He let her guide him to the group about Ennis, but although they joined it, there were too many others in the company likewise intent on spending a few moments with their host; despite Antonia’s best efforts, no opportunity arose for Sebastian to exchange even a few private words with Ennis.
Blanchard appeared and announced that dinner was served. Courtesy of their ranks, Sebastian and Antonia were separated by the full length of the table; as the highest-ranking lady, she was seated on Ennis’s right, while Sebastian, as the highest-ranking male, led Cecilia in to dinner and sat at her right.
As course followed course, Sebastian found his frustration mounting. Not only had he yet to speak with Ennis, but he also had to sit and watch Antonia being made much of by the gentlemen at the other end of the table, while simultaneously keeping his wits about him sufficiently to avoid Cecilia’s lures.
Despite all evidence that he was uninterested in reanimating an affair long dead, she continued to eye him with open speculation, as if she remained hopeful that his escorting Antonia was merely a convenient excuse he’d seized in order to return to her—Cecilia’s—orbit.
Sebastian was quite sure that, despite his usual perspicacity, Drake hadn’t foreseen the mounting complications evolving from what Drake had considered a fortuitous set of circumstances. Not only was Sebastian juggling the mission itself, but he also had to contend with Ennis’s understandable reluctance to have anything to do with him, with an unexpected company of Anglo-Irish all around, plus his increasingly unsettling and potentially highly charged interactions with Antonia, and on top of it all, he needed to douse Cecilia’s increasingly transparent expectations.
Very much aware that Ennis was directing occasional dark looks down the table at him, Sebastian made every effort to keep the conversation general and otherwise direct his attention to Mrs. Parrish, seated on his right. While at the dinner table, he could do nothing about his mission, or about Antonia, so he devoted his energies to avoiding Cecilia and ignoring her thankfully subtle encouragements.
Nevertheless, he’d rarely been so grateful to see the end of a meal. After Cecilia rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, the gentlemen moved up the table, and the decanters were passed around. There was no chance whatsoever of speaking privately with Ennis; rather than further aggravate the man, Sebastian kept his distance. He sat beside Hadley Featherstonehaugh and talked of horses and the latest fads in carriages. They were joined by Worthington and McGibbin, and the interlude passed in companionable bonhomie.
Sebastian perked up when, by general consensus, the men decided not to join the ladies but instead to retreat to the billiards room. But he was destined for disappointment; as even Parrish and McGibbin elected to eschew the ladies’ company and crowd into the billiards room, there was no chance to approach Ennis, even to simply drop a quiet word in his ear.
It was increasingly obvious that any such word would have to be exchanged in relative privacy at the very least—in a situation where Sebastian could overcome Ennis’s unwillingness to interact with him without alerting anyone else to the exchange being in any way notable.
Sebastian played two rounds of billiards—one with Hadley, Wilson, and Filbury, the other with Connell Boyne, Worthington, and Parrish, who, despite his age and girth, proved a dab hand at the game.
Ennis didn’t play but circulated among his guests, stopping here and there to chat and replenish the glasses of brandy or whisky most held. Ennis gave Sebastian a wide berth, but not so obviously that any but Sebastian would notice.
Stepping back from the table and ostensibly chalking his cue while he waited for Parrish to line up his shot, Sebastian surreptitiously studied Ennis. He took in the way Ennis moved around the room, the quality of his actions, his stride, listened to his rather forced laugh…
Ennis was nervous—anxious. The longer Sebastian watched, the more he was sure of it.
Ennis had been hiding earlier—he’d wanted to limit the time he spent with his guests.
And now Ennis was watching certain of those guests closely…all the Anglo-Irish men and also Worthington…
Damn! His lips compressing, Sebastian looked away. Drake had been too clever. Ennis had misinterpreted Drake’s message. If Ennis’s thoughts were fixated on an Irish plot, then the man Ennis would least want to see…wasn’t Sebastian but someone Ennis thought was connected with whatever plot he had word of and was, presumably, planning to betray.
Ennis would never like Sebastian, but he wouldn’t care that much about a long-ago affair.
But Ennis cared, deeply, about whatever was going on, or he would never have contacted Drake.
Ennis thought Drake’s messenger was one of his Anglo-Irish compatriots. He thought Drake had a man buried in the group—and given Drake’s reputation, that wasn’t any great stretch of the imagination—so Ennis was waiting for that man to give him a sign. But Drake didn’t have a contact among this lot—he’d sent Sebastian instead.
Sebastian felt like hanging his head. In the next instant, he was visited by an urge to put down his cue, march across, and put Ennis out of his misery by simply telling him that he—Sebastian—was Drake’s surrogate.
But if Ennis was nervous, presumably he had reason to be—presumably at least one of the men there, and more likely more than one, might, at least in Ennis’s eyes, have some connection to the plot. Or was Ennis’s nervousness due to something else entirely?
Sebastian finished the game, playing largely by rote; he’d been playing billiards since he was tall enough to see over the table. He smiled, laughed, and accepted the congratulations of the others, then handed his cue to the next would-be player.
He glanced around, but Ennis was still circulating; as host, he was unlikely to retire until at least Parrish and McGibbin did, and neither looked ready to call it a night.
