Then she swept away just as Baron Cooper-Giles stopped to talk to Sebastian, knowing Sebastian would try to chase after her soon. Leah nodded at Lady Elliot and Mrs. Meyer as she walked past. Everyone else except for Mrs. Thompson was dancing, the skirts of the ladies swirling about their feet as the gentlemen led them through the patterns. Leah kept to the edge of the salon, their ballroom for the evening. Every minute or so, she caught a glimpse of Sebastian as she peered past the dancers. He may not be following her yet, but he was trailing her with his eyes.
As the reel ended, Leah saw Lord Elliot and Mr. Halladay walk toward Sebastian and Baron Cooper-Giles. Miss Pettigrew and Miss Sanders, the daughter of a third cousin twice removed of the Viscount Parbury, gathered around Leah.
“Oh, I was just about to leave,” Leah said.
“Leave?” Miss Pettigrew exclaimed, her cheeks flushed, a sheen of perspiration shining on her forehead. Leah nodded and lifted her skirt an inch off the floor to reveal the hem she’d first cut with scissors and then tore with her hands before dinner.
“My foot somehow snagged on my dress. I’ll be back soon, though.”
“Would you like some company while you get it repaired?” Miss Sanders asked, but her head was already turned, craning toward Baron Cooper-Giles who had left Sebastian’s side and was presently strolling in their direction.
“Oh, no. Thank you. Just keep dancing.” With a smile at Miss Pettigrew, Leah glanced again at Sebastian to make sure he wasn’t watching, then hurried out of the salon.
Once in her bedchamber, she gestured to Agatha who sat waiting in one of the chairs before the fire. “Come, we must hurry.”
As her maid unlaced her crepe dress, Leah removed the pins from her widow’s cap to reveal the braids Agatha had worked to perfect earlier that evening. Looking in the mirror, Leah smoothed her fingers over a braid at the crown of her head. “I think this one is coming undone.”
“It’ll take me only a minute to fix it, madam.”
“No, not to worry. There isn’t time. I want to be back down in time for the waltz.”
Part of her hoped that Sebastian would be so stunned by the dress that he would forgive her for the scandal and ask her to waltz with him, regardless of the opinions of her other guests. But if he didn’t, the most important moment would be when she entered the salon in the organza gown, having made the decision to dance no matter the censure she would endure. If no one asked her to dance, she would still have successfully claimed her freedom, her new identity. She was no longer a slave to propriety, no longer obedient to another’s whims, no longer the slip of a girl who hid behind her mother’s criticisms and her husband’s infidelity.
Leah stepped out of the crepe dress, then walked toward the organza gown laid out on the bed. It was exquisite; Mrs. Neville had outdone herself. With the back open, the neck was wide enough for Agatha to slip the dress over Leah’s head without displacing any of her braids. Even though Mrs. Neville had taken her measurements and Leah knew it fit perfectly, the sensation of air at her back made the gown feel too loose, the material a sensual slide across her skin.
Leah sat at the dressing table and picked up the diamond pendant earrings. “I cannot believe I am doing this,” she whispered to her reflection as she put one earring on, then the other. She waited as Agatha slipped the matching diamond necklace around her neck. Compared to the free movement of the dress, the clasp felt heavy at her nape, the end of the silver chain cool at the top of her spine.
Her maid moved back, and Leah stood. As when she’d first bought the organza, she held out her arms and twirled, smiling. “Do you approve, Agatha?”
The maid smiled in return, her round cheeks threatening to hide her eyes. “You’re beautiful, madam.”
“Thank you,” Leah said, lowering her arms. But tonight it wasn’t important that she look beautiful. Tonight, all she wanted was to no longer look like a widow.
Chapter 13
How can I hope for more? It was wicked of you to tease me, to make me believe it is possible.
Sebastian was pacing outside the salon when Leah appeared from the other wing.
Dear God.
Bloody hell.
Both seemed apt phrases, appealing to the heavens and cursing the lower dominions as he ground his jaw together.
The widow he’d known for the past four months had completely transformed. Her widow’s cap was gone, revealing a braided coiffure which complemented the angles of her face. She wore diamonds, not the usual somber, black ornamentation allowed. And although her dress appeared black at first glimpse, it became clear as she walked that blue threads were interwoven into the material, for the gown shimmered and reflected the light, alternating between blue and black with each step.
Still, thank God the dress was modest. Her sleeves were pulled to her wrists, the line of the bodice high at her neck. Any illicit thoughts he had as she walked toward him were inspired by his own imagination, not by the cut of her gown.
She slowed as she neared him, the smile on her face fading. “You weren’t supposed to see me yet.”
Sebastian moved toward her. He told himself it was to block her path to the salon, but in reality he simply wanted to be closer to her. “Return to your chamber,” he said. “Change back into the dress you were wearing before. And please, don’t try to dance tonight.”
She shook her head and tried to step around him, but he extended his arm. Her chest lifted as she inhaled, pushing against him. She turned her head and met his gaze. “I need to do this.”
“If you do, you risk hurting Henry. I can’t allow you—”
“Please, Sebastian. It’s rather far-fetched to believe anything I do will cause rumors about Ian or Angela.”
“Perhaps it is. I might be concerned for nothing. But if the truth does come out, even if it’s just a rumor that no one can confirm, what do you believe will happen to Henry? How soon until you think people will begin to question his legitimacy?”
“Then they’d be fools,” she said slowly, considering him as if in doubt of his sanity. “Sebastian, he looks just like you.”
