My Fake Rake

“True,” Rotherby said, inclining his head. “However. Lady Grace is also intelligent, amusing, and pleasing to the eye. Don’t you think so?”

“. . . I . . .” God, how long was the distance between Bond Street and Grace’s home?

He glanced at the door of the carriage. Jumping from a moving vehicle wasn’t one of his talents, but a person could always learn a new skill. The rain fell harder, drumming on the top of the carriage, but Seb didn’t worry about getting wet or muddy. He just wanted out of this bloody vehicle.

Rotherby said with a smirk, “The degree of your alarm makes me believe that you do consider her intelligent, amusing, and pleasing to the eye, as well.”

“I might.” Damn . . . was it true? He jolted with unwelcome understanding. “All I desire is keeping her categorized as a friend. In any case,” he added quickly, “that’s what she wants.”

Praise be, the carriage finally slowed, and a moment later, the footman opened the door to announce, “We’ve arrived, Your Grace.”

As Seb and Rotherby dashed across the stable yard, Grace opened the kitchen door. She waved them inside, calling above the rain, “Come in quickly before you’re soaked.”

Despite quickening their pace, both he and Rotherby collected enough precipitation to leave small puddles in the kitchen hallway. Seb almost offered to clean up the mess himself, but his mother always admonished him for trying to do the servants’ work for them. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up with a houseful of people paid to do his family’s bidding—he could never acclimatize himself to having someone else do a task he could do on his own.

“The servants have been sworn to silence, with a good deal of financial inducement to ensure it.” Grace waved them toward the stairs leading from the servants’ area of the house into the family’s living area. “We’ll have tea in just a few moments. Unless you prefer something stronger. Claret? Whiskey? I think that’s what gentlemen drink.”

“Alcohol will cloud my judgment.” Seb followed her up the staircase. He deliberately kept his head down to stare at his boots rather than repeat his mistake of looking at Grace’s figure.

“In that case,” Rotherby declared, “a dram of whiskey for all of us—that is, if you’ll join us, Lady Grace.”

“Do ladies drink whiskey in mixed company?” Seb asked.

“Perhaps they don’t,” Grace said, “but I will.” They reached the top of the stairs, then stepped into the corridor outside the ballroom. She murmured to a footman a request for liquor and three glasses. The servant nodded and disappeared to carry out her bidding.

She moved on to the ballroom, candles lit within to hold back the rain’s gloom. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace at one end of the chamber, and a trio of chairs had been assembled close to it.

“It gets so terrifically cold in here when it’s dreary outside.” She stood in front of the fire, warming her hands. “But the amphibians adore this weather, so I can’t complain.”

“Holloway told me you study reptiles and the like,” Rotherby said, also coming to the fire but putting a respectful distance between himself and Grace.

Which left Seb with a less respectful position between them. He wedged his body into the gap, conscious of how little space separated his giant feet from the hem of her dress. He was like some creature from folklore, carved of rude clay and stone, lumbering beside a wise princess.

She smiled up at him, and his heart leapt into his throat. With difficulty, he swallowed it back down.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m what is now known as a herpetologist.”

Rotherby started. “You study . . . herpes? The disease?”

“Not herpes! Herpetology—the study of reptiles and amphibians.”

“They share the same root word,” Seb added.

“Which means to creep,” Grace said.

Rotherby made a face. “Slimy creatures that no one loves.”

“I love them,” Grace said with a smile. She sat down in one of the wingback chairs, and Seb and Rotherby followed suit. A servant entered the room, bearing a tray that held three glasses filled with amber liquid. She took one and Seb and Rotherby did the same. “It’s true that many amphibians have moist skins. Frogs and toads secrete mucus to keep their skins wet in order for them to properly breathe.”