Page 20 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Sebastian gave a derisive snort.

Sylvia frowned. “I’m quite serious.” She gestured to the firm set of Lady Radcliffe’s jaw. “There, you see.”

“You have a fanciful imagination, Miss Stafford.”

“I have no imagination,” she said frankly. “I am sensible. It is my besetting sin.”

“Are you sensible?” He turned to look at her, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line. “Judging by your behavior, I would say you are quite the opposite.”

She looked up at him, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do not misunderstand me. If you choose to play the flirt with every gentleman you meet in Cheapside, it is certainly no concern of mine. But when you are a guest in my home, madam, you are under my protection. And I’ll not have it said that I stood idly by and allowed a lady—a governess—to be taken advantage of by my neighbor.”

Sylvia’s stomach dropped. For several seconds, she could do nothing but stare at him. There was so much in his speech to offend her that she scarcely knew where to begin. “Your neighbor?” she heard herself repeat faintly.

“Thomas Rotherham.”

She clenched her fingers in the soft fabric of her shawl to stop their trembling. “What is it exactly that you are accusing me of?”

“I am not accusing you of anything, Miss Stafford. I am warning you. If you smile and bat your eyes at Rotherham, he will not respond with a proposal of marriage.”

A scalding blush flooded her cheeks. “You are insulting, sir.”

“I am doing you the courtesy of speaking plainly. Rotherham must know you are a governess. If you expect him to play the gentleman, you are very much mistaken.”

“I have no expectations of Mr. Rotherham. Nor why should I have? I do not even know the man. We were introduced but briefly. I daresay we shall never meet again.”

“He’ll make a point of coming round now,” Sebastian predicted darkly.

“I doubt that very much. And if he does, it will not be on my account. He is Lady Harker’s friend, not mine. Indeed, I do not believe I exchanged more than five words with the man.”

“It is not your words that concern me.”

“What then?” she demanded. “What is this all about? I know I have done nothing improper.”

“Do not try and deny it, Miss Stafford. I saw you with him this morning when you were riding along the edge of the park.” He paused. “You were smiling at him.”

If it were not so outrageous, she might have laughed. “Is that my great crime? Smiling at a gentleman?”

“Casting out lures, more like.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You have no notion of the effect of your smiles,” he said. “Or perhaps you do. Perhaps you employ them just as you do all of your other charms.”

Sylvia was temporarily speechless. So this was his opinion of her. He thought her a flirt. A conniving sort of female set on entrapping innocent gentlemen into marriage. It was insulting and ridiculous, but—good lord!—is this what he thought she had done to him three years ago?

A shiver of realization turned her blood cold.

She took a steadying breath, exerting all of her effort to keep herself calm, to not succumb to the paralyzing embarrassment she felt at having to confront her past behavior. “I think you have a very poor opinion of me, my lord,” she said, unable to hide the quaver in her voice. “Perhaps you have cause. But just because I was incautious once, it does not follow that I would behave in the same manner again. Indeed, I have never done so.”

Sebastian’s face darkened like a thundercloud. He took a step toward her. “Incautious,” he repeated. “Is that what you call it?”

“No. I call it foolish. Childish. But I will not make excuses. It is in the past. I cannot undo it no matter how much I might wish to do so.”

“I am not talking about the past. I am talking about today. About your behavior with Rotherham. The past has nothing at all to do with it.”

“So you say, my lord. And yet, you have sketched the whole of my character from our acquaintance three years ago.”