My Fake Rake

“Right,” Seb said, but even he could hear the thread of tightness in his words.

“Sebastian,” Grace murmured. “What are you afraid of?”

“That . . .” His mind ran through countless terrible scenarios, making his muscles go taut. “I’ll pass out or . . . say exactly the wrong thing.”

“In all your life,” she said softly, “tell me how many times that’s happened to you.”

“There was that time when . . .” He sorted through the catalog of his memories. He recalled innumerable instances when he’d panicked about losing consciousness or blurting something gauche, but as to actually doing those things . . . “I don’t know if I ever have.”

She tilted her head toward one of the maids, who stood with the groom. “Let’s see if it happens with these good folks.”

Taking another breath, Seb approached the maid and groom. Fear climbed up his spine as he neared the two people, and they observed him with a mild curiosity, but he reminded himself to remain focused on the in and out of his breath. Edged anxiety receded, so that by the time he joined the duo, he was able to say with some measure of calm, “Did you enjoy your tea?”

“We did, sir,” the maid said. “I like Cook’s cress sandwiches the best. Taste like summer.”

For a terrifying moment, Seb’s mind emptied and he could think of nothing to say in reply. But as he struggled to speak, the groom said, “Sure and the sandwiches are nice, but nothing tops Cook’s plum cakes.”

“And who can argue with a plum cake?” Seb said with a sage nod. “It’s categorically known to be the most delicious of all cakes.”

The groom and maid chuckled, and within moments, Seb and his companions were chatting easily. In fact, only when Rotherby and Grace appeared beside him did he realize that he’d lost track of the minutes. Grace nodded her thanks to the groom and the maid before she, Seb, and Rotherby retreated to one corner of the ballroom.

“That seemed to go rather well,” she said, and her praise sifted through him warmly.

“The dragon I thought I’d face turned out to be only a large lizard.” He glanced at her and said quickly, “But no reptilian life was slain. We had a nice conversation, instead. Although,” he said as a grim thought struck him, “surely they thought I was a buffoon.”

“How do you know?” Grace tilted her head as she posed this question. “Did they say to you, My goodness, you’re quite silly?”

“Well . . . no. But perhaps you instructed them to be polite.” That had to be it. Otherwise—was it possible that all this time, he’d been misconstruing what he believed people thought of him?

The idea was galvanizing.

“Before you arrived,” Grace said, “Rotherby and I asked them to act as naturally and unaffectedly as possible. And I assured them that there’d be no punishment for their honesty.”

“Truth is, Holloway,” Rotherby added, “even a man as abundant in intelligence, influence, and charm as I can’t know what’s happening in someone else’s mind. Surely, it’s the same for you. Unless . . .” Rotherby narrowed his eyes. “You were the product of an unholy union   between an ironmonger and a witch. Come to think of it, you do often mumble incantations under your breath whilst poring over ancient tomes.”

“If I was a witch’s son, don’t you think I would conjure myself a less arrogant friend?” But Seb and Rotherby shared a grin.

Grace shook her head at them, yet she smiled as she spoke. “My mother’s advice to me before my come out, and I was nervous about trying to converse with England’s most polished diamonds, was to ask the people I talked with many questions. Wish I’d listened to her,” she added, her expression briefly darkening.

God, what Seb wouldn’t do to take that pain away. It enraged him, that the world of the ton was so blind and stupid and hurtful.

Before he realized what he was doing, he’d taken her hand and given it an encouraging squeeze. His breath held—other than his holding her whilst they danced, he’d never before taken the initiative to touch her. Nothing had ever felt quite as good as her returning the squeeze. It made the pleasure he’d felt at successfully talking with strangers pale into the color of ash, as the point of contact between them bloomed color throughout his body.