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He realized the young woman stared at him, so he tried to reply. A single, strangled noise escaped him.
Heart pounding violently, Seb quickened his pace. He prayed he wouldn’t hear derisive laughter pursuing him down the street.
His stomach pitched down with disappointment. Damn—he’d been doing well, or so he’d thought. But no, he’d taken two steps forward, only to take a step back.
Perverse curiosity made him look over his shoulder to see if the young woman pointed at him and cackled at his retreat. To his surprise, she had simply returned to sweeping the step. It was as if her encounter with Seb hadn’t happened, as though he felt the impact far more than she did.
So. Perhaps a portion of his anxiety was founded on his thoughts, but not on reality. How . . . strange.
He should tell Grace. She’d want to hear of his discovery.
At the thought of her, he was brought back to yesterday afternoon in the ballroom. It hadn’t been difficult to gaze at her as though she was the most captivating person he’d ever met. She was the most captivating person he’d ever met. Looking at her was a pleasure. He’d gladly do it every day. And night.
Careful. That way lies danger.
He shook his head, pushing away thoughts of Grace in the soft glow of a bedside candle. They were collaborators, friends. Fellow natural philosophers. And if she felt attraction to him, it was merely because he’d been implementing Rotherby’s rakish strategies. A pot of water would boil with the application of heat—there was cause and effect. It was no different with him and Grace.
Attraction didn’t mean desire. One’s body could respond to something without the brain or the heart getting involved. It didn’t mean she wanted him.
He needed to remember that, especially as he rounded the corner onto Weymouth Street and Grace’s home loomed close.
He strolled down the mews, and crossed the stable yard before opening the kitchen door. A footman stood waiting just beyond it.
“She awaits you in the ballroom, sir.” The servant took his coat and hat.
“Has the duke arrived?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Seb checked his timepiece and saw that it was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon. Rotherby’s punctuality was famous. It was a jest amongst his friends that one could be certain of a disaster if Rotherby was even five minutes late.
“Do you smell smoke?” Seb asked the footman. Perhaps a fire was sweeping through London as it had in 1666.
The servant inhaled. “No, sir.”
It hadn’t rained last night or this morning, so flooding was unlikely. And yet, for some unknown reason, Rotherby wasn’t here.
Well, everyone was capable of change. Seb himself had attracted a woman’s attention on his walk, so something within him had altered. Perhaps it was the same for Rotherby.
After taking his leave of the footman, Seb continued on to the ballroom. Grace’s home was becoming more familiar to him, and he glanced with pleasure upon the painting in the hallway that depicted some variety of reptile sunning itself on a rock. Clearly, it had been selected by Grace.
He found her sitting in the middle of the ballroom floor. Her legs stretched out in front of her, and she leaned back, bracing herself on her hands as she stared up at the elaborately painted ceiling. She looked so charming and lively that his sodding heart lurched happily in his chest.
This was why he’d never spent more time with her, why he’d been extremely careful to keep his emotions and body on a tight rein, because he’d known in the hidden recesses of his mind that to be near Grace for greater than a few hours here and there, he would quickly slide into infatuation.
He could see it coming—and couldn’t stop it.
As if drawn by an unseen force, Seb now found himself immediately stretched out beside her, his posture identical to hers.
“What are we looking at?” he whispered to her.
“In the mural, I’ve counted five women with bare breasts,” she whispered back. “But I haven’t seen a single man with an uncovered chest.”
“What about that chap?” He pointed to a figure. “The bloke lurking in the corner.”
“He’s wearing armor that only looks like his naked torso, but he’s as clothed as all the other men.” She exhaled. “And the women’s breasts look like strange frosted cakes. I don’t think the artist had ever seen an actual breast before painting this,” she said darkly.
