In fact, she wasn’t certain of much at the moment. She was starting to fear there might be large gaps in her education, and that perhaps…she did not know what she did not know.
So she swallowed down her retort, and instead, asked, "What would you have me do?"
"Practice," the duchess said. "Being in the company of men who don't fawn. Start with Blackwood. He won't flatter you or charm you or try to make you comfortable. He will be difficult and silent and probably quite rude. And I want you to sit with that discomfort and learn to see past it."
It was, Estella reflected, possibly the strangest piece of advice she'd ever received.
"You want me to practice being uncomfortable," she said slowly.
"I want you to practice trusting your eyes." The duchess smiled. "I want you to learn to look past pleasant smiles and comforting words, and base your judgments on a man’s actions. That is where you will find the truth of his character."
Estella looked at the door through which Sebastian had disappeared. She thought of Mr. Fairchild's easy warmth, and then she thought of Sebastian's hands catching her when she fell, and the way that gentleness didn't match anything else about him.
She turned back to the duchess with a determined smile.
"All right," she said. "I'll try."
6
The promenade was most definitely not going well. But it couldn’t be said it was for lack of trying.
If good intentions mattered one whit, Sebastian could have earned some sort of medal. He had prepared for this outing. Most thoroughly. He'd selected his route through Hyde Park with care, visible enough to be noticed, but not so crowded as to require excessive social interaction.
He'd even timed their arrival for maximum exposure to the ton's afternoon promenaders. Embarrassingly enough, he’d even rehearsed, for heaven’s sake. Somewhere in his study there lay a list of acceptable topics of conversation suitable for a brotherly guardian escorting his late friend's sister.
The list was hardly lengthy, but it was thorough. He’d listed topics ranging from the weather to the architectural design of the neighboring estates, assuming that would be sufficient.
It was not.
They had exhausted the weather in approximately ninety seconds. Charlotte's wellbeing had lasted slightly longer, but only because Estella had given him a detailed report of the girl’s latest stomach illness. Her narrative had trailed off when she’d seemingly become aware of the inappropriateness of the particularly revolting symptom she’d been describing.
Not that he could blame Estella. She’d clearly been working hard to fill the silence. Which was more than he’d been able to manage. No, Sebastian had apparently forgotten how to form complete sentences in the presence of this woman who smelled of rosewater and whose arm was resting on his.
Her arm. On his. It was the lightest possible touch. Her gloved fingers barely grazed his sleeve, and yet he could feel the precise weight and position of each one as though they were branding irons.
He stared straight ahead, his mind a horrifying blank.
"It is a pleasant day," Estella ventured. Again.
"Yes." Had he said that last time she’d mentioned the weather? He added, "Indeed."
Silence.
A pair of ladies passed them, openly curious. He knew what they saw. The scarred marquess and the unknown young woman on his arm. By evening, every drawing room in Mayfair would have a theory.
Good. That was the point. Of course, they’d be all wrong, but it was worth it if it meant every fortune hunter in London thought twice about approaching Estella.
"The Serpentine is lovely at this time of year." Estella looked around her with a determinedly cheerful smile as she took in the path around them.
"Yes."
A gentleman of his acquaintance passed on horseback and tipped his hat to them. Sebastian returned the gesture with a nod.
Estella's fingers twitched on his arm. He glanced down. Her expression was still pleasant but there was a spark of challenge in her eyes that had him stiffening in apprehension.
"Forgive me if I've misunderstood." Her tone was still light, but there was now an edge to it. "I was under the impression that the purpose of this promenade was to present me to the ton with some measure of…appeal."
He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
