My Fake Rake

In those months, she’d come to see Mason as the lone beacon of light in the dark cavern that was the Season.

“Oh, Grace.” Sebastian’s look was one of deep sympathy. “I . . . we here at the library, we think you’re worthwhile.”

“And I’m grateful for it, truly.” She dipped her head, humbled by the kindness of her colleagues. With them, she didn’t have to retreat behind a shield of irony. She didn’t need to pretend to disregard their opinions using a protective barrier of wit.

“But it’s not the same as winning the heart of a man you admire,” he added.

“I’m being foolish, aren’t I?” Yet the need within her, the palpable ache to be seen and accepted and loved—that didn’t feel foolish. It felt alive and so very close, as if the pain lodged just beside her heart, cutting into her with each beat, reminding her over and over that she wasn’t enough. She would never be enough.

At least she had Jane. And Sebastian. Her two friends. That was something. It was more than many people had, and she ought to be grateful.

“Not foolish.” Sebastian regarded her sympathetically. “It lies at the core of us, the need for love and recognition. All my years of watching people, observing them as they go about the rituals of their lives . . . it always comes back to love.”

Seeking relief from the oppressiveness of her feelings, she teased, “How deeply romantic. Are you turning from anthropology to poetry?”

“What rhymes with kinship systems?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Flagship Tristams?”

He kissed his fingertips. “Perfection.”

A moment later, they both broke into laughter. She leaned into the release, allowing the absurdity to ease pressure from the hurt at the center of her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He looked baffled. “For what?”

“For listening to my self-indulgent diatribe. The next time we meet, I’ll be less of a sapskull.”

“Reminds me.” He rifled around in his pockets before producing a crumpled piece of paper, which he held out to her. As she read it, he went on. “At a private home in Chelsea, there’s a temporary exhibition of medieval woodcuts that’s open to the public. I heard that some examples of early studies of reptiles were included. Come with me tomorrow?”

“I would,” she said at once. “Only . . . woodcuts of lizards aren’t exactly your bailiwick. Is there anything there that would interest you?.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “The whole world interests me.”

“If I was talking to anyone else, I’d say that statement was an exaggeration. However, it’s you, so I know that you mean that with complete honesty.” She smiled fondly at him, her good friend.

It was a wonder that he was still a bachelor. He never even spoke of lovers. Why could no woman ever see what a wonderful man he was? But, then, finding people who could support your scientific interests was a difficult task. He was also poor as a churchmouse, which, unfortunately, meant that he hadn’t the financial means to court anyone.

Sebastian returned her smile, then pulled out his timepiece. “Damn. Supposed to be at McKinnon’s bookstore to pick up a special order.” He bowed, then asked, “I’ll see you tomorrow? We’ll meet at the exhibition?”

“Tomorrow at the exhibition,” she said brightly. Grace shooed him toward the door. “Now go, and enjoy your new books.”

“There is nothing more enjoyable than new books,” he said solemnly. “Except old books.”

“Truer words . . .”

With a wave, he left the reading room. She stood alone, torn between gratitude and despair. Gratitude for Sebastian’s camaraderie, and despair that Mason had put her firmly in the classification Amica asexualis.

Nothing would ever change that. She was as fixed as a pin through a butterfly.

Seb took advantage of his long legs to walk quickly from the Benezra. Brisk afternoon air cooled his face.

He needed distance between himself and Grace, distance that would help clear his head and remind him of some Very Important Facts.

She was the daughter of an earl and could trace her ancestry back to before the Tudors.