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She thought she heard him mutter, Damn, but wasn’t entirely certain if she was imagining things.
“All right,” he conceded, “you’ve a point. Maybe other industrialists’ sons have made their entrée into Society. Not me. Never me.”
“But you could.” She took another step toward him.
He held up his hands, and she halted in her advance.
“You’ve seen what happens when I’m in unfamiliar company. Feral dogs have more eloquence. Apologies—but what you’re asking of me can’t be done.”
Unexpected hurt jabbed Grace. “Can you not at least pretend to court me? Or . . .” A horrible thought struck her. “Am I truly so unappealing?”
“No,” he said quickly. “You’re quite . . . quite pleasant.”
“Pleasant?” She wrinkled her nose. “Like a cup of tea?”
“Charming. Delightful.” He seemed to want to say more, but his jaw tightened. Then, “You aren’t at issue here. It’s me. I can’t be a Society beau. I’m not, and never will be, a rake.”
A thread of desperation unraveled within her. She had to marry, and the one man she could imagine taking as a husband was just out of her reach.
“You aren’t a rake and the darling of the ton now. But . . .” She caught her breath, excitement at his potential rising within her, and she whispered, “We can make you into one.”
“Impossible.”
As Sebastian tried to sidle around her, his body brushed hers and a hot jab of awareness struck her low in her belly. No—she couldn’t think about that now.
“It’s not—”
“Look at me.” He spread his hands. “I’m just a tongue-tied scholar in scuffed boots. The idea that anyone could mistake me for a suave man about town is ludicrous.”
Grace did look at him. Her gaze moved over the length of him in a perusal she’d never permitted herself before.
She could see it, the possibility within him, that hidden beneath his rather threadbare clothing and painful shyness existed the makings of a rake. It was like standing beside one of those newfangled engines that ran on steam in the moments before it surged to life—the capability of tremendous force was a silent presence. All Sebastian lacked was the proper fuel, and then, he would be unstoppable.
But he didn’t believe it.
There might be one way to appeal to him. Trying to keep the frantic desperation out of her voice, she said, “Think of the research possibilities.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, frowning thoughtfully.
It wasn’t an outright no. There was hope, and she seized it with both hands.
“What do you study on those periodic wanders you go on?” Every few months, Sebastian would take a small pack and a fresh notebook and venture out into the English countryside, something he’d done since she first met him. Of particular interest to him was documenting customs and traditions that were on the verge of dying out, which happened more and more with the advancement of technology and improved roads.
She often had to repress feelings of jealousy that, as a man, he had the freedom to do something like that while she, as a woman and the daughter of an earl, could go nowhere unchaperoned.
“Rural communities’ courtship rituals,” he said. “The stages of wooing, how a suit is presented, the patterns of behavior between courting couples.” As he spoke, animation filled his words, but then he caught himself and added in a more contained voice, “That sort of thing.”
“Now you can study London high society, too.” She spread her hands encouragingly. “Just imagine the book you could write. A thorough investigation into British courtship rituals of both commoners and nobility.”
His gaze turned faraway, and she couldn’t stop the tiny curl of pleasure she felt in knowing that, of all the things he valued most, the acquisition of knowledge was the most significant to him.
“An anthropological work that could be truly groundbreaking . . .” he murmured.
For many heartbeats, she held her breath. She was balanced on the very narrowest of ledges, with her father’s wish to see her wed impelling her forward.
“I know what I’m asking of you is monumental.” Hope and terror clashed within her, half fearing and half desiring his answer. “But it would mean so much to my family. To me.”
