Page 18 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“No?” Sylvia wondered if he was in the habit of prowling the dark corridors of Pershing Hall at night. If so, she felt sorry for any hapless servants who might encounter him. Sebastian could really be quite intimidating when he chose.

Is that why he ventured out in the evening? To avoid interaction? Or was he merely restless after spending so much time confined to his apartments?

He did not look restless. In his rumpled black trousers and half-buttoned waistcoat, he looked exhausted. As if he were a man who had not slept for three days straight.

She searched his face. “You are not unwell, I hope?”

Sebastian stared down at her, his heavy scars appearing less severe in the soft glow from her candle. It occurred to her quite suddenly that she had yet to see him in full light. “Unwell,” he repeated flatly.

His deep, emotionless voice sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine. She was on dangerous ground, she knew. “I meant…You are not in any pain, are you?”

He frowned. “I think not, Miss Stafford. Should I be?”

Sylvia looked up at him helplessly. What in heaven could she say? That Lady Harker had confided in her about his unhappy state upon returning from India? That she knew all about the pistol that he kept near his bedside? This was not the time or place, clearly, but if she was expected to do him any good during her brief stay at Pershing, at some point she would have to broach the subject of his injuries. One could not always speak in euphemisms and riddles, after all.

“No, of course not. I did not mean—” She broke off. “Forgive me. It is only that I have not seen you since the day of my arrival and I thought—”

His frown deepened. “You are my sister’s guest, Miss Stafford, not mine.”

“Yes, I know, but you might have at least joined us for dinner on occasion.”

“To what purpose?”

She made a soft sound of exasperation. “Why, to eat, naturally. And to…to be around other people.”

“Such as yourself.”

She felt her color rising, but did not lower her gaze from his. “Such as myself.”

“I see.” He looked at her for a moment as if she were a frustrating puzzle that he could not solve. “My sister must be a poor hostess if you are pining for my company after only three days.”

Sylvia stiffened at his choice of words. “Hardly pining, my lord.”

Her displeasure only seemed to amuse him. A faintly ironic smile edged the scarred side of his mouth. “Tell me, Miss Stafford, how do you like Pershing Hall?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied, still very much on her dignity.

“I trust that my sister has made you comfortable here.”

“Quite comfortable, my lord.”

“And…everything is to your satisfaction?”

There was no mistaking the hesitation in his question. Sylvia’s blue eyes briefly filled with confusion. Did it truly matter to him what she of all people thought of his ancestral home? Once she would have readily believed that it did. But she was no longer that same foolish girl. Sentiment had long since been replaced with hard common sense.

And common sense told her that Sebastian was merely seeking some sort of reassurance. Something to convince him that he could, indeed, find contentment at Pershing Hall. That there was no need to resort to drastic measures to alleviate his unhappiness.

“How could it not be?” she asked. “It is beautiful here, my lord. If it were my home, I would never wish to leave it.”

Sebastian appeared rather startled for an instant. And then his expression hardened. “It is late, Miss Stafford,” he said abruptly. “I have importuned you long enough.”

“Oh, but you haven’t—”

Before she could finish, he was gone, disappearing back into the darkness of the corridor without so much as a bow or a by your leave. Sylvia stared after him, utterly bewildered. What in the world could she possibly have said to offend him?

Sebastian was not proud of himself for spying on Miss Stafford. It was a weakness. And he despised weakness, especially in himself. Even so, he could not resist the chance to look at her. Especially while remaining unseen himself. So, every morning on the way to his desk in his private sitting room, he stopped at the window overlooking the path where she had first ridden Ares so many days before. He leaned against the window frame, half-obscured by the heavy curtains, and he watched her.

Would that he could have left it at that.