My Fake Rake

He moved in the deliberate, stylized way that the guide had instructed. His feet were pointed, his shoulders back, while each movement carried a purposeful elegance. His motion verged on languid, precisely how the book had instructed. A dancing master would have been proud, had Sebastian been his student.

He executed a flawlessly elaborate bow to a trio of gentlemen, and a glow of satisfaction spread through her.

All the work they had done earlier in the afternoon came to fruition. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

Except . . .

Anxiety chewed on Grace’s insides, banishing her sense of ease. Everyone who espied Sebastian looked at him as though he’d recently fled from Bedlam. People skirted around him or walked to other paths so that they didn’t have to encounter him.

Was something wrong with the book we used? Was our approach flawed?

Oh, God. No.

Sebastian stopped in front of a young lady, also accompanied by her maid, and proceeded to bow so low his nose nearly scraped the gravel. He was near enough to Grace that she could hear him.

“A most beauteous afternoon to you, lady fair,” he said in a strange, nasal voice. “Indeed, mine eyes consider themselves blessed to look upon your countenance.”

The lady’s eyes went wide. She clutched her shawl tightly around herself, as if for protection. A strangled laugh escaped her maid before the servant said, “Come along, miss.”

She herded her charge away like two lambs narrowly escaping the butcher’s knife.

The crushed look on Sebastian’s face struck deep in Grace’s heart. His shoulders bowed and he shook his head slowly in what appeared to be weary resignation.

Grace leapt up from her bench intending to go to him, but before she could, a man of exceptionally striking features strode forward. The newcomer was nearly as tall as Sebastian, but the quality of his clothing was much finer. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

“What the deuce was that, Holloway?” the man demanded.

Sebastian groaned. “You saw that?”

“Most of it. Thought I was going to have to shove a stick between your teeth to keep you from biting off your own tongue.”

“Here, now,” Grace said hotly, coming to stand in front of the two men. She set her hands on her hips. “No need to be insulting—whoever you are.”

Hot indignation pulsed along her veins. It mattered little that the man in question was clearly a wealthy gentleman, or the possessor of startling good looks. He couldn’t mock Sebastian.

“Rotherby,” Sebastian said on an exhale, “I mean, Your Grace, may I present Lady Grace Wyatt? Grace, this is the Duke of Rotherby.”

The Duke? Oh, dear.

No wonder he looked familiar. She’d been introduced to him years ago during her come out, and occasionally crossed his path at various social functions her parents forced her to attend.

She dipped into a curtsy. Perhaps manners could salvage the situation. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Grace.” The duke nodded. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m rather alarmed by the state of my friend’s health. We may need to call for a leech.”

“No need.” Looking spent, Sebastian dragged himself away to lean against a plane tree. “There’s nothing wrong with my physical health. But my mental state has taken a drubbing. Especially my pride.”

Both Grace and the duke moved toward Sebastian.

“I’m sure we only need more practice,” she said.

“Practice doing what?” Rotherby demanded. “Terrifying the local populace? If that was your intent, you’ve done a brilliant job.”

Sebastian gazed at her cautiously. “Should I tell him?”

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

“Is he standing right here so there’s no need to speak of him in the third person?” the duke added.

Ignoring him, Sebastian said, “He’s one of my oldest friends. Kept me safe from the worst bullies at Eton. He’s trustworthy.”

Well—she couldn’t take issue with anyone who had protected young Sebastian from harassment. “I have faith in your judgment.”

Concisely, Sebastian explained to Rotherby what he and Grace attempted. She fought to keep from wincing when Sebastian came to the part about her lack of cachet in Society . . . but then, the duke was part of that world, and already knew what a nonentity she was within its confines.