My Fake Rake

Dark, primal urges demanded Seb tear Grace from Fredericks. He had to occupy himself, and find a means for distraction so that he didn’t yield to his instincts.

He glanced around the room. The guests not dancing congregated in small groups, some of the same sex, some comprised of men and women. It struck him that, for all the fine clothing and jewels and glasses of expensive wine in their hands, the guests were no different from the people he’d studied in villages and rural towns. They assessed and flirted, they laughed and leaned closely to people they wanted to attract, they gave polite yet reserved smiles to those that they wanted to keep at a distance.

Perhaps they considered the other person’s political and financial value, but, at bottom, most everyone hoped to find someone they could at least care for, if not love.

Seb looked at Grace and Fredericks dancing. All he thought and felt was the wish to trade places with the other man—and that wasn’t what Grace wanted.

The room became hot and choking. He couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. The darkness outside the ballroom beckoned, and, making certain not to glance in Grace’s direction, he headed quickly through the open French doors.

Grace’s movements were rote. The cotillion was one she’d learned early in her preparation for coming out, so there was no question of whether or not she remembered the steps. They carried her as she turned and retreated, spun and promenaded. She and the other dancers were part of a clockwork mechanism, gears moving together.

She felt mechanical, too. Remote from herself, even as she smiled back at Mason. He was an accomplished dancer, evidence that he was no stranger to events such as this ball. He partnered her well, and when their hands met, he didn’t grip her too tightly or touch her too limply. Everything he did was correct. Everything was just as it should be, but it was merely pleasant. Nothing more.

She chanced a quick look around the ballroom, but Sebastian was nowhere to be found. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t blame him for leaving. This part of his work was done. Now he was free to do precisely what he wanted, free from the obligation of her company.

The music came to an end. She curtsied to Mason, he bowed, and then he guided her off the dance floor—toward her mother, who smiled to see her on Mason’s arm.

This was what her father wanted, and what Grace had believed she wanted. But she didn’t know what she wanted anymore, and the idea of making conversation at that moment felt like a crushing vise.

“Forgive me, Mr. Fredericks.” She came to a stop. “I feel I must take some air.”

Mason frowned in concern. “There is a balcony. I will escort you.”

“No. Thank you,” she added. “It’s much appreciated, but I need a moment to myself.”

“As you like.” He inclined his head, but his tone was reluctant.

She didn’t look back as she went quickly to the open doors at the farthest part of the ballroom. Outside, a handful of guests stood at the iron railing, fanning themselves and murmuring pleasantries about the evening, the ball, their host and hostess, and any of a hundred other topics she could not find the emotional wherewithal to discuss.

Was there nowhere to be alone?

The balcony was quite long, stretching the whole length of the ballroom and even a little beyond. To her relief, shadows engulfed one end and it didn’t appear as though anyone occupied the space, which made it the perfect place for her to seek solitude.

She quickly slipped toward the shadows.

The darkness enfolded her like an embrace. And then a pair of strong male arms encircled her in a real embrace.

Chapter 18

Alarmed, Grace yelped and pushed at the arms surrounding her. At once, they let go. But she turned to berate their owner for his presumption.

“You’re insolent, sir,” she ground out.

“My apologies but you were on the verge of trodding on my foot and— Grace?”

Stunned, she asked, “Sebastian?”

She peered into the dark, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could just make out his form. He was mostly made up of shadows, yet details emerged: his fair hair pale in the night, the width of his shoulders, the shine of his eyes. And . . . he was standing very near. Warmth from his body was as close as the darkness itself. He smelled of spice and expensive wool, with the faint hint of perspiration beneath that caused her senses to prickle. It thrilled her, his scent, even as she told herself that she shouldn’t feel anything from his nearness.