A Little Bit Sinful (32 page)

“Enter!” he bellowed, the shout causing additional discomfort to his head, as well as his stomach.

Sebastian sat up gingerly, rubbing his temples, waiting for the room to cease its spinning. A servant walked in, then came to an abrupt halt as he surveyed the scene. Four empty crystal goblets and as many empty decanters were strewn on the floor, along with several pieces of Sebastian’s clothing.

“I do beg your pardon for the interruption, my lord,” the servant said in an overly loud voice. “You have a caller. A female caller.”

Eleanor? The instant joy inside Sebastian died a swift, painful death as the memories of his visit to Bath swept through him. Eleanor hated him. She would not be calling here. Ever. Wherever the hell here was.

“Who are you?” Sebastian blurted out, squinting at the servant.

For a moment the man stared at him blankly. “I am Bennington, my lord. Butler to the late Countess of Marchdale. Your grandmother.”

Sebastian eyed the room with a frown of concentration, finally recognizing his surroundings. Yes, that was right, he had decided on his way back to London that he needed to put the estrangement with Eleanor behind him; he needed to move forward with his life. And the first order of business was going to be taking charge of his grandmother’s
estate. As he took inventory of the drawing room, Sebastian decided that plan had apparently gotten off to a very poor start.

A chair was overturned, a painting removed from the wall and set to rest against the fireplace, which was unlit, and the ormolu clock had ceased ticking, due to the fact that its gilded arms had been broken off. They were standing upright in an antique vase looking for all the world like two barren stems of gold. Had he done all this? Sebastian wondered. He must have, yet he certainly didn’t recall any of it.

“I require coffee, Bennington,” Sebastian said hoarsely. “Pots and pots of strong, hot, black coffee.”

“Only coffee, my lord?”

Sebastian’s stomach dipped at the thought of food, the nausea rising to his throat. “Just coffee.”

“And your caller?”

Sebastian hesitated a moment before reaching for the card on the butler’s silver tray.
Miss Emma Ellingham.

Emma. Dearest Emma. “Show her in at once. ‘Tis never a good idea to keep a lady waiting, Bennington.”

“Do you think that wise, my lord?” the butler asked, staring pointedly down at him.

Sebastian followed the servant’s gaze, taking inventory of his own appearance. His jacket and cravat lay discarded on the carpet, his waistcoat hung open, and his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. A tentative touch of his jaw revealed a rough, heavy beard. “I’m not fit company for a lady, am I?”

“You need a bath, my lord. A shave, a fresh change of clothes, and a hearty meal.”

“And coffee,” Sebastian insisted, clutching his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand.

“Very good, my lord. I shall tell the lady to call another day.”

“No, wait. Tell her to return in an hour.” Sebastian hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly, his stomach lurching. “Two hours.”

Bennington looked none too pleased at the order, but being a properly trained butler, he knew better than to question his employer. Making no attempt to tuck in his shirt or straighten his clothing, Sebastian took a few steps toward the door, trying to decide if he wanted his bath steaming hot to comfort his body aches, or icy cold to soothe his pounding head. Perhaps he could sit in a hot tub while plunging his head into a cold basin?

Weaving noticeably, Sebastian lifted a hand to grip the edge of the sofa. But the room continued to spin and he knew there was no help for it.

“My lord?” Bennington asked. “You don’t look well. May I be of some assistance?”

“Stand clear,” Sebastian growled, moving as fast as his feet would carry him to the other side of the room. He managed to grab the vase with the clock hands inside just as his stomach started heaving. With a disapproving Bennington as an audience to his humiliation, Sebastian cast up his accounts, though it was mostly liquid in his stomach that needed to be expelled.

“I shall tell the lady to return in
three
hours,” Ben-nington pronounced, and then he departed.

Sebastian had neither the strength nor the nerve to challenge him.

Emma was waiting when Sebastian appeared in the morning room three hours later. A lovely smile broke out on her pretty face and she came to him swiftly, catching him in a tight embrace. “I didn’t think I’d ever get past the gargoyles you have guarding the door. If I didn’t know you better, I’d worry that you were avoiding me.”

