My Fake Rake

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “Sebastian.” She spoke his name with a gratifying amount of warmth. He smiled in response.

“Do call me Rotherby, Lady Grace,” the duke said. “It’s what my friends do.”

“Of course, Rotherby.” She looked pleased by the lack of formality between them. Glancing sympathetically at Seb, she asked, “Are you very weary from yesterday’s debacle?”

Seb snorted. “I’ve faced greater indignities.” He shot a glance at Rotherby. “Do not tell her any tales about me at Eton.”

“I remain silent as a ghost.” Rotherby held up his hands. “But there was this one time when I’d dared Holloway to steal everyone’s spoons before breakfast and he—”

“Enough.” Seb clapped his hand over Rotherby’s mouth. “We’re here for a lesson, not to recount my youthful foibles.”

“But there were so many,” his friend said, his words muffled by Seb’s palm.

“Because you and the others goaded me into them. Otherwise, I would have been a model student.”

Grace’s eyes sparkled as she looked back and forth between Seb and Rotherby. “We needn’t have a lesson. You two are much more fascinating than a dull shopping street.”

“It’s something we—I—must do.” Seb made a show of reluctantly pulling his hand away from silencing Rotherby. “How do we proceed?”

“Follow me.” The duke held out his arm for Grace, and as she took it, a tiny sizzle of something hot and barbed worked its way along Seb’s spine.

The deuce?

It was entirely illogical for Seb to feel anything that resembled jealousy. First of all, Rotherby’s gesture had been one of politeness, devoid of any romantic intention. Secondly, and this was most important, if Grace did fancy the duke even a fraction, she could do whatever she pleased with her feelings.

Shaking his head at his own irrational emotions, Seb followed Rotherby and Grace across the street to a crowded tearoom. Elegant gentlemen and ladies packed the establishment, filling the tables and standing wherever they could find room.

“No room at the inn,” Seb said, narrowly avoiding an elbow in the stomach from one of the patrons.

Rotherby merely donned that slightly superior look he sometimes sported. No sooner did he take three steps into the shop than a tall East Indian man in pristinely tailored clothing appeared.

“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing, “welcome to my shop. I am Rohit Mohan. Your table awaits.”

He gestured to an empty table by the window, perfectly situated for anyone to watch the fashionable multitudes passing by. A small handwritten sign atop the table proudly declared that it was reserved for His Grace, the Duke of Rotherby, and anyone who had the temerity to try to sit there would be summarily escorted from the premises, never to be permitted entry again.

God—how different Rotherby was from Seb. How charmed his life seemed. But Seb knew the price his friend paid for such attention. Better to dwell in relative obscurity than carry the burdens of prestige and popularity.

Rotherby led them to the table, and Seb hurried forward to pull out Grace’s chair. He wasn’t entirely hopeless when it came to proper behavior.

Once they had all been seated—with Grace’s maid wedged in at a nearby table—Mr. Mohan took their orders. Seb pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“Ever the good scholar,” Rotherby noted wryly.

“You broker deals in Parliament without batting an eyelash,” Seb answered, “but studying . . . that’s my métier.”

“He isn’t the only one who came prepared.” Grace produced a small, leather-covered journal from her reticule.

She and Seb shared a smile, and he tried not to notice how the curve of her lips made little curlicues of pleasure dance through him.

“What you two did yesterday.” Rotherby shook his head. “Even when that book was published, it wouldn’t have served your purpose. You cannot learn the proper methods for being a rake from anything written.”

“Because it’s a secret,” Seb guessed.

“Because it comes from here.” Rotherby tapped his hand on his stomach.