If the safety of the realm truly was at stake, he couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Antonia now figured as a supreme distraction.
The much-anticipated relief flooded him as the trees fell away and the house came into view. A Palladian façade that to eyes accustomed to very old houses appeared relatively new looked out on neatly shaved lawns to the front and the left, while to the right, shrubbery nestled close with the taller trees of woods just beyond. Pressingstoke Hall appeared to be a well-kept, pleasing, but essentially unpretentious gentleman’s country house.
Sebastian tooled the phaeton smartly around the sweep of a circular drive and drew the horses to a neat halt in the forecourt before a set of wide steps leading up to a pair of front doors set wide in welcome.
Grooms came running, and footmen hurried from the house.
Sebastian stepped down from the phaeton, handed the reins to a groom, and walked around to assist Antonia down. One footman had brought a set of steps, which he placed beside the carriage. Taking Antonia’s hand, grasping her gloved fingers, Sebastian steadied her down from the high seat; as she raised her skirts, he caught a brief glimpse of the half-boots of ivory kid that hugged her ankles.
He had to fight a short battle with his more primitive self before he could make himself release her hand, rather than wind her arm in his. He was there as her escort, not her protector. There was a fine line between the two, and he knew where it lay.
Glancing around, he strolled at Antonia’s heels across the gravel and up the steps to the front door.
A tall, white-haired butler bowed them over the threshold. “Welcome to Pressingstoke Hall, Lady Antonia. Lord Earith.”
As they moved inside, a cacophony of sound engulfed them. Apparently, a gaggle of guests had arrived just ahead of them, and much of the company had congregated, chatting and exclaiming, in the middle of the long front hall. The interior of the house confirmed Sebastian’s assessment that the present structure was most likely less than seventy years old; the lines were simpler, more modern, without the heaviness of earlier ages. A large glazed cupola all but filled the ceiling above the front half of the hall, admitting sufficient illumination to make the hall feel light and airy.
The butler raised his voice to be heard over the din. “I am Blanchard. The housekeeper is Mrs. Blanchard. Please call on us for anything you need.”
Antonia bestowed a smile and a “Thank you” and moved down the hall.
Sebastian nodded to the beleaguered butler and followed at her heels.
Now for the moment that might just turn this exercise into a quagmire. He hadn’t exchanged more than two words with Cecilia, Lady Ennis, since breaking off their liaison six years ago.
As with all his dalliances, his affair with Cecilia had been exceedingly discreet, at least at the time. Later…he strongly suspected it had been Cecilia herself who had let that particular cat out of its bag. Still, she’d been selective, and not that many people knew of it. Drake did, but then Drake knew everyone’s secrets. Ennis certainly did, and some of those at the house party might, but in general, that particular information was not widely known. Sebastian was perfectly certain it hadn’t reached the more rarefied circles of the haut ton—those inhabited by his parents and relatives, and Antonia, her parents, and her relatives.
How the next few minutes went would depend very much on Cecilia and how she behaved.
He really had no clue what he was walking into.
As Antonia approached the other guests, the group rearranged itself into several knots, leaving Cecilia Boyne, Lady Ennis—a blonde a few inches shorter than Antonia and considerably more plump—to turn and greet Antonia.
“Welcome, my dear.” Cecilia clasped Antonia’s fingers, and the pair touched scented cheeks. “I’m so glad you managed to find a suitable escort and could join us.”
“Thank you for being so understanding.” Retrieving her hand, Antonia gestured to Sebastian, who had halted at her shoulder. “I’m not sure if you’ve met Earith. Lord Sebastian Cynster—Cecilia, Lady Ennis.”
Cecilia’s blue eyes lifted to meet Sebastian’s, and she smiled. “Indeed, we have met, although it was some years ago. Welcome to Pressingstoke Hall, my lord.”
Sebastian took the hand Cecilia offered and half bowed. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Lady Ennis.”
As he straightened, Cecilia bent a rather searching look on him—one that suggested she was wondering whether his appearance at her home meant anything beyond the obvious.
Pretending obliviousness, he turned and scanned the other guests. Antonia had already drifted away to be greeted by her friends. Until he’d seen her and Cecilia together, it hadn’t occurred to him that there was only a year or two between them. Cecilia seemed so much older; a long-established matron, she’d already presented her husband with the requisite two heirs before Sebastian had allowed her to entice him to her bed. Perhaps it was simply experience that made her seem so aged relative to the vivacious, vibrant, untouched passion he now saw whenever he looked at Antonia.