Page 36 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

He stood, looming over her. “Do you, by God? And I suppose it pleases you to kiss gentlemen who are not your husband? Who are not even your betrothed?”

A fiery blush stole into her face. “If it does, it is no concern of yours!”

Sebastian’s expression was thunderous. Had there been others? How could there not have been? She had always had admirers. And he had been gone from her life for three long years. It would be foolish to assume that there had been no one else. “You have made it my concern by your actions this evening,” he said coldly. “My honor as a gentleman—”

“What of my honor?”

His jaw hardened. He had no idea why he was losing his temper. Jealousy? Frustration? From the moment of Sylvia Stafford’s arrival his mind had been in turmoil. Her presence alone was overwhelming, but touching her and kissing her had devastated his senses. Muddled his brain. Damn it all to hell! Had there been other men? He could not get the thought out of his head.

“But I suppose,” she said, “you believe a governess has no need of honor or…or dignity…or to be treated with r-respect—” She broke off abruptly, turning away from him. When she spoke again, there were tears in her voice. “How can you think I would kiss just anyone? Simply because I kissed you that night in the garden? And again tonight? I suppose you believe me to be some sort of conscienceless flirt.”

Sebastian muttered a low curse. In one stride, he was behind her. He closed his hand around her upper arm. “You begin to be as infuriating as my sister,” he growled. His harsh tone was tempered by the gentle, reassuring squeeze of his fingers. “Of course I do not believe that. What do you take me for?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anymore. I cannot think.”

“You’re tired, that is all. We both are.” He turned her to face him. The sight of her tear-filled eyes tore at his heart. He moved his hand up and down her arm, attempting to soothe her disordered nerves. “We needn’t discuss anything more this evening,” he said. “But in the morning, you and I are going to talk about a great many things. We are going to come to an arrangement.”

She looked away from him. Her small, slender body was stiff and unyielding.

“For now, I recommend bed. And perhaps a glass of sherry, if you will take one.”

She shot him a fleeting glance. “Why must you be so dreadfully reasonable? Your sister said you were a brute and bully. Pray bully me, my lord. Threaten me. Throw a porcelain vase at my head. Anything so that I might hate you.”

“You would prefer to hate me?” He was incredulous.

“Yes. It would be easier. Less confusing than” —she made a vague gesture with her hand that seemed to encompass the whole of Pershing Hall— “this.”

“You are talking nonsense.” He squeezed her arm again. “Come. I shall light a fresh candle for you and then you may go back upstairs to your room. You will feel better in the morning.”

She gave a small, reluctant nod. “Very well.”

He dropped his hand from her arm and went to find a box of friction matches. The branch of candles he had brought in with him was still flickering valiantly, despite having guttered. It cast a dim glow around it, leaving the rest of the library sunk into darkness. Sylvia’s own candle had long since gone out. He replaced it with a fresh one, lit the wick, and turned to give it to her.

“The servants should all be in bed,” he said as she took it from his hand. “Even so, it would be better if we left separately.”

“Yes.”

“You go first. I will remain here awhile.”

She inclined her head to him. “Goodnight, my lord.”

My lord. So they were back to that, were they? He sighed. “Sleep well, Miss Stafford. I look forward to resuming this conversation at a more reasonable hour.”

When Sebastian returned to his bedchamber, he found Milsom waiting up for him. During their years in India, the loyal batman had perfected the art of sleeping for short intervals, always managing to rouse himself at the slightest noise or sign of movement. He did so now, emerging from the dressing room with upraised eyebrows and a rather impertinent expression on his face.

Sebastian pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing a bare back and chest that were riddled with scars. He tossed the garment carelessly onto the end of his bed. “Well?”

Milsom picked up the discarded shirt. “My lord?”

“You look damnably smug, Milsom.”

“Do I, sir?”

“If you have something to say, say it.” He paused. “Unless it regards Miss Stafford and myself. In which case, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut.”

Milsom’s eyes danced. “I’ll not say a word about Miss Stafford, my lord.”

“A wise decision.” Sebastian sat down to remove his boots.