“Does he? What of his hair? His eyes?” Sebastian dropped his arm and stepped closer to her, the scent of her soap like an aphrodisiac to his senses. “Some days it’s perfectly clear that he’s my son. Other days I look and look, searching for some resemblance, unable to find any. All I ask is that you think of Henry. If he is mine, allow him to grow older until there’s no doubt. If he isn’t—” Sebastian exhaled harshly, lifting his hand to her face, cupping her cheek. “He’s still my son. Don’t do this, Leah. Don’t take the chance.”
She closed her eyes, and for a moment, Sebastian thought he’d convinced her to give up her plan. But then she shook her head again and opened her eyes, a small, regretful smile on her lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then ran past him, her sleeve slipping through his fingers as he tried to catch her.
Leah paused at the door to the salon, glancing back over her shoulder to see Sebastian following behind. His eyes widened as he spied the open V at the back of her gown.
Moving forward, Leah edged to the side of the room to stand near Lord Elliot and Mr. Meyer as she waited for the next dance—the waltz—to begin.
Her ears buzzed too loudly for her to understand their conversation, but she was aware after a few moments of the absence of speech; Lord Elliot was no longer talking, but staring at her, his brow wrinkled. Leah offered him a smile and curtsied, then did the same as Mr. Meyer turned to look.
Second by second passed, and one by one the guests turned from their small groups toward her. Eventually the dancers in the middle of the floor stopped dancing, and the musicians in the corner of the room ceased playing in turn.
Sebastian’s gloved hand was warm at the small of her back as he came up behind her. “You wanted to dance, yes?” he murmured, a smile in his voice. As he walked around to face her, she could see that the smile was more a gritting of teeth.
Leah placed her hand on his arm and lifted her chin. “Yes, my lord, I would love to dance.” With a nod to the musicians, she called, “A waltz, please.”
Sebastian guided her to the center of the room and they took their positions as they waited for the music to begin: her hand on his shoulder, his on her waist, their other hands clasped together. All around them, from every corner of the room, she heard the swell of voices. Then the music started, and they began to waltz.
Leah remembered that she’d danced with Sebastian a few times since her first Season. She couldn’t recall the specific times, or the specific places, but she knew she’d danced with him before. How was it, then, that this dance seemed so incredibly intimate, each movement of their bodies a flirtation, an unspoken question waiting to be answered by the other?
“When the waltz is over, I suggest you make an apology. Make an excuse about this being for Ian—they probably won’t believe it, but any reason is better than none.” His hand tightened on hers, his lips thinning as he glanced over her head. “Of course, you had to wear that dress.”
“Do you like the dress?”
“Do I like it? No. Do I want to tear it off of you? Yes.” His gaze returned to hers, and she found herself caught in their green depths, tangled in his desire. “For more than one reason, Leah.”
“Mrs. George,” she reminded him quietly, for his sake.
They continued dancing, Sebastian leading her as they turned about the floor. Leah swallowed as she glanced around; by the way no one else came out to join the waltz, but just stood and stared at them, she surmised that her attempt at breaking the rules had gone over quite well.
Instead of feeling a flush of embarrassment rise over her as might have happened in the past, Leah looked up at Sebastian and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, “for dancing with me.”
“I assure you, Mrs. George, it’s entirely selfish. If I were to leave you alone the consequences would be much worse. In truth, I don’t know if I’ve succeeded, but I hope by waltzing with you to make it appear as if this was planned. God help me, I hope they believe it. Just explain when you make the apology—”
“I’m not going to apologize, Sebastian,” she said, then amended, “My lord.”
He turned her with him at the corner, and a wall of faces flashed by her vision. He dipped his head. “You’ve already created cause for a scandal,” he said urgently in her ear, “but you can still minimize it.”
“This is what I wanted. I won’t apologize.”
He drew back. “And what of Henry?”
“He’s your son. It’s obvious, even if you have doubts. He’ll be fine.” Leah forced herself to believe the words, forced herself to believe that even if Sebastian didn’t understand or forgive her now, he would someday.
“Very well,” he said, his shoulder stiffening beneath her touch. “Be aware, then, that once this waltz ends, I will be the first to spurn you. I will not acknowledge you again, nor will I defend you should anyone ask me the reason for your actions. In the future, if something should happen and you should ever think to ask for my assistance—no matter your situation—be assured that you will be sent away without a hearing.”
The hand at her waist pressed in, guiding her through another turn.
“Do you understand?”
Her heartbeat became faint. His words threatened to topple her resolution, but she remained strong. “I understand you very well, my lord.”
“Good.”
She looked in his eyes, and even though no more words came, a host of unspoken emotions passed between them. There was anger in his gaze. His desire for her that she could no longer hide from. Also, resignation and regret.
She had made her choice, and he had made his. Just as Ian’s and Angela’s deaths had drawn them together, her actions now ensured that they were returned to a more formal relationship. Not even the polite acquaintance they had once shared, but something closer in resemblance to an aloof enmity. At last, they were the enemies they’d pledged to become.
As the last note of the waltz faded, Sebastian brought them to a halt. He withdrew his arms and stepped away. Then, without making a bow or any other gesture of courtesy, he turned his back on her and strode from the drawing room.
Breathe, she told herself.
Breathe.
She wouldn’t faint. She wouldn’t vomit. No matter how inclined her body seemed toward those measures at the moment, after Sebastian gave her the cut direct in front of the entire party of guests and as those same guests stared at her in horror and salacious disbelief, she held her head up and kept her shoulders straight. If she’d learned nothing else from her mother, it was the carriage of confidence.
She pasted a smile on her face and strolled from the dancing area. The musicians began to play another tune. Yet no one moved to dance, and as she walked forward, guests edged away so that she felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. A part of her found this humorous, since every step she made created a space of three feet in distance between her and the nearest guest. But another part could not help but be mortified.