Page 16 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Yet something about Sylvia Stafford was profoundly different. He could not quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was simply his own altered view of her after having been jilted so heartlessly. Perhaps, after three long years, he was at last seeing her as she really was. A faithless flirt. A fortune hunter. A woman who, when it came down to it, likely had no more sense of honor than her dissolute father had had before her.

He wanted to hate her. At the same time, much to his mortification, he wanted to grab hold of her, to pull her into his arms and cover her soft mouth with his.

The very idea of it was laughable.

As disfigured as he was, how could he ever presume to touch her? She would recoil in horror. She would swoon or run away screaming. Not that he could imagine Miss Stafford doing any of those things. She had always seemed to have more than her fair share of courage. Even so, she was not an automaton. She was a flesh and blood woman. She would not be able to disguise her revulsion. He would see it in her face the moment he attempted to touch her.

Sebastian turned away from the window in disgust. Why the devil was he even considering any of this? He was not going to marry Miss Stafford. She was not going to be his countess. Milsom and Julia’s suggestion was a ridiculous fantasy, not worthy of a first thought, let alone a second.

Besides, he thought bitterly as he sat down at his desk, how the devil did they expect him to convince Miss Stafford to marry him? And even if he could—even if she was as mercenary as he suspected—what in blazes did they think would happen next? That she would miraculously cease to be horrified by his scarred face? That she would willingly allow him to kiss her? To bed her? It was pure madness. If he had an ounce of sense, he would put it directly out of his mind.

He uncapped the inkwell and ruthlessly dipped the steel nib of his pen into the black fluid within. He had a paper to write for a new philosophical journal in Edinburgh. There were books to read. Notes to organize. More than enough work to keep him busy for the rest of the day and into the evening, too. He had wasted enough time brooding over Sylvia Stafford. He resolved to think on her no more.

It was a resolution that lasted only as long as the next morning.

After three days at Pershing Hall with no sign of Sebastian, Sylvia came to a decision. She informed Lady Harker of it that evening at dinner after the liveried footman who had served their first course had withdrawn. The two of them were left alone, seated with relative intimacy at one end of the long, polished mahogany table that dominated Pershing Hall’s cavernous dining room. “I do think it would be best,” she said.

Lady Harker regarded her with an expression of bewilderment. “But I still don’t understand, Miss Stafford. Is it because of me? Is it something I have done? I know I have been rather managing, but—”

“It is not that.”

“Then why must you consider returning to London so soon? Are you not enjoying your stay here?”

Sylvia sighed. She was enjoying her stay. A little too much, in fact. There were no balls or parties at Pershing Hall, of course, and no visits to the neighboring estates, but every morning she had gone riding with Lady Harker, mounted on the most divine bay gelding she had ever had the privilege to ride. She had breakfasted in bed, spent quiet evenings stitching at an embroidery frame in the drawing room, and even taken a long, hot bath in a full-sized tub.

It was luxury of the sort she had not experienced in years. She would have had to be made of stone not to appreciate it. But she had not come to Pershing Hall to please herself. She had come to help Sebastian.

“I am having a wonderful time,” she said. “But I have been here three days and I have only seen Lord Radcliffe once.”

Lady Harker’s soupspoon paused in the air midway between her bowl and her mouth. “Is that all that’s troubling you?” She laughed. “Three days is nothing, Miss Stafford. Why, it is not uncommon for my brother to avoid me for an entire visit. If I did not seek him out in his apartments, I daresay I would not see him at all.”

“But you are his sister, ma’am. I am only a houseguest. And a female one at that. I can hardly disturb him in his rooms.”

“Naturally not. It would be most improper.” Lady Harker swallowed her spoonful of soup. “I shall have to contrive a way to lure him out.”

Sylvia considered this as she applied herself to her own soup. It was a rich, creamy asparagus that had been cooked to perfection. Another luxury, she thought grimly. It really would not do to become used to such things.

“Lady Harker,” she attempted again, “if Lord Radcliffe truly does not wish to see me, then perhaps it would be best for me to return to London. I honestly don’t see how I can be of any help if I remain. My arrival seems to have done nothing but aggravate him and, if you are concerned for his state of mind, surely it would not do to upset him further.”

“He is always aggravated. Indeed, I do not believe he has spoken a civil word to me since his return from India.” Lady Harker laughed once more. The sound was a trifle strained. “My brother Edmund was used to say that Sebastian had spent too many years at war. That he had forgotten how to talk to civilized people and knew only how to order other soldiers about. But I think he must not have been so uncivil to you, Miss Stafford.”

Sylvia smiled dryly. “He was quite uncivil to me when I arrived here.”

“Not then.” Lady Harker gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Though I do wish he had behaved better. Indeed, I thought he would. Why else would he have agreed to come downstairs and join us? He never comes downstairs when I am staying at Pershing. I hoped he would have…”

Sylvia raised her brows in polite enquiry. “Would have what?”

“I don’t know, really.” Lady Harker frowned. “But I thought he would do something.” She fingered the stem of her wineglass. “What was he like when you knew him before?”

Sylvia felt a distinct pang of sadness. She ignored it. It was not the first time since her arrival she had been struck with melancholy. She supposed it was only natural given the circumstances. “Oh…He was much the same, if I recall.”

“The same as he is now?” Lady Harker was aghast. “Surely not!”

“Well, perhaps he was a bit kinder then,” Sylvia conceded. She did not expound on the subject. Lady Harker was pleasant company and had made her very welcome at Pershing Hall, but she was a talebearer, however well intentioned, and the last thing Sylvia wanted was to have her thoughts and feelings about the Earl of Radcliffe bandied about the fashionable world.

“I cannot think what you saw in him,” Lady Harker said. “Unless…Was he in uniform when first you met him?”

Sylvia’s mouth lifted in a bemused half-smile. “I believe he was. Yes.”