Page 12 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Unless her mysterious remark about his behavior was some allusion to that night in the Mainwaring’s garden.

Could that be her game? To use his conduct of three years ago as some sort of leverage to wring a proposal out of him? His fingers tightened reflexively on the handle of his teacup, the hot liquid sloshing dangerously against the brim. He had always considered himself a good judge of character. As a soldier, he had had to be. And yet somehow, three years ago, he had managed to misjudge Sylvia Stafford completely.

Oblivious to his escalating temper, Julia chattered on, telling Miss Stafford about the shops in the nearby village of Apsley Heath and opining on her favorite places to walk and to ride. She even launched into a brief—and wholly inaccurate—treatise on the history of Pershing Hall itself.

Miss Stafford was not so blind to his mood as his sister. More than once he saw her glance in his direction, her face pale and her slim hands unsteady on her teacup. She had never been scared of him in the past, despite the fact that he towered over her and outweighed her by several stone. Was it the sight of his scars that unsettled her now? He knew they were repellant, but were they so monstrous that they genuinely frightened her?

And if this was her reaction in the shadowy gloom of the library, what might she make of his ravaged face in the full light of day?

A helpless fury stirred within him. He did not love her anymore. Indeed, he often felt as if he hated her. Even so, he could not bear the thought of her recoiling from him in horror.

He looked at her sitting across from him now, so dainty and perfect and beautiful, and he cursed Julia for bringing her here. He cursed himself, too, for having kept that damned lock of her hair.

“Are you an early riser in the country, Miss Stafford?” Julia was asking. “For if you are, I would have us ride before breakfast.”

“Yes. If you like.”

“Splendid,” Julia said brightly. “Naturally, you will want to become acquainted with your mount. Though, we needn’t wait until the morning for that. We can all go down to the stables after tea and—”

“No,” Miss Stafford said, interrupting before he could voice an objection himself. She lowered her teacup into her saucer. “I am obliged to you, Lady Harker, but I think…If you do not mind it…I would rather rest in my room for a while. I’m a bit tired from our journey.”

“Oh! How silly of me. Of course, you are. Shall I accompany you upstairs or—”

Miss Stafford rose. “No. Please don’t disturb yourself on my account. I shall see myself up.”

Sebastian stood, watching her intently. She was distracted. Upset. He brutally suppressed another frisson of guilt. “Is there anything you require?” he asked.

“No, sir. Nothing.” She addressed herself to his cravat, clearly unable to bring herself to look at his ruin of a face.

“I’ll send my maid to wake you before dinner,” Julia said.

“Thank you, my lady. My lord. I bid you both good afternoon.”

Sebastian remained standing until she had gone from the room. Only then did he resume his seat, his expression shuttered.

“What did you say to her before I arrived?” Julia demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? She looked as if she was about to cry. And she hardly said two words during tea.” Julia’s own eyes puddled in sympathy. “I worked so hard to find her and bring her here for you, Sebastian. And now you will ruin it with your temper. Just because you may threaten to wring my neck does not mean you may do so to Miss Stafford.”

“I did not threaten to ring Miss Stafford’s neck,” he growled.

“Well, whatever you said, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find her packing her things at this very moment!”

Sebastian’s stomach clenched in alarm.

“I shall have to go to her and tell her…Oh, but what can I tell her? That you’re pleased she’s here? That you wish her to stay? I know you must do, Sebastian, for you couldn’t stop staring at her all through tea. If you would only say something kind to her—”

“The devil!” he swore under his breath. Was this to be a repeat of three years ago? Was he to humiliate himself? To beg and plead with Sylvia Stafford for some small crumb of her affection? He glared at his sister. “You are the one who invited her here.”

“Yes, but—”

“If you wish her to remain, then you must persuade her.”

“But I only did it for you! Because of that lock of hair. I knew you would wish to see her. And I knew—”

“You know nothing about it,” he said harshly. “I’ll not permit you to interfere with my life, Julia. Do you understand me?”