My Fake Rake

She went on, “Tomorrow he’s leaving for our country estate to rest. Because he insisted, my mother and I are staying in London. But, after this brush with mortality . . .” Her gaze slid up toward the ceiling. “He urged me to marry. Soon.”

Seb straightened. “Ah.”

Grace—married. A concept he never truly wanted to contemplate. He supposed he’d believed they would go on as they always did, meeting at the Benezra or taking jaunts about the city together, friends until their dotage. A husband for Grace would certainly change everything. He crushed a flare of jealousy beneath his mental bootheel. What she wanted, what she desired, these things belonged to her alone, and he couldn’t let himself feel possessiveness. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.

Still. He made sure to keep a scowl from his face. As lightly as he could manage, he asked, “Anyone fitting the bill as your potential groom?”

She glanced around to ensure that no one was nearby. “You know who.”

“Someone with the initials M F.”

“The same.”

He made himself nod, though it was sodding difficult. “That should make both you and your father happy. Your naturalist would be the perfect candidate.” Fredericks had the wealth Seb didn’t, with the means to keep Grace secure and generously supported.

Goddamn it.

“Except the man in question doesn’t consider me bride material.” She exhaled. “To him, I’m a colleague, and nothing more.”

Thoughts churned in Seb’s mind. Despite his disgruntled mood that she was fixated on Fredericks, a familiar lift of energy came from contemplating a particularly complex topic. He welcomed it rather than think about the fact that, even if he couldn’t offer for Grace’s hand, she never considered him a candidate for husband.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I’ve a strong urge to don my scholar’s cap.”

“Don away.” She waved her hand.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at her. She always encouraged him whenever he dove into the anthropological waters, never chiding him for his excitement.

“Here’s what I’m thinking—value’s relative in many societies. When something’s recognized as being precious, everyone desires it.” Warming to his topic, he continued, “One could take a thing—an object, or even a person—and if a respected individual in the community treats it or them as valuable, others invariably follow suit.”

She frowned, clearly perplexed. “Pull up on the reins. How does any of that apply to me and . . . the gentleman in question?”

“Sorry. I forget that not everyone is as hopelessly mired in ethnography as I am.” He felt a corner of his mouth turn up in a contrite half smile. “What I mean to say is that if someone from London’s elite showed you a marked preference, thus indicating your value as someone to be desired as a mate, then others, including the esteemed but myopic Mason Fredericks, will do the same.”

She straightened. “Who could have that effect?”

“Some noteworthy figure,” he said with a nod. “A person so admired by men and women alike that this person’s opinion would be highly respected.” He heard how his tone grew more animated as he delved further. “He should be known by everyone, esteemed, but just rebellious enough so that whatever he says or does is doubly potent. It’s known that a hint of disobedience makes certain personages extremely appealing.”

“The idea’s sound, but . . .” She spread her hands. “A rake who consorts with demimondaines and fellow libertines isn’t going to look in my direction. And where would I locate anyone like that? Sneak into a gaming hell, approach a man with a dashing coiffure and jaded eyes, and proposition him to pretend to court me?” She snorted. “Things like that don’t happen.”

“Er, no,” Seb conceded. “Perhaps you could find someone of your acquaintance?”

“My elder brother’s friends are all married, and I know few other men.”

“The Duke of Rotherby,” he said abruptly. “He’s a very good friend of mine, and a bit of a rake. Everyone hangs on his word, too.”