Even when they did, Ennis would still avoid Sebastian, and even if he didn’t retire with his friends but remained, too many others would still be present for Sebastian to force a confrontation.
“I’m for bed.” Hadley Featherstonehaugh halted beside Sebastian. “We have another four days and nights in which to knock balls around.”
Sebastian nodded. “I’ll go up with you.”
They called a general farewell and left the others still playing and talking.
As Sebastian and Hadley climbed the stairs, Sebastian asked, “Have you heard anything of the plans for tomorrow?”
“No. But I’m sure Georgia will know—it always seems it’s the ladies who make the plans at this sort of thing.”
“Speaking of the ladies”—Sebastian glanced back at the front hall and the now-open door of the drawing room—“it appears they’ve already retired.”
“Ah, well, no excitement for them given we all hid in the billiards room.” Hadley grinned.
The clocks struck twelve as they reached the gallery.
Sebastian walked with Hadley into the corridor running down the east wing. Hadley halted at his door, and they exchanged quiet goodnights, then Sebastian ambled on to his room. He opened the door and walked in.
One step—and his gaze fixed on the shadowy figure sitting on his bed, and he froze.
Lust roared through him.
Powerful enough—violent enough—to rock him.
He clamped his fingers on the doorknob, gripping hard as he fought to regain his mental feet—to keep his expression utterly closed and not allow any of his searing desire to seep through.
He finally managed to draw in a tight, too shallow breath.
Draped in shadows, she sat on the far side of the bed and watched him, but she made no move, made no sound.
Almost as if she understood the unwisdom of even shifting.
Carefully, he eased his fingers from the doorknob. He forced himself to draw in another breath, step fully inside, and shut the door.
Slowly, he turned and faced her.
Antonia.
His first impulse was to trap the surging compulsions and f
eelings and push them deep, lock them away.
Deny them.
But even as his gaze passed over her veiled features, he accepted that this—all he felt, all she made him feel—was real.
He’d seen her anew—or perhaps for the first time—in Green Street three days ago. The sight had riveted his mind and his senses.
Now, unexpectedly finding her in such a place had provoked…another level of recognition.
Through the dimness, he looked at her and realized—knew—who, exactly, he was looking at.
The exceedingly beautiful, haughty and aloof, elusive and willful, noble-born, socially adept daughter of an earl—who was no blood relation.
His senses, he realized, had always known. Some part of his mind had, too. But for decades, most of his conscious mind had relegated her to the status of an almost-sister.
He didn’t truly think of her as a sister, and he never would attempt to again.
He took a step forward, only to realize just how giddy the abrupt, unanticipated revelation had left him. Such a fundamental rearrangement of the landscape of his life…perhaps it was unsurprising that he felt a touch disoriented.
Distantly, he heard the sound of men’s voices, of footsteps, and doors closing. The movement in the corridors had masked—excused—his hesitation. As the sounds faded, he drew breath and, still moving slowly—carefully—walked to the tallboy, which stood a window width from the foot of the bed.
No way would he trust himself anywhere near that bed. Not until he’d had time to study his new landscape and decide on his best way forward.
Ravishing her tonight almost certainly wasn’t it.
To account for his direction, he drew out his watch and chain, detached the latter, and set them and his purse on the top of the tallboy.
She finally broke the silence. “Did you succeed in speaking with Ennis?”
She’d kept her voice low; the husky tones feathered across his senses.
“No.” He turned; leaning against the tallboy, he shoved his hands in his pockets and faced her, and ruthlessly refocused his mind on his mission. “He’s avoiding me, hardly surprising, but it’s not only that. He’s distracted—I think he’s looking for Drake’s man among his Anglo-Irish friends.”
Antonia pulled a face. “I had wondered if Drake’s peculiar message might backfire.” She was stunned to hear how calm and collected she sounded; inside, she felt as if she was teetering at the edge of some dangerously high precipice, her nerves taut as a bowstring one twist away from snapping.
Her lungs felt locked; she was so tense, she thought she might be quivering.
She kept her eyes locked on Sebastian’s shadowy figure. The curtains on the window between them had been left open, and faint moonlight streamed in—strong enough to see shapes, but not to make out expressions. But he stood outside the shaft of light, and she sat outside it as well. That left them searching with and relying on their other senses as much as, if not more than, their eyes.
In the instant he’d walked in and his gaze had fallen on her, she’d felt a jerk of awareness—a visceral tug unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Some part of her mind was still reeling from that; the rest of it understood all too well that, entirely unwittingly, she’d placed herself in a predator’s lair.
On his bed.
She’d always known, instinctively had known, what manner of man he was. Although she’d never seen him like this, with his shields—the sophisticated and highly polished surface he displayed to their world—down, she’d always sensed the reality of him, the ineluctable masculine threat he posed—powerful, virile, and compelling.
She hadn’t intended to provoke him, but the single heavy armchair in the room had its back to the door, and she hadn’t felt comfortable sitting there.
As she watched, Sebastian pushed away from the tallboy. Slowly, with a gait that could only be described as a stalking prowl, he closed the distance between them.
