Page 21 of Sinfully Daring

“But—”

Sebastian shook his head. He could not do this, could not risk Adelia’s retribution hurting her. He must not see her again.

“I shall not speak with you again, for your own sake. Forgive me,” he whispered, and turned and walked away.

Chapter 6

Louis,

I am so sorry. I do not know what to do, how I am ever to speak to you again. I do not want to cut you from my life. I will not do so, but I do not know how it can be otherwise. I am trapped.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

3rd July 1842, Lansdown Place, Sloane Square, Chelsea, London.

Sebastian headed directly for his study and rang for his butler. The man arrived a moment later, seemingly unsurprised by his master’s premature return. The staff here were used to their odd comings and goings and knew better than to show any interest.

“I will be leaving for an extended voyage, Peterson,” he told the man. “Have the carriage ready for me first thing in the morning. I’ll instruct Forbes to pack enough for a few days, he can follow on with the rest of my belongings later. I’ll forward an itinerary when I have more information, but you may contact me at this address for at least the next ten days.”

He handed the address to the butler, who glanced at it.

“You are returning to France, my lord? Will Lady Hargreaves—”

“She will not,” he said curtly. “Yes, I shall spend a few months in France before travelling to Italy. It would be in everyone’s interest if you did not mention this to anyone until after I have left in the morning.”

“You expect to be gone for some time?” Peterson ventured, his expression carefully neutral.

“I do,” Sebastian replied.

His heart ached with regret and frustration, but there was nothing else to do. Adelia had Rosamund in her sights and all the time she suspected he had anything resembling affection for her, Rosamund would be at risk of being caught up in their miserable lives. He would not risk her happiness, not for anything. She deserved a loving husband, a happy life, and he was not about to let her lose that chance. If it meant exiling himself, then so be it. Perhaps when Rosamund was safely married, he might dare to return, but certainly not before.

“Lady Hargreaves will, of course, remain here until the season ends but I don’t doubt she will give you instructions for the coming months.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Sebastian nodded and dismissed the man and then stood, swiping up the brandy decanter and a glass before heading up the stairs to his bedroom. He intended to get very drunk indeed, and if he suffered the torments of the damned on the journey to France tomorrow, it was only what he deserved. If he was in enough pain, at least he would be too wretched to regret what he was doing, to spare any last maudlin thoughts for what his life might have been, if he’d not been such a damned fool all those years ago.

3rd July 1842, Mrs Palmer’s Summer Ball, Piccadilly London.

Louis stalked around the edges of the ballroom, quite unable to hide his restlessness. Over the years, he had become adept at hiding his emotions, at wearing the elegant mask of the refined Comte de Villen, whilst the real man simmered inside. These people did not know that man. If they did, they would think twice about being in his company, and tonight, the mask was in danger of slipping. Muir Anderson was everything he had feared. Handsome, young and thoroughly decent, he exuded an endearing if rough charm and good humour, and in different circumstances, Louis might have liked him. As it was, he had never felt such a rush of resentment and hostility towards a man who did not deserve his enmity.

People moved out of his way, taking one look at him and deciding it was for the best as he cut his way through the crowd, searching for Evie.

Barnaby hurried towards him, his expression one of concern. “Come and have a drink,” he suggested. “There’s a card game in the library. You could bankrupt a few noblemen, make you feel better,” he suggested with a wry smile.

Louis snorted, not deigning to answer.

“Well, at least stop pacing up and down,” Barnaby implored, as he kept pace with Louis. “It’s like watching a panther prowling about the ballroom, wondering who he’s going to pounce on first.”

Louis slanted him a glittering look and Barnaby huffed out a laugh.

“Yes, well, I’m not in any doubt who’s first, admittedly.”

“Where is she?” Louis growled, tugging his pocket watch free and scowling at it.

“Ah, as to that. Er… Louis,” Barnaby said, tugging at his arm.

Louis stopped pacing, turned to look at Barnaby and then followed his gaze. The entire ballroom fell away. The people, the noise, the chatter all disappeared like mist, his entire being riveted on the woman who had just entered the room.