He smiled to himself when he heard her voice float out from the ballroom. He couldn’t make out her words, but Rotherby’s reply was a low chuckle. Seb had witnessed the alluring effect of his friend’s deep laughter on women—and a few men—but Grace had given no indication that she found Rotherby attractive. Thank God.
Difficult enough to know that Fredericks was Grace’s ultimate goal. Seb didn’t need to feel any resentment toward Rotherby, one of his oldest friends.
As Seb neared the ballroom, his steps slowed. What the deuce? Numerous voices murmured within the chamber, talking softly, and beneath their conversation came the sound of clinking porcelain.
Frowning with puzzlement, Seb entered the ballroom. A table stood near the farthest window, around which sat five people enjoying tea and cakes. The three women wore aprons over serviceable, sturdy clothing, and they all wore caps covering their hair. Maids? One of the men wore the family’s livery, and the other man had tucked his buckskin breeches into very worn boots. A footman and groom.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.” Rotherby approached Seb. He looked pleased with himself, but Grace, who followed, appeared more uncertain.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said in a voice calculated to calm someone—which only made alarm prickle along his neck. “These are our servants who’ve been generously compensated for their time. We’re going to go slowly.”
“Go slowly with what?” Seb demanded.
“Today,” Rotherby announced, “you’re going to practice talking with strangers.”
True fear slicked coldly down Seb’s back. He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry, making him cough.
“Steady there,” Rotherby said, thumping Seb between his shoulder blades. “Soldier on and you’ll triumph. Push through any fear that’s holding you back. That’s how you win the day.”
“I thought military strategy was McCameron’s bailiwick.” Seb hated the tremor in his voice, and pushed against the dizziness that darkened the edges of his vision.
“This isn’t battle,” Grace said, sending Rotherby a sharp look. “Simply telling Sebastian to push on won’t help him feel comfortable around people he doesn’t know.”
He thought he heard her mutter, Men.
It was a measure of Seb’s anxiety that he barely noticed when Grace took his hand and led him away from the servants, Rotherby following. She stood directly in front of him, and held his gaze with her own.
“Let’s keep you tranquil,” she said in a mild voice. “Can’t talk to strangers when you’re already overwrought, isn’t that so?”
He managed to nod.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued in that same, soothing tone, “about when animals are chased by predators. They burn energy as they flee for their lives. And then, when the chase is over, and they’ve survived, that energy has been released. They can be calm.”
He rasped, “Because the danger has passed and they don’t need to run any longer.”
She nodded. “Perhaps that fear you feel when you talk to people you don’t know is akin to what animals feel when threatened by a predator. But if we can get that energy out of you, out of your body, it’s possible that your mind will realize that there’s no danger.”
“What do you suggest?” Rotherby asked with a puzzled frown. “We get a lion from the Tower of London to chase Holloway?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be absurd. But running is an excellent idea.” She smiled up at him, and the fretful thudding of his heart quietened. “Our garden isn’t vast, but I warrant a few laps around the perimeter should do the trick.”
Seb stared at her. “You propose that I’m to run around your garden like a racing hound? And that will make me calmer.”
“Precisely.”
Seb rubbed at his chin. “Thinking on it, I always feel tranquil after galloping up and down the football pitch. Sleep well afterward, too.” As theories went, hers had considerable merit. There was only one way to put it to the test. “Which way to the garden?”
She beamed at him, and the jolt in his pulse had nothing to do with fear. “I’ll show you the way. Rotherby, make sure the servants have enough to eat and drink.”