“Never,” he proclaimed, hugging her tighter, reveling in the feel of her delicate form. She carried the scents of freshness and lemons in her hair, combined with a slight undertone of paint. Comforting, familiar smells. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“With your brandy.”

He turned quickly, wincing as the pain shot through his head. “How did you know? Do I look that hung over?”

Reaching out, she caught hold of his hand. “Servants talk, Sebastian. I know you’ve been keeping company with your brandy decanters these past few days.”

“It did take a fair number of them to achieve a suitable state of numbness,” he admitted.

Emma’s delicate brows drew together in a sharp arch. “Why was that necessary?”

“I couldn’t possibly explain.” Her face crumpled. He looked guiltily away, then back. “‘Tis just silly male posturing.”

Emma squeezed his hand. “You can tell me anything, Sebastian,” she said calmly. “I’ll never judge you. I’ll never gossip about you. Or Lady Eleanor.”

Sebastian eyed Emma anxiously. He thought he had been so careful. “What have you heard?”

“About Lady Eleanor? Nothing much. She was hardly noticed in society when she did appear, but my sister considered her a friendly acquaintance and has taken note of her absence. Dorothea went to call upon Lady Eleanor and was turned away without explanation. Naturally that gives cause for speculation over her sudden disappearance.”

“She hasn’t disappeared. She’s gone to Bath, to assist an elderly aunt.”

“How do you know?”

“I met Waverly at the club last week,” Sebastian answered readily. “He told me.” Though hazy, his brain, or at least part of it, was still functioning. Along with the strong need to protect Eleanor.

He saw the doubt creep into Emma’s eyes and braced himself, uncertain what he would say if she pressed the matter.

“I hope you intend to move permanently into this house,” Emma said. “I should very much like having you a few doors away, so I can visit at all hours of the day.”

Sebastian appreciatively seized the new topic of conversation. They discussed the neighborhood, and a few of the neighbors, then spoke of Emma’s sisters and their families. She told him a funny story about her brother-in-law Jason Barrington, then related a naughty tale about her sister Dorothea.

Yet although she was lighthearted and smiling, Sebastian sensed something was amiss with Emma. There was a slight hesitation before she spoke, an edge of nerves in her gestures, a restless quality to her conversation.

Tea was brought. Emma served, but both of their
cups remained full, the lovely cakes and sandwiches untouched.

“I can stand the suspense no longer, Sebastian,” Emma said, rattling her teacup as she set it down. “What do you think of your portrait? Do you like it?”

Sebastian frowned, remembering the portrait his grandmother had commissioned from Emma just before she died. The portrait he had not yet seen.

“Let’s view it together.” He rose and held out his hand. Emma clasped it firmly, though he thought he felt a slight trembling.

Hand in hand they walked into the long gallery. Since this was not an ancestral home, landscapes and other scenes were intermingled among the portraits, Sebastian’s favorite being a pair of spaniels from the era of Charles II. The dogs were perched beside a flowering hyacinth bush, their soulful brown eyes eager and happy.

They drew to a halt when they reached his portrait. Emma squeezed his hand tightly, then let go, taking a step back. Sebastian smiled inwardly at her artist’s nerves and gazed upward at the painting.

Uneasiness stirred within him. He must still be suffering the effects of too much brandy, he reasoned. Or mayhap it was the bright sunshine that put the glow in the portrait?

Sebastian was not a vain man. He knew he was handsome, knew that women found him attractive. He also knew that the portrait Emma had created was beyond flattering. She had hidden every one of his flaws and in turn accentuated each of his attractive features, rendering him a vision of male perfection.

His eyes were not that dark or piercing, his
shoulders not half as broad, his jaw not nearly as firm. This was a portrait of an Adonis, a godlike man with no faults, no weaknesses. The artist had taken more than license with her subject, she had infused her emotions on the canvas.

Deep, heartfelt emotions. For him.

“I must tell Atwood he needs to buy you a good pair of spectacles,” Sebastian said with difficulty, trying to absorb the impossibility of it all. Emma could
not
be in love with him.

“Glasses would make no difference,” she joked, catching his eye, but there was no humor in her expression. “This is how I see you, Sebastian.”

“Oh, Emma,” he said in a strangled whisper.

