But, bloody hell, pretend or no, his kiss would haunt her to the end of her days.
Chapter 12
It was an unqualified disaster.
The garden party was but one and a half hours away, and Seb had done his level best to attempt a dashing arrangement of his neckcloth—to no avail. The more he fussed with the length of white linen, the more appalling the result, until it now hung limply around his neck like a wilted onion.
How had three days passed so quickly? Each afternoon, he’d spent hours in the ballroom of Grace’s home, with Rotherby quizzing him and guiding him in everything a would-be rake needed to know and do. The lessons had, in and of themselves, been readily digested. But it hadn’t been the proper way to kiss a lady’s hand that haunted his waking—and dreaming—hours. Nor had he stewed over the names of London’s most popular gaming hells.
No. His thoughts had circled around Grace. The way her lips pursed just before she laughed. How her eyelids lowered a fraction as she contemplated a new fact or bit of information. The trails of gold he felt whenever she lightly touched her hand to his forearm.
And that kiss . . .
He thanked any and all available deities that she’d reminded him in the sunlit field that he was her pretend suitor only, and that whatever he’d experienced as they kissed—desire, yearning, feelings that were far from platonic—all of that existed in him alone. She had her sights fixed firmly on Fredericks.
That didn’t mean he stopped thinking about kissing her, or that he didn’t want to do it again.
He wouldn’t, of course, but he wanted.
In two hours, Seb would pretend to court her in front of an audience—so she might attract another man’s interest.
He hadn’t really thought things out when he’d decided to undertake the scheme.
Even so, none of this mattered if he couldn’t sodding tie his sodding neckcloth because no sodding rake ever set foot outside without looking his sodding best. Sodding Rotherby had sodding said as much.
The calisthenics he’d done at his sporting academy this morning had burned away his anxiety, but this neckcloth debacle brought it back to the fore. How could he feel calm and comfortable enough to play the rake if people were busy sniggering at the flopping fabric around his neck?
Seb glared down at the neckcloth. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, he could make the damned thing obey his will and tie itself.
Bang! Bang! His attempt at mind control broke apart at the sound of someone pounding on his front door.
“Wait a bloody moment,” Seb yelled. He stalked through his rooms, muttering to himself. This was not what he needed right now, moments away from one of the most important events of his life.
He threw open the door, revealing Rotherby and a slim, beautifully dressed young man with glossy black hair. The stranger carried a mahogany case under his arm.
Rotherby’s gaze drifted down to Seb’s pathetic neckcloth. “Oh, dear. I see we’ve come too late to prevent the murder of your poor cravat.” He glanced at the man standing behind him. “Can it be revived, Beale?”
“It will take some doing, Your Grace,” Beale replied, “but consider what miracles I’ve wrought with your wardrobe.” The well-appointed man clicked his tongue as he surveyed Seb from top to bottom. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“These are my brand-new clothes,” Seb protested. He’d put on a dark blue waistcoat and a deep brown jacket, and sported buff breeches, which tucked into his tall boots. Only a moment ago, Seb had thought himself rather fine-looking in his attire, but apparently, his opinion was rubbish.
“The garments themselves are fine,” Beale said airily, “but the assemblage requires attention.”
“I’m sorry—who are you?” Seb asked.
“Ah, right,” Rotherby said, stepping past Seb as he breezed into the room. “Holloway, this is my valet, Beale. I had a feeling you might require a little assistance, so I enlisted his aid.”
Seb nodded curtly at Beale, who barely inclined his head in response as he approached Seb.
The valet glanced around the front parlor of Seb’s rooms, his gaze touching on the piles of books on every available surface, including the floor. “I take it the housekeeper has gone on strike.”