But it was too late.
Two heads peered around the corner, their presence unmistakable.
“Why are you hiding here, behind a book, no less?” my brother demanded with an arched brow as he approached me with Sebastian following. “Surely you must have seen the delivery that came earlier.”
“Delivery? Whatever do you mean?” I demanded as I straightened in my seat, smoothing the folds of my morning gown.
“Flowers,” Edward said with his trademark smirk. “White camellias, I believe. And forget-me-nots.”
Before I could respond, Sebastian glanced at the tome in my hand. “Pride and Prejudice. I am shocked, Miss Grenville. I thought you read only astronomy.”
“Ha! If you’re trying to win her over, you’ll have to do better than categorizing the books as fluff,” Edward cut in with a wink. “Kit adores her romances. The more brooding the hero, the better.”
“Does she now?” Sebastian replied. Something shivered within me at his perusal.
I disliked how these two men seemed to be becoming fast friends. I had distinctly asked Edward for his help and now he appeared a chum with the man beside him.
I clutched the book. “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on unsuspecting readers, Mr. Sinclair? I’ll have you know that this story is one of the finest reads to rival astronomy.”
Sebastian’s smile deepened, causing twin dimples to carve his cheeks. “Her reputation precedes her. My sister-in-law once cornered me to discuss whether I thought Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley made the superior match.”
“And what did you decide?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.
“Bingley,” he replied without hesitation. “The man has charm and tact. Darcy, on the other hand—” He raised an eyebrow. “Brooding, cold, insufferably proud and insulting of Miss Bennet’s family. What woman could possibly tolerate such a pompous man?”
My lips twitched. “Elizabeth Bennet manages it well enough.”
“Ah, but that’s fiction, Miss Grenville,” he teased, drawing closer. “In real life, no one is that patient. I daresay even you would grow weary of such an aloof gentleman. A lady deserves someone who will move mountains for her, not leave her guessing on a ballroom floor.”
“Would I?” I asked as I rose from my chair and faced him. “You seem very certain of yourself, Mr. Sinclair, regarding my preferences. If you had read the novel, you would also know that Mr. Darcy protects Miss Bennet’s reputation in the end, and at great personal cost to his family name. Can you think of anything moreromanticthan that gesture?”
Edward cleared his throat loudly. “Flowers, Kit. Lovely flowers await you in the drawing room. Shall we take a look?”
Sebastian didn’t seem put out by my rankled tone, nor did he answer my brother. Instead, with an amused twinkle in his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest as if enjoying my ire.
“I confess I haven’t read it. My sister-in-law gave me the entire plot over tea one afternoon—at great length, I might add.”
“I quite prefer Mr. Darcy, I’ll have you know,” I added in my frostiest tone while studying the exasperating man in front of me. I frowned. What was—“Good heavens, Mr. Sinclair! You cut your hair!”
I could have clapped a hand over my mouth after I said it.
To my surprise, he blushed and palmed the back of his neck. “When in London, it seems best to dress as a Londoner. I have your brother to thank for the tailor this morning.”
“No one wears fashion better than Brummell,” my brother added with a grin as he studied my reaction. “I told my tailor to pattern our Sinclair after London’s most fashionable man.”
I could not deny how the shortened length highlighted Sebastian’s firm jaw and fine features. In fact, now that I looked, he also wore trousers instead of breeches and tights. And the waistcoat in steely gray matched the color of his eyes. His hair, not as tousled as Edward’s, had the tiniest hint of being windblown, as was the style.
“Ah, well...” I slid my letter into my book to avoid saying anything further that might embarrass me, then hurried out the door before realizing I had surpassed both men in my speed to reach the drawing room.
I gasped at the bouquets arranged on the marble-top table. Hitchens, our butler, appeared with a tray of calling cards. The brief swell of relief at Grandfather’s absence vanished as Aunt fluttered into the room, all smiles and schemes.
“Flowers?” She perked up immediately, then frowned. “But I thought the colonel refused all callers today?”
Hitchens nodded toward the flowers. “Lord Chudley hoped for a visit. I’m afraid I had to turn him away. I believe a Mrs. Haverstead also wished to pay her respects.”
Aunt beamed as she glanced at me, her tone taking on an almost saccharine quality. “I know Mrs. Haverstead from way back. We were presented together as young women. I cannot wait to tell her what a success our Kitty was last night.” She tilted her head and added, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Such a memorable evening. Everyone’s still talking about it.”
My stomach churned. There it was—the pointed comment informing me that she knew about the cartoon. Of course she knew. Aunt adored gossip, and she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to wield it.
