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Oh, Sebastian. That won’t require nearly so much effort as you think.
Her own body needed no further coaxing. But how was she going to convincehim?
“We’d better go back.” He turned them in the direction of the cottage and offered his arm. “Dick and Fanny are preparing us a proper dinner, I’m told. Four courses, to be served in the dining room.”
“Oh, my. I think they’re scrambling to please you so they can remain in your employment.”
“As well they should be.”
As they neared the cottage, they spied a coach coming up the lane.
“It’s here. Thank God.” Sebastian strode toward the house with renewed vigor.
“Whose coach is that?”
“It’s mine. I sent an express from Canterbury, telling my housekeeper I’d be here. I asked her to send the carriage with some of my belongings from Town.”
Mary lingered behind him as he went to greet the coachman. Together, the two men unstrapped a trunk from the back of the carriage. Sebastian carried it inside, undid the latches, and opened it.
“It’s a miracle. I am now in possession of clean shirts, a razor, shaving soap and tooth powder… All the modern necessities of a civilized life.” To her, he added, “Andwehave a coach and driver. We can go wherever you like. If Ramsgate doesn’t suit you, you may have your choice of destination. Bath. The Wye valley. The Lake district. The Cotswolds. Hell, why not Paris?”
Mary laughed at his last suggestion. Inside, her feelings were conflicted.
She was running out of excuses to stay in this cottage. She loved this place, but she had to admit she would love it better after a few months of repairs and deep cleaning. And to be truthful, she’d always wanted to see the Cotswolds.
But what she wanted more than anything was to prevent Sebastian from pulling away. He’d made it clear that he felt compelled by honor to observe an irrational, indefinite waiting period before they consummated their marriage. And yet he’d confessed to desiring her, just now.
You make me ache with wanting.
A shiver traveled from her scalp to her toes.
Knowing Sebastian as well as she did, Mary could easily guess what self-sacrificing compromise he’d arrived at to ease his conscience. He’d keep his distance from her, in whatever way he could. Sleeping in separate beds. Pursuing different interests. Burying himself in whatever work he could find.
“We can’t leave until after dinner,” she said. “Dick and Fanny will be sorely disappointed, after going to all that work.”
“The horses need to be watered and fed, as well.”
Mary gathered her courage. “You’re now in possession of evening attire. And I have a full trunk of gowns I’ve never had the chance to use. Since Mr. and Mrs. Cross have promised us a formal dinner, why don’t we dress accordingly?”
“If you like.” He scratched his jaw. “I need a bath and a shave, anyway. Shall we say dinner in an hour, then?”
“Perfect.”
Chapter 8
While Mary disappeared upstairs to bathe and dress, Sebastian adopted the study as his own dressing chamber. He took more care with his appearance than he had on the day he’d been presented at Court. He scrubbed, lathered, shaved, combed, brushed, dressed, and buttoned. He even polished his boots to a mirror gleam. Beau Brummel he was not, but he didn’t want to let Mary down.
He’d always thought it a shame that she never had a proper Season in London. It wasn’t something her father could have afforded, he supposed. The Claytons were an established and well-respected family, but the second son of a fourth son of a landed gentleman didn’t come into much, if any, inheritance. So no social debut for Mary, and now she’d missed her own wedding day—which was meant to be a bride’s chance to shine.
She deserved to have been admired by scores of gentlemen, on any number of occasions. Life and circumstance had prevented it. So Sebastian was going to smarten up, stand at the bottom of those stairs, and admire her enough to equal a hundred men put together.
Almighty God.
Perhaps a thousand men put together.
She descended the stairs in a shimmering gown of sapphire blue that precisely captured the brilliant hue of her eyes. Pearls studded the elegant upsweep of her auburn hair, in much the same way that charming freckles dotted the pale shelf of her décolleté.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, stating it as a simple fact. Because it was.
