My Fake Rake

Goddamn it, but she’s lovely.

The thought leapt into Seb’s mind as he watched Grace animatedly describing mucus, of all things.

But once the words had silently sounded in his head, he couldn’t unthink them. Because she was lovely, and simply looking at her when she talked of the creatures she loved to study made his chest tight and his pulse kick.

Oh, hell.

This was what came of spending so much time with her. His captivation with her grew from minute to minute.

“Reptiles and amphibians are wonderful animals,” she continued, her face lighting up as she spoke. “Just because they don’t have fur or adorable faces, people hate them. And Linnaeus didn’t help anything, either.” She scowled. “He called them ‘abhorrent,’ said they were filthy and fierce and offensive.”

“Clearly,” Seb said on a growl, “Linnaeus’s biases shaped what ought to be perfectly objective science.”

“What’s perfectly objective?” Grace asked. She took a sip of her drink. “Humans are flawed devices. Everything we see, think, and do is colored by individual preferences, dislikes, and fractured logic.” She leaned forward, the firelight shining brilliantly in her eyes. “Anyone who claims there is such a thing as objective truth is wrong.”

“My gut churns when I read Westerners’ accounts of other societies.” His jaw firmed with distaste. “Many of them drip with a sense of cultural and racial superiority—and they twist science to defend abhorrent ideas and practices.”

“Beg pardon,” Rotherby drawled, “but are we going to turn Holloway into a rake, or are we going to hold a symposium?”

Damn—Seb had almost forgotten their objective. As always, their conversation enthralled him. He didn’t want it to end.

Clearly, his disappointment showed in his face because she chuckled as she looked at him fondly.

“That’s all right, Sebastian,” Grace said. “We’ll talk at length later.”

“Looking forward to it.” His friends were fine men, and good men, but even fellow intellectual Rowe could never quite follow him down the winding paths of his theoretical musings. It was the same with the other scholars at the Benezra Library. Where his mind wandered, they couldn’t follow.

The only person he knew who kept pace with him was . . . Grace. There was no one like her.

“If we’re done with the academic portion of the afternoon,” Rotherby announced, “it’s time for Holloway to attempt what we saw on Bond Street. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Seb, “you’re going to practice on Lady Grace.”

Grace didn’t miss the way color fled Sebastian’s cheeks. He swallowed audibly.

“Here?” he asked, his voice tight. “Now?”

“Yes to both,” Rotherby said. “You’ve less than a week to become a rake. Time is critical.”

When Sebastian opened his mouth, then shut it again without speaking, looking utterly horrified, she stood and cleared the knot of chagrin from her throat. Both Sebastian and Rotherby launched to their feet.

“It’s merely flirtation with me, Sebastian. Rotherby isn’t asking us to copulate on the ballroom floor.”

She heard the sharpness in her voice, but, sod it, he seemed appalled by merely the notion of pretending to find her attractive.

“It’s only . . .” He dragged his hand through his hair. “Performing for an audience isn’t my ideal situation. Easier for me to be overlooked.”

Her heart softened. She’d witnessed what happened to him when he was around people he didn’t know, and while it was painful to watch, it surely felt worse for him. On top of that, she understood from experience that when she feared something, merely thinking about it was almost worse than the thing itself.

“We’ll take it step by step,” she said. “Just a bit at a time, so you can become accustomed to having people’s attention.”

“And you’ll need to be comfortable having everyone’s eyes on you,” Rotherby said, setting his hands on his hips. “We want everything you do to be seen by Society—especially Mason Fredericks.”