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He put his hand to his neckcloth, now limp and no doubt soiled with a night of dissipation. It was time to clean himself up, if for no one else but himself. “Sorry to disappoint, Mowbray. Truth is, I’m fagged to death with kicking up a lark.”
Chapter 3
Moldering in the country four days later, Sebastian felt no niggling doubts as to the wisdom of taking himself away from London revels.
If he felt slightly redeemed at having discarded the idea that winning at all costs was a laudable object, then expending the minimum of effort as he lounged on Lady Quamby’s sofa came a close second as the penultimate state of being.
His hostesses—the two former Miss Brightwells who’d scandalized society with the means by which they’d made their rags-to-riches marriages—were like exotic birds of paradise; one dark, the other golden-haired, and both dressed in gowns that showed off their bounteous assets.
The younger Miss Brightwell was a bewitching little minx. Sebastian had been very aware of her interest when they'd rubbed shoulders while taking the foul waters of one of Dorothea’s favorite spa towns some years earlier. There had been fireworks, he recalled. In the literal sense, though. Not with Lady Quamby, for all that she’d put herself forward as willing.
No, Lady Quamby’s golden curls were too reminiscent of those belonging to his late wife.
It was the elder Lady Fenton who drew his interest; and though she may have had a couple of years on him, her supine form with its slender lines and pert bosom were immensely appealing. But it was the sheen of her raven hair that most drew him in. There was something about dark, glossy tresses that touched him as nothing else could.
In the twelve months since his wife’s death, he’d found himself drawn to every woman crowned with such hair, only to be disappointed.
None of them belonged to the girl for whom he was searching.
Lady Fenton must have been aware of his silent study for her mouth turned up in the sweetest of smiles. And if either Sebastian or she were interested, nothing would come of it. Her devotion to her husband was legendary. There’d be no diversion there. She was not like her sister.
With a sigh, he returned his attention to Miss Arabella Reeves, who'd just been expounding on the virtues of the waltz over the quadrille. Clearly, Miss Reeves had been invited here as his special entertainment. Though why either of them had been invited to spend a short sojourn to incorporate Lady Quamby's prior Christmas Ball was a mystery. Certainly, Sebastian knew Lord Fenton on account of the fact they shared a godmother.
He hoped his visit wasn’t Lord Quamby’s idea. The diversions offered by the earl and his countess ran the gamut from simply diverting to outright outrageous, and Sebastian was not in the mood for either.
"I daresay both the waltz and the quadrille have their advantages, Miss Reeves," he murmured, raising his voice to be heard over Lady Indigo's snore.
That's when he realized his visit was an antidote to the old lady's perhaps dutifully issued invitation. A quick glance at the gently nodding dowager and then at his two hostesses confirmed this. Yes, Ladies Fenton and Quamby had thought to divert themselves by inviting him and then possibly Miss Reeves, purely to offset the tedium of their octogenarian houseguest.
His fellow houseguest fluttered her eyelashes at him. "I know the waltz is still considered daring, Mr Reeves, but is that not appealing in itself? Wouldn't you find life dreadfully dreary if you couldn't do something that everyone disapproved of?"
"Doing things that people disapprove of is hardly a novelty for me, Miss Reeves," he said, pleased to make her blush and smile cheekily at the same time. Obviously, his reputation preceded him.
And she was rather a fetching little thing when he took the trouble to study her. With lively green eyes beneath dark arched brows, and golden hair swept into a topknot that complemented the elegant sweep of her neck and pretty, pointed chin, she was as close to a beauty as any discerning man would want.
Her teeth were good too. No imperfections.
"Good lord, but we need some entertainment!"
To everyone's startlement, Lady Indigo jerked awake on a particularly loud snore and clapped her hands. "Let us have music!” Snapping her head around, she barked at the young woman hunched over her needlework beside her; a companion employed obviously to tease out the knots in her employer’s mood and occasional handiwork. “Stand up girl and give us a song! But Miss Reeves must sing! My girl plays,” she told the company at large, “but the good lord did not bless her with a voice to instill pleasure in anyone. Come, Miss Reeves; surely a pretty girl like you has a voice like a nightingale. Come and entertain us."
Sebastian smiled at the contrived play of emotions that crossed Miss Reeve's lovely face as she stood up after a minor show of coyness.
Appreciatively, he watched her cross to the pianoforte which was tucked into the corner of the grand sitting room, and where Miss Indigo's companion must now be settling herself at the keys, as he heard the first tinkling chords of a Scottish lament.
Unlike Dorothea, whose crippling shyness prevented her from such exhibits, Miss Reeves was a show-woman and, indeed, she had a voice that matched her fine looks. From this distance, he was in an even better position to admire her graceful curves as she raised her smooth, swanlike throat to reach the high notes.
"Bravo!" he declared, clapping politely as she beamed in conclusion. "And lovely playing, too," he added politely, for the young lady at the piano deserved praise also[BH3] . With her scraped-back hair beneath an old-fashioned cap, it was doubtful she received too much of that. He hadn’t even noticed the little chit until now, hidden as she had been behind a concealing palm at her mistress’s side.
"My dear Venetia’s accomplishment at the keyboard makes up for her lack of tunefulness. And now it’s time for her to help me prepare for my bed.” Lady Indigo banged her cane loudly upon the floor and Sebastian, who’d just turned to attend to something said by Lord Fenton, leaped into awareness.
But not because of Lady Indigo’s impatience.
Venetia? It was an unusual name. The name of a young lady distinguished by her lack of tunefulness. He squinted across the room and saw her rise to do her mistress’s bidding. She was slightly built
, her figure neat, her gown a drab brown.
He willed her to turn her head for it was impossible to observe her properly in the light of a single sconce of candles. In fact, as she turned her back on him, it was almost as if she did so deliberately.
