A fold of concern appeared between Mason’s brows. Earnestly, he said, “My apologies if I spoke too lightly.”
“No need for contrition,” she assured him. It gave her great joy to say, “We’ve heard from him only this morning and he’s rapidly improving. He ought to be fully recovered by the middle of summer.”
“Do give him my best wishes for a rapid convalescence.”
The sincerity in Mason’s words warmed her. “I shall. I’ll write to him this very day and describe the gathering, down to each blade of grass and glass of sherry, and will be certain not to omit your good wishes.”
Yet as she reveled in the smile she shared with him, feeling the first real rays of optimism, Lord Creasy stepped forward.
“Mr. Fredericks,” their host said, “I have no fewer than three young ladies who are requesting the pleasure of your company. Three marriageable young ladies.”
“Excellent,” Mason said cheerfully. “As a rapidly aging bachelor, I can’t miss an opportunity to meet marriageable ladies. Lady Grace, my lord and ladies.” He bowed smoothly, a consummate gentleman. “Do excuse me.”
The viscount led an eager-looking Mason away.
Grace’s shoulders slumped and she let out a long exhale. As soon as she began to entertain hope, it was dashed apart by a handful of careless words. Was it even possible to have Mason consider her as anything other than a colleague?
“I’m sorry, dearest,” her mother said in a kind and warm voice.
“It was merely an oversight on his part,” Anne added. “I’m sure he thinks of you as an eligible woman.”
“The rotter,” Charlie muttered.
“It’s fine,” Grace said, holding up her hands in a silent plea for silence. “I’m truly fine. Thank you,” she added sincerely. She was grateful for her family’s support, truly grateful, but even their words of balm stung like vinegar.
Those glasses of sparkling wine looked awfully tempting right now.
She lifted her hand to signal a servant to bring her one, but an excited murmur rose up from the guests and she froze.
Someone new had arrived.
Lord and Lady Creasy hurried through the crowd, quickly making their way along the lawn and up the terrace steps to greet the arrival.
The Duke of Rotherby stood at the top of the wide stairs, wearing a polite but somewhat disinterested smile as the viscount and viscountess welcomed him.
“Well, well,” Charles said quietly. “I hadn’t expected him to actually show.”
Anne lifted up on her tiptoes. “Someone’s come out with him. The iron magnate’s son. And . . . oh, my gracious.”
“Yes, indeed,” Grace’s mother seconded.
Grace caught sight of Sebastian, who came to stand beside Rotherby.
She didn’t have much experience with conducting experiments around the phenomenon of electricity. She knew almost nothing about it, other than it could be generated using special pieces of equipment, and that it was frequently bright—and used on the dead to induce spasms that resembled life. It was a potent, powerful force that the scientific community was only just beginning to understand.
But as little as she knew about electricity, she felt it now shooting through her, crackling with energy and fire as she beheld a transformed Sebastian. Never in her life had she been so astonished, so utterly robbed of logical thought. As empty as her mind had become, her body roared to life at the sight of him. She sensed every nerve, every one of her breaths and heartbeats.
He was and was not the same man. It was as though the shape and color of him had been polished to gleaming perfection, more brilliant than any diamond.
“Ahem,” Charles grumbled. “Your husband’s standing right here, Anne. No need to devour the bloke with your eyes.”
If Anne made any reply, Grace didn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the pound of her pulse and the rasp of her breath.
Sebastian’s mop of blond hair had been cut and styled into an artfully tousled arrangement that looked as though he’d been striding along windswept moors—or rising from his lover’s bed. His cleanly shaven jaws made hard angles above a pristinely tied neckcloth, drawing attention to the shape of his mouth.