight either.

“My lord,” the butler said, stepping from the shadows of the foyer as Bastian was about to slip up the stairs. He halted, pivoting toward the servant. “Your coat. Lady Chastity Neville bid I return it to you.”

“Is Lady Chastity about?” Bastian asked. When the servant’s brow rose, he continued. “I’d like to thank her personally for its return.”

“She has retired for the evening, my lord.”

Of course, she had. “Thank you.”

He took his jacket with a smile but did not move toward the stairs.

“Is there anything else you need, my lord?”

“No,”—he searched his memory for the butler’s name. Chastity had spoken to the servant by name earlier when he was near—“Chapman. That will be all.”

Bastian’s boot was on the first stair, his hand on the railing, when the front door swung open with such force it hit the wall, startling a yelp from the butler.

Ever the admirable, loyal servant, Chapman sprang into action, bustling toward the group of men entering the house. Ruthven, Liddell, Comstock, and Tamblerton stumbled in, their arms around one another’s shoulders as their voices rose in a song. A bawdy ballad fit for a tavern or the docks, not a proper manor home in Norfolk.