Her spine stiffened. “Is it really so awful?”

“The portrait?”

“No. My love for you.”

Bloody hell, she had gone and said it. Though in truth there was no hiding it, not after viewing the portrait. Her love was there for anyone to see, contained boldly within each brushstroke. How could he have been so careless? How could he have not known?

“You are far too young to be talking of love,” he chided gently.

“I’m not a child, Sebastian,” she replied with stilted dignity.

“You’re not a woman either.”

“Nearly,” she said defiantly.

“Hardly,” he insisted.

His comment was met with silence.

He reached out with extreme gentleness, his fingers caressing her damp cheek. “Oh, Emma, you must not cry. I’m not worth it.”

Her lips trembled and she gave a brief shake of her head. “You are worth anything, everything to me, Sebastian. Don’t you know it?”

Sebastian closed his eyes. Her feelings were real and genuine. ‘Twould be beyond cruel to make light of them. “I love you too, Emma, but not in a romantic way. You are the sister I never had, the companion who is kind and funny and makes me laugh, who tells me the truth when I need to hear it, who accepts me for the fool I often am.

“You are so precious to me. The idea of hurting you makes me ill, yet I cannot perpetuate false hope. There will never be anything between us of a romantic nature.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I’m afraid that I do. In a few years’ time, when you are older and ready for it, I know you are going to meet—”

“Don’t!” she screeched, fierce anger flashing in her eyes. “Don’t insult me with platitudes and meaningless drivel. I deserve better.”

He felt like a monster. Her unhappiness and pain were eating him alive, yet the facts were unchangeable. What she wanted so desperately could never happen. “You’re right. Those words are meant to make me feel better, not you. I’m sorry.”

Reaching out, he enfolded her in his arms. She stiffened. Using the lightest of touches, he stroked her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting, brotherly manner. They stayed that way for several minutes, the tension starting to escalate.

“I think I am going to hate you for a long time, Sebastian,” she whispered, tears choking her voice.

He sighed. “I know, sweetheart. I will miss you more than I can ever say.”

Wrenching free of him, Emma picked up her skirts and ran down the hallway, her sobs intermingled with the sounds of her rapid footsteps. His initial instinct was to chase after her, but he surmised that would only prolong her pain.

Hellfire and damnation, could this week get any worse?
Cursing again loudly, Sebastian slowly walked from the gallery, wondering how it could be that after all these years of chasing and bedding a variety of women, he knew next to nothing about the female mind and heart.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” The vicar smiled. “You may kiss your bride, milord.”

There was a titter of laughter, then a rousing round of applause as Lord Waverly dipped his head and did precisely as the vicar suggested. Bianca’s hands rested on her new husband’s shoulders and he deepened the kiss, their mouths clinging together. Some of the young bucks crowding the family chapel started whistling and the couple broke apart.

Bianca looked angelic as her face reddened with embarrassment. Dressed in pale yellow, with her hair swept upward in soft waves and a matching yellow veil on her bonnet, she was the picture of a happy bride.

Handsome and elegant in his wedding finery, Lord Waverly was an impressive groom, sporting a telltale flush beneath his cheeks. Apparently the kiss had affected him too.

The chapel on Lord Waverly’s estate was small, yet beautifully appointed, with gray stone walls, stained glass windows, and brass chandeliers. Colorful bouquets of spring flowers tied with white bows had been stuffed into every conceivable space and the glow of candlelight lent a romantic air to the ceremony.

Seated beside Aunt Jane in the second row, Eleanor’s eyes shone with tears of happiness. At least something good had come of this disastrous London Season. Bianca was safely married to a man she loved, a peer who seemed to hold her in equal regard. Eleanor folded her hands and said a quick prayer, hoping they would have a long, happy life together.

Amid cheers and congratulations, the newly married couple walked down the aisle, the church bells pealing joyfully. Once outside, they climbed into an open carriage, its sides decorated with white bridal ribbons, flowers, and tulle. A crowd of well-wishers from Lord Waverly’s estate, as well as residents of the local village, gathered to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. To the delight of all, Lord Waverly stood, kissed his wife’s hand, then tossed several fistfuls of coins into the air.