A Passion for Pleasure(7)

That, Sebastian thought, was both his saving grace and his downfall. The gossip was friendly, amused, intrigued—nothing like the horrific shock that had followed his parents’ divorce after the countess had had an affair and deserted her family.

Rushton, however, now reestablishing himself both politically and socially almost three years after the scandal, would hasten to forestall the glare of any gossip, no matter how good-natured.

Lord Dalling and his daughter soon made their excuses and went to the refreshment table. Sebastian felt his father’s gaze, weighted with displeasure.

“Why did you not ask her to dance?” Rushton asked.

Sebastian didn’t respond.

“She is also an excellent prospect for marriage,” his father continued. “Well educated, respectable. Her father is purported to be the next Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. You would do quite well with her.” Rushton studied him, his eyes narrowing. “Or seek out Smythe’s daughter at Lady Rossmore’s ball. Unless you intend to be occupied with one of your performances?”

The mild note of condescension in his father’s voice grated against Sebastian’s nerves. “No.”

“Why did you go to all the trouble of having your piano delivered to the Society of Musicians?”

“The Society’s piano needs repairs, so I offered to loan them mine.” That was the truth, at least, though Sebastian couldn’t tell his father the actual reason he’d sought out Granville Blake at the Hanover Square rooms last night. Not without betraying the confidence of his brother Darius.

Do not tell anyone what you are looking for.

The sentence in Darius’s letter tangled through Sebastian’s brain. The order wouldn’t be difficult to follow, considering he had very little idea what he was looking for. He didn’t much care either. After his furtive visits to several doctors and then the expense of a surgery that had permanently damaged his finger, Sebastian cared only that Darius would compensate him enough to settle the remainder of his medical obligations.

He still felt his father’s gaze. Although Rushton’s staid expression often concealed his thoughts, the man possessed a stare that could peel one like an apple. Having been the recipient of that sharp look more times than he cared to remember, Sebastian attempted to deflect it by turning away.

Rushton grasped his arm. “What is the matter with you?”

“Something must be the matter because I don’t care to marry an insipid debutante?”

“You used to chase insipid debutantes,” Rushton snapped. “And since returning from Weimar, you’ve been sullen as a whipped dog. I refuse to have people talk about what a bad-mannered malingerer you’ve become.”

“You refuse to have people talk about anything,” Sebastian said, yanking his arm from his father’s grip. “You’ve become worse than Alexander, though at least he managed to avoid scandal.”

He braced himself for his father’s anger, but Rushton only shook his head.

“Alexander escaped scandal because of Lydia.”

“He wouldn’t have courted scandal if he hadn’t met Lydia,” Sebastian retorted, then swallowed hard against the shame filling his throat.

He’d been the one to encourage Alexander’s interest in the brilliant, beautiful mathematician—the rest of the world be damned. He’d known his brother needed someone like Lydia, and the fact that Alexander and Lydia had emerged from potential scandal unscathed—not to mention ridiculously happy—was more than a testament to the strength of their relationship. It was a goddamn miracle.

A strange tightness wound through Sebastian’s chest. He wanted to walk away from his father, but a cluster of people blocked the doorway of the ballroom. The musicians began a cotillion that sounded unpleasant and reedy. He flexed his hand, rubbing his thumb against his crooked finger and the scar that curled over his palm.

“Alexander found the right woman for him,” Rushton said. “A woman who made him better than he was, who made him a better man. I suggest you do the same.”

“As you did?” A red, caustic note colored Sebastian’s voice. He wished his father would flare with anger, give him an adversary against which to battle. Instead a dark emotion suffused Rushton’s eyes as he stared at the twirling couples on the dance floor.

“No,” he replied, his neck cording with tension. “Not as I did. Your mother didn’t care what people thought, and she didn’t care how her decisions affected others.”