But it couldn’t return to normalcy. Such a feat was impossible. He would never look at her again without recalling the feel of her mouth against his, or the sweet, spicy taste of her, or the way her gaze filled with desire and wonder and something that came close to adoration when she had been beneath him.
He walked with long, brisk strides past the dark spread of Regent’s Park, and along streets of refined new homes. After the tense confines of the carriage, it felt good to move and breathe the chill night air. He passed a few wagons trundling along, and a quartet of soldiers staggering as they sang a regimental tune. The men had their arms slung around each other’s necks while they leaned together, offering support. Likely, they’d been in battle together, survived Bonaparte, seen the best and worst of humanity together.
A stab of longing pierced Seb. Not for war—his father had flatly refused to buy a commission for him, and had declared that he’d cut off every cent if Seb enlisted—but for the company and camaraderie of his friends.
He looked up in surprise as he found himself standing outside Rotherby’s imposing Mayfair home. All the windows were dark. Save one.
He’d been to Rotherby House many times over the years, yet never at this hour. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the iron gate, walked to the door, and knocked brusquely.
A minute later, a sleepy-looking footman opened the door.
“His Grace is in his study,” the servant said and yawned into his gloved hand.
So. He was expected.
“I know the way.” Seb slipped the footman a coin for his trouble and, picking up a lit candle, moved into the massive spread that was Rotherby House.
It had been designed and constructed with the intent to intimidate visitors and impress upon them the master’s vast, almost unchecked power. Naturally, Rotherby himself had not built such a structure, and had often expressed his dislike of the place. But Seb believed there was a part of his friend that secretly needed the distance it gave him from others, cocooning him in heavy sandstone.
The door to the study stood ajar, and Seb rapped lightly. “It’s Holloway.”
“Enter, you wily bastard.”
“Since when have I become a wily bastard?” He stepped into the room. Bookshelves lined one wall, and a massive mahogany desk was positioned near a bank of velvet-draped windows. Rotherby stood beside the low-burning fireplace, his coat and waistcoat gone, a glass of something in his hand. “If that’s whiskey, I want it.”
“You’ve become a wily bastard since both you and Grace disappeared from Marwood’s ball, and me none the wiser about where you might have gone. You only said that you were leaving.” Rotherby pointed to a walnut table, atop which crystal decanters were arrayed. “Help yourself to whatever’s there.”
As Seb poured himself a liberal amount of whiskey, he could hear Rotherby using a poker to rouse the fire.
“You’re welcome, incidentally,” Rotherby said drily.
Seb turned and raised his glass. “Thank you for the drink.”
“Not the whiskey. I’m talking about Lady Pembroke—Grace’s mother.” Rotherby sprawled in a chair near the fire. “I invited her, and the Earl and Countess of Ashford, to dine with me after Marwood’s ball. Kept her occupied for a good two hours while you and Grace did . . .” He waved his hand. “Whatever you did.”
“My thanks.” Seb had barely considered her mother, but thank God someone had taken such things into consideration. He hadn’t been thinking logically at all, not when it came to her. All his reason and lucidity and carefully constructed scaffolds of scientific understanding—it all fell apart whenever he was near her.
He ambled to the other chair near the fire and lowered himself into it before taking a long swallow of whiskey. It burned his throat and cut through the haze of thought and sensation that continued to cling to him.
Belatedly, he realized that his skin still smelled faintly of her. She clung to him, the feel and flavor of her, and the gorgeous flush that rose to her cheeks when she came. All he wanted was to see that blush again as she tightened around him.
Goddamn it.
He threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass down hard on the floor.