Within a moment, he stood before her. Collecting herself with the staunch reminder that this was all part of the plan to find her a suitable husband, she straightened her spine. Then he held out his hand, and she took it, before he settled his other hand on her waist.
“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he asked. His eyes gleamed and his chest rose and fell in an elevated rhythm.
“Must be,” she mumbled, but the fire wasn’t lit, and clouds dampened the sunlight coming in through the windows.
“Mr. Scarpelli, if you please.” The duke’s voice sounded leagues away.
Music started up again, jarring her thoughts.
Sebastian murmured, “Ready?”
She could only nod.
They danced. And suddenly she understood why, not so long ago, the waltz was considered a sinful, wicked dance unfit for polite assemblies. As she and Sebastian turned around the ballroom floor, she felt him everywhere. At the sensitive point where their hands touched, at the burning site where his hand rested on her waist, and all the other places within her. The dance was a shared pulse, his heartbeat becoming hers, their bodies synchronizing.
He was solid and hot and so very large. How had she been able to recognize this for four years and yet not know it in the receptiveness of her body?
“Don’t forget to look at each other,” the duke instructed. “Gaze into each other’s eyes.”
She tugged her attention up from the knot of his neckcloth, up higher, until his gaze secured to hers. Thoughts scattered as she spun in the blue of his eyes because the way he looked at her . . . as though she was adored, desired beyond reason . . . beyond sense . . .
But it was a performance, wasn’t it? He was merely pretending to feel these things for her, as the role of rake and admirer demanded.
Surely he could hear the pounding of her heart, so much louder than Mr. Scarpelli’s playing.
“Excellent work, both of you,” Rotherby said above the music. “You’ve got me convinced—and I believe nothing.”
The duke’s voice fractured the spell surrounding them. They pulled apart, staring at each other, and she imagined her bewildered expression mirrored his.
“Do I keep playing?” Mr. Scarpelli asked.
“That’s enough for now.” She could not stop looking at Sebastian.
His brow furrowed. He visibly seemed to collect himself, and then, to her relief and disappointment, donned his coat.
“Now,” the duke said, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Holloway. Your wardrobe.”
Sebastian glanced down at himself. “What I wear is serviceable enough. I’ve had this waistcoat for years.”
“And it deserves some rest to repay its decade of valiant service,” Rotherby noted. “A rake is never dressed in clothing that’s old enough to marry.”
“After paying my rent, what’s left goes mostly to books.”
Rotherby snorted. “You must have a sizable library, then.”
“It’s not the size,” Sebastian replied drily. “It’s what I do with it. Very thick volumes.”
Fire danced along her cheeks as she caught his implication. He was much more . . . ribald . . . than she’d realized. And she recognized then that Sebastian possessed a great deal of knowledge about the world’s sensual side. He was a bookish man, and shy, but he was also vigorously hale. Surely, he had sexual appetites.
Surely, he had lovers.
She started at the acidic bubble of jealously rising within her. But she couldn’t feel that way about him. He wasn’t hers, never had been. Never would be.
“We need to outfit you, Holloway,” the duke said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You can’t be a rake in ill-fitting, superannuated garments.”
“Perhaps it escaped your notice because you could lend money to God,” Sebastian replied, “but a wardrobe is a considerable expense. One I can’t take on.”
“I’ll supply the funds,” Rotherby said.
Sebastian scowled. “Absolutely not. I won’t have anyone pay for my clothing.”
“Don’t be an ass, Holloway,” the duke said impatiently. “Get yourself some new rigging.”
Shaking off her unexpected—unwelcome—possessiveness, Grace noted the volley of words between the two men. Neither seemed inclined to budge, but both were too prideful to make any concessions.