Page 32 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

He might easily have made an excuse, indeed, he very much wanted to, but something about the lateness of the hour and the intimacy of their conversation compelled him to be honest. “This scar, here—” He drew his finger along the scar that ran from his eye down past the side of his mouth. “It has deadened the feeling on much of this half of my face. Not all of it, mind, but enough that eating and drinking in company is…unpleasant.”

Her dark brows drew together. He saw understanding registering slowly in the depths of her blue eyes. “Oh, Sebastian.”

It was the first time he had ever heard her use his given name. It was startlingly intimate. His chest tightened on a rush of pleasure that was almost pain.

Was she aware that she had done it? He did not think so. And he had no intention of drawing her attention to it. “You needn’t pity me,” he said.

“It is not pity.” She brushed her hand against her cheek.

Only then did he realize that several tears had fallen from her eyes. He groaned. “Please don’t.”

“I cannot help it.”

“You can,” he assured her. At least, he hoped she could. Her silent, dignified tears had a far different effect on him than the emotional dramatics of his younger sister. If she did not compose herself soon, he very much feared he would do something fatally ridiculous. Something foolish and sentimental like taking her in his arms and pouring his heart out to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am not a watering pot. It is all just so overwhelming.” She dried the last of her tears on the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I suppose you do not think I have a right to cry over you.”

“As opposed to who? Julia?”

“Is there no one else?”

At one time he might have laughed at such a ridiculous notion. Now, however, he found nothing particularly humorous about her false assumption. “A woman, do you mean?”

She gave him a short nod. The candlelight shimmered against her hair, turning the chestnut strands to red and gold.

“There is no woman in my life,” he said. “I have been alone here the whole of this last year with only the servants for company. And Milsom, of course.”

“He was your batman while you were in India, was he not?”

“He was.”

“And—after you were injured—he was the one who cared for you?”

“If by cared for you mean badgered and bedeviled, then yes. He cared for me. He cared for me so much that, at times, I was hard pressed not to murder him.”

She looked at him, smiling faintly for a moment before her expression once again grew serious. “May I touch your face?” she half-whispered.

Sebastian froze. Had he heard her correctly? Surely not! “I beg your pardon?”

“I would like to touch your face, if I may.” She blushed. “If…If you do not mind it.”

His heart was pounding. “I do not mind,” he said quietly. “But why…?”

“Does it matter why?”

His chest rose and fell on an unsteady breath. “No,” he said. And it was the truth. A part of him had been longing for her touch since the moment he saw her outside the doors of his apartments. Longing for it in the same way that he had longed to hear the velvet sound of her voice. “No, it does not matter.”

She edged toward him, so close now that her legs brushed his, the voluminous folds of her dressing gown pooling over his booted feet. She raised one slender hand to his face only to stop a half second before touching him. “Will I hurt you?”

“No.” His voice was a raspy whisper.

And then she set her fingertips very gently on the scar at the side of his right eye. Her touch was warm and soft and heartbreakingly tender. He tried to concentrate on his breathing. An impossible task as she began to trace the path of his scar down his cheek.

Her face was mere inches from his own, illuminated in the flickering light from the candles. He could see every subtle shift in her expression. The slight movement of her dark brows, the tremor in her parted lips, the rosy flush rising in her cheeks. She smelled of violets. She had always smelled of violets. It was subtle, clinging to her skin and her hair, mingling with her own unique scent to create a fragrance that was at once both sweet and disturbingly elemental. The scent tugged at something deep inside of his chest.

Was this how her letters had smelled?

He felt a stab of white-hot anger. Damn Roderick Stafford! Had he been the author of these last three years of misery? If so, Sebastian fervently hoped the blackguard was roasting in hell.