Chapter Six
Sebastian swiveled around to face her, so furious that not only was he unable to summon his cool smile, he could not even call up his voice. And underneath the anger, like a shark circling, was a sharp sting of betrayal that he did not even want to examine, let alone feel.
He forced himself to deny it. This prim blonde meant nothing to him. His brief and ill-fated attraction to her did not give her any dominion over him, least of all the power to hurt him. Why, the very notion was laughable! No one could touch him, for the simple reason that he had been dead inside for longer than he could remember.
And yet, for the first time in years, he sensed something lapping at his inviolate self—something decidedly unpleasant. Sebastian had the eerie notion that it was despair, waiting to suck him down into blacker depths than he had ever known.
Ignoring it, Sebastian found his tongue, if not his usual grim aplomb. “You wrote this?” he asked her, with barely controlled venom, as he held the offending volume between them. “You tried to destroy me with it?” He conjured up a bitter laugh. “Others have failed at that task, Miss Prudence Lancaster. And let me warn you that I have a way of coming back to haunt those who would do me ill.”
Her response was to stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise, as if astonished by his manner, but the veil of innocence that clung to her only incited Sebastian further. He felt like grabbing hold of Miss Prudence Lancaster and shaking her until her teeth rattled—or until her glasses fell away and she was forced to abandon her spinsterish airs.
Violence throbbed in the air, in the muscle in his cheek and in the rapid rise and fall of her shapely breasts. By God, if they were not in a public place, he would show the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor just what her favorite villain was capable of doing to her. The idea, Sebastian realized, with stunning surprise, was more than a little stimulating.
And far from cringing away from his rage, the unusual Miss Prudence seemed enthralled by it. She was looking up at him with the oddest expression on her starkly beautiful face, and if he had not known better, Sebastian could have sworn he saw an answering flicker of excitement behind those ridiculous spectacles.
“Well, well, and what have we here?”
At the sound of Lord Neville’s voice, Sebastian automatically straightened and composed his features. Lord Lawrence Neville—Nevvy to his circle—was a parasite, a man with no discernible income of his own, who lived off the largesse of others. And why did anyone support him? Somehow, Neville had managed to set himself up as an arbiter of fashion, along the lines of Beau Brummel, only with a cruel streak a mile wide.
The jaded members of the ton enjoyed hearing Nevvy sharpen his tongue on their peers, as long as they were not his victims, and so each slavishly tried to please him. Thus he gained more power and grew more vicious.
Although Nevvy despised Sebastian for not playing his nasty little game, he rarely dared to make snide comments to the earl’s face, for he was not entirely foolish. Sebastian had made it clear that he would tolerate only so much, and Nevvy had a healthy regard for his own skin.
But, apparently, the public location and Sebastian’s escalating troubles had emboldened the fellow, for he stepped closer, smiling evilly, despite Sebastian’s dismissive glance. “Are you hawking your own book now, Ravenscar? Who is your poor victim?”
Without waiting for an answer, Nevvy turned to Prudence. “Have a desire to meet Count Bastian in person, do you, miss?” he asked. “Better beware—he’s a very dangerous man.” Laughing at his own joke, Nevvy obviously expected Prudence to join him, but she only stared at him openly.
Apparently she was a bit bemused by the fellow, for Sebastian watched her gaze travel past Nevvy’s quizzing glass to the absurdly high points of his shirt with more than polite interest. She appeared, Sebastian decided, to be making a character study of Sir Neville, for use in her next book. Suddenly, Sebastian felt in control of himself again, his extraordinary outburst replaced by an equally unusual interest—and no little amusement.
“I fear I do not follow you, sir,” she said.
Watching her brave Nevvy’s temper, Sebastian could not help but admire the chit. Most women would cringe if Nevvy turned his attention on them—or else fawn shamelessly over the toad. Prudence, refusing to be rattled by the man’s assessing look, remained her own, unique self, polite but poised in the face of his less-than-flattering scrutiny.
“My dear child,” Nevvy said, with one of his most unpleasant smirks. “Have you not heard? The book is about the earl here.”
Prudence looked so dumbfounded by Nevvy’s claim that Ravenscar felt light-headed. Or was it lighthearted? Could it be possible that the girl had not purposely vilified him? Perhaps Prudence, with her ink-stained hands and sometimes faraway gaze, had been so wrapped up in her writing that she was unaware of the similarities between her villain and the object of Cornwall’s latest scandal.
She turned to Sebastian, her eyes round behind the glass, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose color. “My lord, is this a jest?”
Sebastian gave her a cool smile. “Of course, Miss Lancaster, but you are not acquainted with Nevvy’s peculiar brand of humor. May I present Lord Lawrence Neville? Miss Lancaster.”
Nevvy nodded curtly, his lip curling contemptuously at the slight to his wit. “One wonders where you have been, Miss Lancaster, for all of London is talking about Bastian of Bloodmoor and his likeness to Ravenscar.”
There was no mistaking that Prudence was startled. Unless she was a very fine actress…She sent him a quick, alarmed glance that heartened him entirely too much before she regained her composure.
“I have been, Sir Neville, in Cornwall,” she replied. “You see, I fear there has been some mistake. This book is a work of fiction. It is not about anyone.”
Nevvy lifted his quizzing glass and peered through it, in order to give her the full force of his disdain. “Come, come, Miss Lancaster.” He clucked. “And how would someone buried along the coast know a thing about the latest literary offering?”
“I can readily answer that,” Prudence said, drawing a deep breath, “for, you see, I wrote it.”
Sebastian took one look at Nevvy’s expression and was surprised to feel genuine laughter building in his chest. Although the sensation was decidedly unfamiliar, it was uniquely satisfying, for watching the darling of society reduced to gaping like a chawbacon struck him as infinitely amusing.
“And I can assure you, it is not about Lord Ravenscar,” Prudence continued firmly. She lifted a hand, as if to reach for Sebastian, and he knew a brief but heady anticipation. She must have caught herself, however, for her gloved fingers fell before touching his sleeve, much to Sebastian’s disappointment.
Nevvy’s eyes narrowed, and Sebastian could almost see the man’s small mind working like a primitive gear. Undoubtedly, Nevvy would have liked to cut Prudence completely in payment for her audacious attitude, but, as the author of such a popular book, she was far too valuable a commodity to dismiss. It would be quite a coup for Nevvy to present her to society, and apparently Nevvy was coming to that conclusion, for he soon smiled at Prudence in an ingratiating fashion.
“What a pleasant surprise! I am thnlled to meet you, Miss Lancaster. I am honored,