His voice seemed impossibly low as he murmured, “I’ll catch him tomorrow.”
She nearly asked “Who?” then realized he meant Ennis.
He passed through, then beyond the fall of moonlight and became a large, dark figure steadily, step by step, looming nearer.
She’d forgotten how to breathe. A tiny, very small and craven, part of her wanted to flee; the rest waited, breath bated, needing, quite desperately, to see what he would do.
He halted a bare foot away, and she discovered her mouth had gone dry.
She looked up at the pale oval of his face and knew beyond question that something fundamental between them had changed, literally in the blink of an eye, and they would never go back to the way they’d been…
A shiver—one of sheer, reckless anticipation—slithered down her spine. The atmosphere felt so charged, she was surprised she saw no sparks.
Then he raised one hand—slowly—to her face, and his long fingers touched, then traced the curve of her cheek.
He lowered his hand. When he spoke, his voice was so deep, so gravelly, she could only just make out the words.
“Get out of here, Antonia. Now.”
There was no real force behind the command, as if only a part of him meant it.
Yet the unspoken warning was clear.
The sense of standing on a precipice expanded and grew…and she chose the path of wisdom. Of immediate safety.
Despite her quaking limbs, she managed to—carefully—rise. It was an effort to wrench her gaze from his, but once she had, a curious defiance bloomed. Moving slowly, deliberately, she smoothed her skirt, then she raised her head, looked directly into his shadowed eyes, less than a foot away, and despite being entirely unable to draw breath, coolly said, “Do let me know when you succeed in speaking with Ennis.”
He’d asked for her help with his mission several times, had availed himself of her social skills; she wasn’t about to allow him to keep her in the dark over what was going on. As he would, if she let him.
Boldly, she stepped past him. Her nerves leapt as she sensed him tense and swivel as if to seize her, but he didn’t. Exhaling silently, head high, she walked toward the door. “Goodnight.”
She opened the door and stepped outside. Without looking back into the unlit room, she started to draw the door closed behind her—and heard from within a dark murmur, “Goodnight.”
She shut the door, released the doorknob, then paused, for one instant, savoring the thrill of having played—just for a moment—with fire. Of having faced such a challenge—unknown and dangerous, at least to her—and survived the encounter.
Then she realized a silly, far-too-smug-for-her-own-good smile had curved her lips. She forced them straight, shook her head at her delusions—dealing further with Sebastian was not going to be so easy—and walked slowly up the dim corridor.
To reach the door to her room, she had to pass the archway to the gallery; as she did, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dim figure lurking in the shadows on the other side of the archway. From the hairstyle, she instantly recognized Cecilia.
Antonia gave no sign of having seen their hostess hovering in the dark. She reached her door, opened it, then paused and frowned. There’d been something about the way Cecilia had been standing, dithering…
That was it. She’d intended to visit Sebastian, but had seen Antonia come out of his room and had drawn back, uncertain.
Antonia glanced along the corridor. She didn’t think Sebastian was expecting Cecilia; if he had been, he would have got rid of her much more quickly and with much less…tension. Still, she waited and watched.
After a minute or more had ticked past, her straining senses picked up the soft swish of silk skirts, but Cecilia didn’t step into the corridor.
Antonia debated, then quit her door and crept silently back to the archway. Peering into the gallery, she saw Cecilia retreating, then Cecilia opened a door, went through, and shut the door behind her.
Antonia drew back. Proprietorial satisfaction bloomed again. “
Good,” she murmured.
Then she smiled and headed for her bed.
Things had changed—or perhaps evolved—between her and Sebastian. She reacted as if he was hers, and he did the same over her. Well and good. As for the tension—the visceral connection—that had erupted between them in the dark of his room…she wasn’t entirely sure exactly what that presaged, but she was ready and distinctly eager to find out.
Chapter 4
Sebastian bided his time through the morning—through an extended breakfast in the breakfast room, then, as the day was once again fine, he followed the other guests outside. The younger ladies set off for the folly from which they planned to sketch the views; after exchanging a coolly challenging glance with him, Antonia joined their ranks.
Connell Boyne and his friends went out onto the rear lawn to smoke cheroots. After strolling the rear terrace and evaluating their options, the older men retreated to the library; Hadley Featherstonehaugh and Sebastian trailed behind.
Sebastian and Hadley settled in comfortable chairs at one end of the library; Ennis, Parrish, and McGibbin appeared to be discussing business of sorts at the other end. The table between Sebastian’s and Hadley’s chairs held a stack of gentlemen’s sporting journals; they spent a quiet half hour flicking pages and trading the occasional remark.
Then Filbury looked in. “Connell suggested a croquet tournament. Who’s in?”
As it transpired, all the men were gripped by competitive zeal. The entire male half of the company duly gathered on the croquet lawn where Connell and Worthington had already set out the hoops. Mallets were passed around and various structures for a tournament were discussed before a series of games was decided, and they settled to play in rotating groups of three.
Knowing that playing croquet in groups was as much about arguing line and tactics, and that such a game never progressed quickly but rather with long pauses for evaluation and dissection, Sebastian saw the perfect opportunity for speaking privately with Ennis looming.