Page 27 of My Dark Duke

GUILT WAS ANemotion which Sebastian had become uncomfortably familiar with, since Miss Smith had entered his life.

Not dallying with an innocent had been the only rule he had followed, during his long career as a rake-hell. It was a rule he had now broken, and wished to break repeatedly, with Miss Smith.

His guilt tortured him - though, not as much as his need for Mary.

Having excused himself from her presence, for the fear that he would not be able to resist bedding her, Sebastian slipped down the hallway to the kitchen. There, he found Polly, seated by the fireplace, humming to herself as she sewed.

“Your Grace.” She looked up, startled, as he entered the room. “Have you a need for something? There’s no need to traipse all the way down here; ring the bell and I - or Maud - will attend to you.”

“I am not in need of anything, Polly,” Sebastian replied, stiffly. “I merely wished to ask how you think Miss Smith is settling in?”

Polly’s eyes flew to his face, and Sebastian could read exactly what she was thinking:Why don’t you ask her herself?

“Well enough, Your Grace,” Polly answered, tactfully avoiding speaking her mind. “She is a sweet girl, unused to the ways of London; I think it is all overwhelming for one as young as she.”

“She is five-and-twenty,” Sebastian answered, a little defensively.

“If she is five-and-twenty, then so am I,” Polly chortled, though she quieted herself when she saw Sebastian was not amused.

“She is a good girl,” Polly finished, with a shrug. “A country lass from good stock - that is all I know of her, Your Grace.”

Sebastian nodded, but Polly wasn’t finished.

“And I’ll not spy on her on your behalf,” she added, with a fierce scowl his way. “Who knows how a girl like that ended up alone in London, but I’ll not press her for details. She can style herself Miss Smith, or the Queen of Sheba for all I care; I’ll not harangue her for her true name or history.”

“Her real name is not Miss Smith?”

Polly paused, her cheeks aflame.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,” she answered, unconvincingly. Despite having spent a decade treading the boards, Polly was not the most gifted of actresses.

“Thank you.” Sebastian inclined his head. “I will not press you for any further information on Miss Smith, Polly. Though, I do want you to promise me that if it appears she is in any kind of trouble, you will come to me. It is my duty to protect her.”

“I will, Your Grace,” Polly promised.

“I shall return tomorrow evening,” Sebastian finished. “You might tell Miss Smith to dress for an evening out.”

With that, Sebastian took his leave. Outside, his carriage was waiting, and he instructed the driver to take him to White’s, his club.

As the carriage travelled towards St James’ Street, Sebastian pondered upon the mysterious origins of Miss Smith. When she had arrived in the drawing room, dressed in her new gown, he had been struck by the notion that his country-mouse would not have looked out of place in any drawing room in London.

His suspicion that her lineage might be more genteel than she let on, was confirmed by her skill on the pianoforte. Few, except the landed gentry could afford to tutor a daughter to play with such a level of skill.

Miss Smith had come from good stock and Sebastian wished to know how it was a young lady such as she had arrived in London penniless and alone.

And then what?

Sebastian frowned, as he realised that even if he knew the reasons why Miss Smith had absconded from Kent, it would not solve his dilemma. She would still be an innocent and he would still be driven by a desire to claim her body for his own.

The carriage drew to a halt outside White’s and Sebastian gave a deep sigh of relief. He might not find an answer to his problems within the walls of the club, but he would find some fine brandy with which to soothe his more troubled thoughts.

Given the early hour, the club was rather empty. Sebastian made for the drawing room, which was populated by a few old bachelors. He took a seat at the back of the room near the fireplace, as far away from the fray as was possible - not that old Colonel Edgewood or the aged Lord Hardbottle counted as much of a fray.

“The usual,” Sebastian said to the footman, who had silently materialised at his side. The man returned a moment later with a decanter of the finest French cognac Berry Bros & Rudd could smuggle in from the continent.

Sebastian poured himself a generous measure, then took a sip, savouring its warmth and complexity. As the alcohol burned its way down his throat to his belly, he felt some of his earlier tension leave his body.

Unfortunately, the calming effects of the cognac did not last long, as his silent contemplation was interrupted by a familiar face.

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