someone Sebastian immediately recognized—a youngish man, judging from his slim back and cap of pale gold curls. A negligible figure, despite his expensive coat. But Rachel’s shoulders stiffened fractionally with every step the gentleman took.
When the young man stopped and bowed before Lord Henry, turning just enough to expose the edge of his profile, Rachel flinched.
“Him,” she said, spine taut as piano wire. “Do—do you recognize him?”
“Who? Young Narcissus there?”
He considered. The flood of gossip that poured from Lady Barham included the description of a fair-haired newcomer to the ton , the recent heir to some title or other—Fairfax, maybe? No—“Lord Fairholme , I believe it is. Do you recognize him?”
She hesitated. “Lord Fairholme?” Disappointment hollowed her voice. “No. He just . . . reminded me of someone. But my friend was no peer. He was poor as a church mouse. Poorer. Church mice loaned him crumbs from sheer pity.”
A dull pulse of warning throbbed behind his ear. “What friend is that?”
“Mr. Rapson. My tutor.”
Just then, Fairholme turned halfway round to greet some new lady who’d approached, and his profile became plainly visible. A bit older than he’d seemed from the back, perhaps a year or two beyond thirty. Refined, almost pretty, but with sharp intelligence in his expression.
Rachel gripped Sebastian by the nearest elbow. “It is him!” Her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened. “It’s Mr. Rapson! Impossible, but it is !” She pivoted, heading for the stairs that led to the ballroom below.
Sebastian grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to a halt.
“That man?” he said softly, his nerves thrumming. “That man there , talking to Lord Henry. That man was your tutor?”
“Yes!”
He pulled her closer against him, swinging them both behind the drapes that curtained the alcove, shielded completely from the view of others.
She gave a little choking laugh, her fingers prying at his hands. “Let go.”
“Are you mad?” His arms locked around her, a cage she couldn’t break. His heart was thundering—and, blast it all, his body was responding precipitously to hers, and despite his best judgment, he found himself growing rapidly aroused. He fought to tamp down those feelings, keep his mind on rational concerns. “You can’t go anywhere near Rapson.” he insisted. “He knew you and your sister . He knows there were two of you.”
“Oh! Oh, Lord.” She blinked then, as if just coming out of a sleep. “Of course. It’d be a disaster, wouldn’t it, if he called me by name?”
“By name ? Bloody hell—could he tell you and Sal apart?”
“Yes. He was the only one who ever could.”
“Damnation!” What in blazes was her tutor doing here, anyway? How had a poor curate managed to become Lord Fairholme ? And why in hell was he in conversation with the likes of Lord Henry Walters? “When exactly was the last time he saw you?”
“More than three years ago, when my great aunts died. And he hasn’t seen Sarah since she ran away—nearly ten years.” Her back was straightening again; she was gathering her forces, her self-command. “He’d never expect to see me dressed like this. Or acting like this. I could make him believe I’m Sarah.”
“But if he should realize who you are—”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d protect me. I trust him with my life.” Her expression was utterly guileless. Entirely too trusting.
“Hogwash!” He shoved her to the wall, intentionally rough, his hands pinning her shoulders. “I don’t care if he’s St. Nicholas—he’s not to be trusted. No one ’s to be trusted.”
“That’s ridiculous. Mr. Rapson taught me everything that matters to me!” Thankfully, she had the discipline to keep her voice too low to be overheard, even as she writhed against his grip. “When my sister ran away home, his friendship was all I had in the world!”
“You’re in a different world now, ma
When the young man stopped and bowed before Lord Henry, turning just enough to expose the edge of his profile, Rachel flinched.
“Him,” she said, spine taut as piano wire. “Do—do you recognize him?”
“Who? Young Narcissus there?”
He considered. The flood of gossip that poured from Lady Barham included the description of a fair-haired newcomer to the ton , the recent heir to some title or other—Fairfax, maybe? No—“Lord Fairholme , I believe it is. Do you recognize him?”
She hesitated. “Lord Fairholme?” Disappointment hollowed her voice. “No. He just . . . reminded me of someone. But my friend was no peer. He was poor as a church mouse. Poorer. Church mice loaned him crumbs from sheer pity.”
A dull pulse of warning throbbed behind his ear. “What friend is that?”
“Mr. Rapson. My tutor.”
Just then, Fairholme turned halfway round to greet some new lady who’d approached, and his profile became plainly visible. A bit older than he’d seemed from the back, perhaps a year or two beyond thirty. Refined, almost pretty, but with sharp intelligence in his expression.
Rachel gripped Sebastian by the nearest elbow. “It is him!” Her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened. “It’s Mr. Rapson! Impossible, but it is !” She pivoted, heading for the stairs that led to the ballroom below.
Sebastian grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to a halt.
“That man?” he said softly, his nerves thrumming. “That man there , talking to Lord Henry. That man was your tutor?”
“Yes!”
He pulled her closer against him, swinging them both behind the drapes that curtained the alcove, shielded completely from the view of others.
She gave a little choking laugh, her fingers prying at his hands. “Let go.”
“Are you mad?” His arms locked around her, a cage she couldn’t break. His heart was thundering—and, blast it all, his body was responding precipitously to hers, and despite his best judgment, he found himself growing rapidly aroused. He fought to tamp down those feelings, keep his mind on rational concerns. “You can’t go anywhere near Rapson.” he insisted. “He knew you and your sister . He knows there were two of you.”
“Oh! Oh, Lord.” She blinked then, as if just coming out of a sleep. “Of course. It’d be a disaster, wouldn’t it, if he called me by name?”
“By name ? Bloody hell—could he tell you and Sal apart?”
“Yes. He was the only one who ever could.”
“Damnation!” What in blazes was her tutor doing here, anyway? How had a poor curate managed to become Lord Fairholme ? And why in hell was he in conversation with the likes of Lord Henry Walters? “When exactly was the last time he saw you?”
“More than three years ago, when my great aunts died. And he hasn’t seen Sarah since she ran away—nearly ten years.” Her back was straightening again; she was gathering her forces, her self-command. “He’d never expect to see me dressed like this. Or acting like this. I could make him believe I’m Sarah.”
“But if he should realize who you are—”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d protect me. I trust him with my life.” Her expression was utterly guileless. Entirely too trusting.
“Hogwash!” He shoved her to the wall, intentionally rough, his hands pinning her shoulders. “I don’t care if he’s St. Nicholas—he’s not to be trusted. No one ’s to be trusted.”
“That’s ridiculous. Mr. Rapson taught me everything that matters to me!” Thankfully, she had the discipline to keep her voice too low to be overheard, even as she writhed against his grip. “When my sister ran away home, his friendship was all I had in the world!”
“You’re in a different world now, ma
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