My Fake Rake

“If she doesn’t . . .” Something wintry and cutting lanced Seb, and he rubbed the spot over his heart. It was as though he performed a vivisection on himself. “Another one of my wanders might be on the horizon. Maybe I’ll hie off to the Outer Hebrides to nurse my injured heart.”

“You wouldn’t be the first heartbroken man to run to an island.” Rotherby walked to Seb and placed his hand on Seb’s shoulder. “I hope she says yes, my friend.”

Seb tried for a smile, but the attempt was a dismal failure. “As do I.”

Despite the fact that she’d gone to her bed weary beyond imagining, Grace barely slept. Whenever she managed to doze, she dreamt of ballrooms and torchlit fields and hay-strewn barns, and no matter where she found herself she kept feeling as though there was something she ought to do or say, but she’d no idea what.

And everywhere in those dream spaces, she heard Sebastian telling her to fuck him, followed immediately by his assurance that he only considered her a friend, and she ought to run to Mason. It was as mystifying when asleep as it had been when she was awake, and it made her head throb with frustrated confusion.

When she finally woke, her eyes felt like balls of woolen yarn and her body ached with unalloyed weariness. Judging by the light creeping around the curtains, it was much earlier than she had hoped it would be. But falling back to sleep was impossible, her dreams too tormenting, and so she sat up groggily and rang for Katie.

Grace’s toilette was minimal—enduring Katie’s hands on her made her already frayed nerves stretch even tighter. And part of Grace still wanted to cling to the lingering sensation of Sebastian’s touch, even if the pleasure and happiness she’d experienced from it merely reinforced her foolishness.

“Your mother’s had her breakfast and is in the parlor,” Katie informed her.

Grace had no appetite, but she’d gladly sit for hours at the breakfast table if it meant she didn’t have to pretend for her mother that everything was perfectly fine.

She crept down the stairs, trying to make her sluggish body as light as possible. But reaching the breakfast room meant she’d have to walk past the parlor. From the hallway, she heard the crackle of the fire and the papery sound of pages being turned.

She tiptoed past the parlor—or she tried. She’d taken two steps past the door when her mother called out, “Grace?”

“Yes, Mama.” She closed her eyes and sighed quietly, but there was no help for it.

Pasting on a smile, she entered the parlor. Her mother sat on a divan, an open book spread on her lap. Grace pressed a kiss to her upturned cheek, and her mother peered at her with concern.

“You’re looking pallid, dear. Does your head still pain you?”

It’s not my head that hurts, it’s my heart. “A little,” Grace said instead.

“Then sit, my girl.” Her mother waved toward a nearby chair. “I’ll ring for beef tea.”

“Perhaps later.” The thought of food, even something as innocuous as beef tea, made Grace’s stomach roil.

Her mother clucked. “As you like, but I do insist that you at least have some barley water.”

Before Grace could answer, Grenville, the butler, appeared in the doorway with a tray bearing a calling card. “My lady,” he intoned as he held the tray out to her mother.

“It’s too early for callers.” Her mother picked up the card and used her lorgnette to read it. A smile spread across her face. “But in his case, we’ll make an exception.”

Grenville bowed and retreated.

“In whose case?” Grace asked, her head truly starting to throb.

“Mr. Fredericks,” her mother answered with a pleased smile.

Oh, God. Grace’s stomach plummeted. She did not want to see Mason today. She still hurt from Sebastian’s insistence that they were to remain friends, and to attempt coherent conversation with Mason—when she herself had no understanding of what she felt for anyone—seemed an impossibility.

“This headache is quite severe,” she said weakly. “Perhaps I should go back to bed.” She rose.

“Mr. Mason Fredericks,” Grenville announced as Mason strode into the parlor.