Fragile. That was what he'd thought. She had the sort of delicate frame that needed to be protected and cherished and?—
And he was thinking about it again.
He took a healthy sip of his drink.
Better to think of that no-good Fairchild chap. Sebastian turned his attention back to the man who’d guided Estella through the crowd with a proprietary hand on her arm.
He'd clocked Fairchild the moment he'd approached her. Before that, actually. He'd been tracking Fairchild's circuit of the ballroom for the better part of an hour, watching him assess the room's offerings with the practiced eye of a man shopping for something far outside his budget.
John Fairchild. Second son of a baron with more debts than prospects. No profession, no estate, no visible means of support beyond whatever charm could be converted to currency. He dressed well and danced well and had the particular gift of making nervous young women feel as though they were the most fascinating creature in the room.
Sebastian had seen him deploy that gift on at least three heiresses in the past two Seasons. The first had been rescued by an alert mother. The second had come to her senses. The third had not been so fortunate.
And now he was smiling at Estella on the other side of the ballroom as if she were the only person in the room. And she…
She was smiling back.
Sebastian stiffened. Straightened. He took a step in their direction before remembering his one blasted rule.
But his heart slammed against his rib cage as he saw her face tilt up and that extraordinary smile flash. Not the one she’d aimed at the wall sconce. It was a real smile this time, warm and inviting and?—
And Sebastian wanted to put his fist through something.
He’d only seen this particular smile a handful of times over the years. Never up close, and never aimed at him. But he’d seen her smile like that at Charlotte when she led her by the hand into town. Even that fool Phelps had garnered a smile like that when he’d brought her flowers before their chaperoned carriage ride.
And yes. Sebastian was well aware that those smiles hadn’t been for him, and that she’d likely be horrified if she’d known he’d been close enough to see. And yet…
And yet, there was nothing for it. To keep her safe meant to keep her close.
Guilt nagged at him, but he ignored it as he always did. What mattered now was the latest threat. And that was Fairchild.
And he would be dealt with. By week's end, if Sebastian could manage it. A word with the right people, a quiet mention of the man's debts and reputation. Nothing dramatic. Just the efficient removal of a threat, the same as he'd done with the suitors in the country.
He watched Fairchild lead her into the dance and told himself the sensation clawing at his rib cage was concern. Fraternal concern. The concern of a man who had promised a dead friend that he would keep this girl safe.
It was not jealousy. It was absolutely not jealousy. He was not jealous of a penniless fortune hunter with good teeth and a goose anecdote.
Snap!
Sebastian looked down with a frown. His glass might have cracked slightly in his grip.
The music shifted. Couples rearranged themselves on the floor. Sebastian made himself look away, and when he looked back, his gaze collided with someone else's entirely.
And it was enough to make his veins fill with ice.
3
The Duchess of Ashworth stood across the room, flanked by two ladies of her acquaintance, holding a glass of champagne.
And she was watching him.
Not the way others watched him, with furtive, darting glances. The duchess watched him the way one watched a chess opponent.
He felt compelled to hold her stare. To meet the challenge.
The duchess was a striking woman. Her nose was slightly long, her lips too thin, and her dark hair threaded with a hint of gray. But her eyes were bright with intelligence, and she wore her jewels with a confidence that commanded attention.
And right now, her eyes were fixed on him with an intensity he didn’t understand.
