Page 50 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Sebastian smiled. “I wondered, but I would not ask you to betray her. If she wishes me to know, she will tell me.”

Rebecca smiled. “It is one of the reasons I trust you. You respect the boundaries a woman sets.”

He inclined his head once. “I shall leave it to you to see her safely home,” he said. “She is resting.”

Rebecca studied him for a moment, something assessing in her expression, before she gave a slight nod. “It shall be done.”

Sebastian turned to leave. He did not look back. Yet as he stepped once more into the corridor, a quiet thought pressed upon him with unwelcome persistence. If he learned her true identity, would it lessen the desire she stirred within him, or deepen it beyond recall?

Three days had passed since that night at Aphrodite, yet Darcy still could not find her equilibrium. She sat in the drawing room with Sebastian’s note open upon her lap, her gaze lingering upon the bold, decisive hand that had penned the invitation. Even now, her pulse betrayed her, quickening in a way she could neither master nor fully understand.

Sebastian.

His name moved through her thoughts with dangerous intimacy.

She could no longer think of him as the earl. Not after what had passed between them, or the way he had taken her into his arms and undone her with a pleasure so consuming that its echoes still moved through her body.

Heat crept into her cheeks, and she forced herself to look away from the letter. That night lingered with a vividness that left her strangely discomposed. Rebecca had woken her just before dawn, her knowing smile impossible to ignore. Darcy had flushed deeply beneath Rebecca’s teasing gaze, murmuring her thanks with the composure she could muster, though her limbs still trembled from exhaustion, soreness, and something far more dangerous: a hunger for more.

Darcy had returned home before the servants stirred, slipping quietly into the house as though she carried a fragile secret. And since that night, she had kept her distance, avoiding both Aphrodite and Sebastian with deliberate care. Rebecca had written, of course, requesting her presence for the next commission, a scene far more daring than any she had yet undertaken: an orgy. Darcy had replied with careful politeness, asking for a few days’ reprieve and promising to set a date soon.

She needed time to breathe, to steady herself, to reconcile what she had done and how she had yielded her virtue with such startling ease, as though some hidden part of her had long awaited that very moment. Darcy did not regret it. That, perhaps, unsettled her most of all. And yet she could not deny the alarm that accompanied the awareness of how readily she had surrendered to him, how instinctively she had sought him out when distressed. It was not the behavior of a sensible woman.

She needed distance, if only to gather herself once more, which was why the letter now resting in her hands felt so profoundly disruptive. He had written to Darcy, not Red. Her gaze dropped once more to the page.

It was an invitation to a midnight ball.

Her breath trembled once more. As though that were not enough, several boxes had been delivered as well. They lay open upon the sofa, their contents spilling forth in a display that left her both astonished and thrilled. The golden-and-black gown was the most exquisite she had ever seen, its fabric rich and luminous, its design elegant beyond anything she might have imagined wearing. Gloves, stockings, and dancing slippers had been provided to match, each piece chosen with an attention that spoke of careful consideration.

He had remembered the simple wish she had voiced so lightly: that she might attend a society ball, dressed in a beautiful gown, and dance. Darcy pressed a hand to her chest, as though she might quiet the sudden swell of emotion that rose there.

How could she refuse, and yet how could she possibly face him? How could she stand before him as Miss Whitley, composed and proper, when, as Red, she had ridden his cock to screaming pleasure and allowed him to know her in ways no gentleman ever should? How could she meet his gaze and not betray herself with every blush, every unguarded glance?

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped her. She had thought to take refuge in distance, yet it seemed Sebastian had other intentions entirely, and she would need every measure of restraint not to betray herself in his presence.

Several hours later, Darcy drew in a steadying breath as the footman opened the carriage door, lowering the steps before offering his hand. She accepted it and descended, the silk of her gown whispering against her skin as she came to stand before the grand townhouse in Grosvenor Square.

The sight before her momentarily stilled her thoughts. A line of carriages stretched along the street, their occupants emerging in a display of elegance and refinement that spoke of wealth and consequence. Ladies adorned in silks and satins moved with practiced grace, their jewels catching the lanterns’ light, while gentlemen in dark evening coats attended them with quiet attentiveness. Laughter and conversation drifted outward, mingling with the strains of music that spilled from the open doors, creating an atmosphere that was at once dazzling and overwhelming.

For a fleeting moment, she felt very small within it. When she sent her reply to the earl, he answered with another note, promising that his carriage would collect her at half past ten. Darcy had spent the day in a state of restless distraction, her sisters’ cheerful attempts at cards doing little to anchor her wandering thoughts. When at last she told them she was to attend a ball with their brother, their delight filled the room, their excitement so genuine that it eased some measure of her own unease.

Now, standing here, she pushed aside any lingering sense of smallness or inadequacy and allowed her excitement to rise once more. Darcy’s pulse quickened. She felt Sebastian before she saw him. It was the most curious sensation, a quiet awareness that settled over her, as though some instinct within her had attuned itself entirely to his presence. This keen awareness of him affected Darcy in ways she could neither name nor master. It was not merely the dangerous impropriety of their acquaintance at Aphrodite, nor the knowledge of what he represented—a man of power, of influence, of a world far removed from her own.

The truth was far more disquieting: Darcy liked him, and far more than was wise. Her encounters with him as both Darcy and Red had revealed far more than a rake concerned only with his own pleasure, or a privileged lord who set himself above others through pride and arrogance. The Earl of Raine was far more complicated, and an aching need had taken root within her to understand the man beneath both masks.

To what end, she could not say, for it would be foolish to even dare to dream of anything with him. How could she entertain it when his rank placed him so far beyond her reach? Yet the peculiar need remained an insistent tug inside Darcy’s heart. Then there was the wicked attraction she felt for him. A strange tightening took hold low within her whenever he drew near, as though some hidden part of her stirred awake. It left her breath uneven, her thoughts unsteady, her composure far more fragile than she wished him to perceive.

She had never known such a reaction before. Was it fear rather than intrigue or fascination? Was it the knowledge that he held their fortunes and future in his hands, that with a word, he could alter the course of her sisters’ lives? Her breath trembled, and she lifted her gaze. Sebastian stood only a few feet away, staring at Darcy as though he had been brought up short by her presence. As she moved toward him, each step closing the distance between them, she saw something in his eyes she had never truly recognized before.

Desire.

CHAPTER 18

For one disbelieving instant, Darcy thought she must have imagined it. Yet there it was: the unmistakable flare in Sebastian’s eyes and the subtle tightening of his jaw as though he fought to master it. The knowledge hit her like a living thing, warm and wild and impossible to contain. Her heart stuttered; her pulse thrummed everywhere at once.

He wanted Miss Darcy Whitley, not Red, and the truth thrilled her more than she could bear. It ought to have mortified her, perhaps even shamed her, but instead delight shivered through her veins. She felt suddenly fragile, made of light and breath and want. Darcy had to glance away, for fear that he might see too clearly how much she wanted him in return.

Her steps slowed as a thought occurred to her, and she frowned. He was a libertine. Only a few days ago she had been in his arms as Red, yet here he stood now, looking at Darcy as though he wished to ravish her. She fought the blush that threatened to betray her and tried to appear composed, distant, and unaffected.