My Fake Rake

“Surely that can’t keep you from taking a wife.”

“It’s enough.” He nudged her shoulder with his own. “For now, we’ll keep working and moving forward. For all that Rotherby can be a high-handed rogue, he does make for an excellent tutor in the art of being a rake.”

“The high-handed rogue accepts your gratitude,” Rotherby announced from the doorway. He carried a leather portfolio beneath his arm.

Seb was at once relieved to see his friend and also resentful that the blighter interrupted his time alone with Grace.

“Oh, blast,” Grace muttered under her breath. She glanced at Seb with a wince of shared embarrassment. “I think he overheard you.”

“Rotherby’s heard worse from me,” he said easily. “Isn’t that so?”

His friend paced into the room. “Most of the names the union   calls each other are not suitable for ladies’ ears.”

Seb held out his hand to help Grace stand, and when she took it, awareness shot through him hotly. It took an admirable amount of restraint not to curl his fingers around hers in a primal, unthinking need, but he kept his hold on her light. He got to his feet before assisting her up.

“The union  ?” She lifted a brow.

“The union   of the Rakes.” Seb rolled his eyes. “A dreadful name we came up with for ourselves back at Eton. More aspirational than truthful.”

“Speak for yourself, Holloway,” Rotherby said.

“I generally do. Tell us what’s in the portfolio.”

Rotherby undid the strap holding the leather case closed before removing a sheaf of paper. Without his spectacles, Seb could not quite make out the documents, but, judging by the hazy collection of dots scattered across them, they appeared to be sheets of music.

“Today, my friends,” Rotherby declared, “we dance.”

“That is,” the duke said, eyeing Grace dubiously, “if we know how.”

She couldn’t be insulted by his implication that a woman of scholarly inclinations—namely, her—wouldn’t have any aptitude when it came to social skills. And she was grateful for Rotherby’s demand because it meant she didn’t have to consider why she’d asked Sebastian about his plans to marry.

Thinking of her dunderheaded question, she could have cheerfully imbibed a serious but not fatal dose of laudanum so that she could fall into unconsciousness and forget the whole thing.

Except she couldn’t. There was nothing to do but keep plowing ahead.

“Be at ease, Rotherby.” She placed her hands on her hips. “My parents bartered with me to ensure I learned how to dance. For every session with a dancing master, I was rewarded with a piece of scientific equipment. A looking glass, a compound microscope.”

“Bribes,” Sebastian said with a wry smile.

“No doubt about it—I can be bought.”

“We had a dancing master,” Sebastian said. “My brothers and I. Part of my family’s hope to scale the heights of British Society.” He made a wry face.

“Please tell me you applied your capacious studying ability to learning how to dance,” Rotherby pled.

Sebastian shrugged. “It’s nigh universal—cultures incorporate music accompanied by rhythmic movement. I couldn’t apply myself to examining the kalamatianos dance of Greece without learning British dancing.”

The duke exhaled. “That’s one less mountain to scale. But we’re still practicing so that, when the time comes—and it will come—you’ll be able to dance with Grace and inspire envy in all who behold you.”

“A rather tall order,” Grace said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. She knew the steps well enough, and recalled intimately the giddy pleasure she’d experienced the early weeks of her first Season when she’d danced with gentlemen eager to make her acquaintance. Dancing had made her feel light and free and untethered from the planet’s gravity.

Her mistake had been speaking to the gentlemen whilst they danced together. Foolishly, she’d talked not about the weather or her delight in the splendid room, but of her studies. She’d been open in discussing how she loved to observe the tiny miracle that was a hatching tadpole, or the incredibly fine hand that the Creator had employed when fashioning a reptile’s long toes. The looks on those young men’s faces . . . the disgust, the dawning realization that she might be a prize as a bride, but as a woman, she was something to be endured.