“Grace.” He took a step toward her. “Tell me honestly. Do you truly want to marry?”
Fascinated, he watched the play of emotions across her face as she fought to keep her scorn in place—but the mask slipped, and her gaze turned dreamy, her mouth soft.
She let out a long breath. “I used to fantasize, when I was younger, before I was out. Not about a husband, but about a man who’d walk beside me in the field. Who would ask me about my work and genuinely listen rather than hear me with amused or fond forbearance. He wouldn’t merely tolerate me. He’d—” She caught herself, and snorted as if she found herself ridiculous.
But she wasn’t ridiculous. Not to him. And the tangible longing in her voice had reached into him and wrapped itself around his heart. True, he’d known that Mason Fredericks had long been the object of her infatuation, but Seb hadn’t fully comprehended that Grace had wants and needs that went beyond her studies.
“It’s just us, Grace.” He spread open his hands. “You and me. I promise I won’t laugh or say something cutting.”
“He’d . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t talk about this now.”
Seb nodded. If she wanted to open herself to him, it would happen as she desired it, and when she was ready. He was humbled that she’d given him as much as she had.
She cleared her throat. “Returning to our purpose for being here . . .” She walked quickly to the pianoforte, where books were stacked atop its shiny surface. Picking up a volume, she said, “These came from my father’s collection. Conduct manuals, given to him when he was a young man navigating Society and the marriage mart.”
Seb headed toward her. “If he received those books as a young man, they must be rather archaic by now.”
“They’re about forty years old, according to the frontispieces. But,” she said decisively, “proper decorum is timeless. Things can’t have changed all that much.”
Having reached the pianoforte, he plucked one of the books from the pile. He flipped it open and the image of a bewigged young gentleman looked back at him with an expression that could only be described as privileged.
“Seems logical enough,” he said. “But these books might not be necessary. You’ve been out for some time now. Surely you’ve seen the behavior of rakish noblemen, so you can simply instruct me on how to act.”
She pressed her lips together in a wry smile. “Never paid much attention to rakes. Perhaps because they’ve shown a marked lack of interest in me.”
Anger bubbled up hotly. “What the deuce is wrong with those nobs? It’s a sure sign of societal decay when a woman like you is overlooked.” He scowled, outraged on her behalf.
Another hint of pink stole into her cheeks, and he couldn’t look away. In all their years of friendship, they’d never truly been alone, in private. She seemed more fully herself, less guarded. Each moment with her was a new discovery, and he awaited these unfolding revelations with bated breath. It felt as though he’d been given a new book filled with knowledge he didn’t know he craved until he opened the cover.
“We’re friends, Sebastian. No need for hyperbolic blandishments.”
“We’re both natural philosophers, Grace,” he corrected gently. “Exaggeration has no place in our world.”
Their gazes met. And held. It was vertiginous—in the best possible way. As though he tumbled through an endless, warm ocean. At the same time, electric awareness spread along his limbs.
Disappointment scored him as she looked away, breaking the spell. Yet the blush didn’t leave her face.
“There are new developments in the sciences,” she said crisply, “but Society remains a constant. Surely these books will tell us everything we need to know.”
An hour later, Seb stood in the middle in the ballroom, silently thankful for all the time he spent conditioning his body. Unlike his social clumsiness, physical activity had never been an obstacle, yet today, he’d never felt so awkward. Of a certain there had to be some kind of award . . . perhaps a ribbon pinned directly to the skin of his pectoral.