Admittedly, it was a simple plan. But that did not mean it was easy.
A week had passed since Vauxhall, and he'd spent every day of it in careful retreat. He'd sent his excuses for two morning calls. He'd arrived late to a garden party and left early. He'd communicated with the duchess through notes rather than in person, and the notes had been brief to the point of rudeness.
In his defense, he was doing all of this for Estella’s sake. He’d very nearly lost all control at Vauxhall Gardens. If the fireworks hadn’t started up when they had…
Well. He’d have ruined everything for Estella. He’d have kissed her in plain sight of all of society’s finest. And once he’d thoroughly ruined her, he’d have claimed her hand in marriage. Not out of obligation, but selfish desire.
And yes, perhaps she’d have agreed willingly—for now. But how long until she realized she was trapped in a marriage with a scarred brute? And the very same man who’d taken her brother from her and destroyed her family?
No, despite her twinkling eyes and pert words, he had to protect her from himself. Because heaven knew no one else would. Her father wasn’t around, and the duchess who was supposed to be looking after Estella had seemingly decided they’d make a fine couple.
That suspicion had been confirmed with the note he’d received from her this morning.
The duchess had responded to his last short missive with an equally frank response: Do stop sulking, Blackwood. It's unbecoming in a man your age. It’s high past time you do right by Miss Hale. Come to the ball tonight. And for heaven’s sake, ask her to dance.
He was not sulking. He was maintaining appropriate distance.
The problem was that appropriate distance from Estella Hale was proving to be an impossibility. Every event she attended became smaller, warmer, the air thicker. He could be standing in a ballroom the size of a cricket pitch, and the moment she walked through the door, there was nothing but her.
He took a measured sip of his whiskey and told himself that tonight would be different. He would be civil but remote. Attentive but detached. He would watch from a safe distance and ensure no harm came to her, and he would not, under any circumstances, think about the way the lamplight at Vauxhall had turned her hair to gold and her eyes luminous, or the way her voice had sounded sweet as honey as she'd called him out like a little warrior.
But in truth, he thought about all of it. Constantly. It was becoming a serious impediment to his daily functioning.
But that all would end soon enough, he promised himself.
The Lady Clarissa matter would soon be settled, and he would have a wife. One who was not Estella, and whose family he had not destroyed. And he’d find Estella a good husband, no matter how much he hated the idea of her being anywhere near another man, and?—
And his next thought was cut off at the quick, because just then…
Estella arrived. She walked through the entrance, and Sebastian's vision narrowed to a single point.
The gown was ivory, shot through with gold thread that caught the candlelight. Her hair was swept up, a few pale curls loose at her temples. She wore pearls at her throat—the duchess's, most likely—and carried herself with an ease and confidence that would make any man stare.
She looked different. Oh, she had the same fine features, same pointed chin, same violet-blue eyes that still occasionally brought Andrew slamming into his thoughts like a fist. But there was a certainty in her demeanor that hadn't been there a month ago. Her spine was straight and her shoulders were back, and if someone had told him she was a queen visiting from a foreign land, he wouldn’t have doubted it.
The girl who'd studied wall sconces with desperate cheerfulness at her first ball was gone. The woman who'd replaced her moved through the crowd with quiet assurance, greeting acquaintances, accepting compliments, laughing at a remark from a passing gentleman.
She'd come into her own. The thought was tinged with pride and a deeper, more selfish ache. She didn’t need his help any longer. Not the duchess’s either, for that matter. She could have her pick of gentlemen, and she’d no longer be fooled by the Mr. Fairchilds of the world.
He tore his gaze away. The plan, blast it all. He had a plan. But a moment later, he sensed her approach before he saw it. And then she was in front of him, and all his plans dissolved.
Her smile was small and sweet. "Dance with me."
Sebastian blinked. He looked down at her—because he always had to look down, she was absurdly small—and her expression was bright and direct and faintly amused, as though she already knew what he was going to say and had prepared her counterarguments.
"I don't dance," he said.
"Really?" Her tone was light, and the taunting so subtle one might miss it. "I've been told you were quite accomplished before you decided to be miserable."
A huff of amusement escaped him despite himself. She always had been brave. But she'd never spoken to him like this before. She’d never been this bold and teasing.
He hadn’t thought it possible for her to become any more beautiful in his eyes. But here he was.
"One dance," she said. "As my guardian, or as my brother's friend. Whatever you want to call it." Her shoulders squared. "But I should like to dance with you, and I believe you'd like to dance with me. And quite frankly I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
He really ought to refuse. This was precisely the sort of proximity he'd been avoiding for a week, and for very good reason, and?—
"One dance," he said. The words came out before his brain could intervene. Some mutinous part of him that apparently had no interest in self-preservation had simply overridden all higher function.
