Robert and Oliver looked down, shuffling their feet, and Violet wondered what had happened before she arrived.
But Sebastian simply cleared his throat. “Serious Sebastian has returned,” he intoned. “Let the party begin!”
Chapter Nine
IT WAS FOUR IN THE MORNING when Violet stumbled back to her room. Somehow, she kept encountering the walls, which no longer seemed to be laid in straight lines.
“Poor Robert,” she said.
“Watch your head.” Sebastian took hold of her, pulling her back to stand straight.
“Did you see his face when I gave all his marbles to Oliver as a wedding present? I have never seen him turn quite so white.” Violet heard something suspiciously like a giggle. It couldn’t have come from her; she didn’t giggle.
But then—her mind caught up with her—that had been her voice. Ah—she had giggled. She was drunk.
“Damned thiffle…” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Thistful.” Also wrong. “Thistle spirits,” she finally managed to get out. “It’s not fair. I forfeited three times as much as everyone else. It’s not fair that I’m the right-handed one.”
“And yet you still won at cards,” Sebastian said with a smile. “Here’s your door. Your maid will be down shortly.”
Violet frowned. “Of course I won.” She felt rather affronted. “Being inebriated makes me better at maths, not worse.”
“Only you.” This, with a smirk. He opened her door and helped her to a chair.
She sank into it gratefully. “I’m going to give Oliver’s marbles to Jane. She’ll make good use of them. The only thing that worries me is…”
No. She wasn’t going to say that aloud. But she might as well have done so.
“This?” He pulled out a marble from his pocket. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the color, but she knew it anyway. She’d watched it keenly throughout the evening—the only marble of her own color that she’d lost. But he’d refused to stake it after he won it, and all night, that flawed blue-glass sphere had sparkled at her from his side.
It gleamed with possibility. With it, he might…
He might bar her door to everyone else. She was drunk enough that she might forget every last reason that counseled caution. For a moment, the vision came to her—a thing of heat and alcohol, of his body pressing against hers, her lips parting for his, skin reveling in bare skin.
It would be something that happened to another person. Some other Violet would invite him into her room. Some other Violet would suffer the consequences. So long as it wasn’t her…
But it was her. She wasn’t so inebriated as to believe otherwise. She took a deep, ragged breath.
The limits of friendship? How stupid had she been to allow for such a possibility? But Sebastian hadn’t been in the room when she’d made the rule, and for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her to imagine what a man who admitted that he wanted her—wanted her in the least platonic way possible—might do with a favor that had no limits.
“Violet,” he said softly.
His hand touched her elbow, and she jerked away from him.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m just cold.”
He took her hand. “Here.” The marble fell into her palm, warm with the heat of his body. “I’m calling in my favor.”
She couldn’t help herself. That shiver racked her again from head to toe.
His hand closed around hers, pressing her fingers around the glass. “Do this for me, Violet.” He took a step closer.
She could smell his scent. On him, the bitterness of the thistle spirits transmuted into something savory, something green and enticing. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop being afraid,” he told her. “You know me better than that. I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want. Not with a marble. Not any other way.”
She sagged against the chair in relief. Relief and…
…And maybe, because she was well on her way to intoxication, maybe a hint of regret as well.
She fumbled for his hand in the dark. His fingers were hot against hers. How did he stay so warm? It seemed inhuman. Or maybe—worse—it seemed all too human indeed.
“I don’t understand.” She shut her eyes. “I really don’t understand. Why aren’t you angry with me? If I don’t…” She trailed off, unable to continue her thought aloud.
But it continued itself in the darkness. He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, their limbs locked together, his lanky frame coming over hers. His hands would hold her down…
No. She didn’t want that. She couldn’t.
“Did your husband get angry with you?” he asked quietly.
Her throat closed. Her fingers clenched spasmodically around his. But she didn’t say anything.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I do. I get frustrated, because damn it, Violet. I want you so much. But then I remember that we’re friends. And the part of me that is your friend wants to punch myself in the face. I don’t have a right to be angry because you want something different.”
“But… You have to wish…”
“I wish every day.” His hand was still clasped in hers. “Every day that passes, Violet. But I watched you during your marriage—and if you’ll pardon me—I don’t think you need another man to get angry with you.”
She let out a breath and her world righted itself. This was Sebastian, not some horrible demon. She could trust him with that much.
“Here.” She pressed the marble back into his hand. “You don’t need a favor for that.”
Her mind was a confusion of images—his mouth on hers, his hand clasping hers. Their hands would come together, drawing them closer until body pressed against body…
No. Those things were for some other person. Not for Violet when she was drunk. Not when she was sober. Not ever.
Violet was a stack of papers, dry as dust, each with Sebastian’s name written on it.
She closed his fingers on the marble.
“I trust you, Sebastian,” she said. “I always have.”
So long as he held her marble, he held a possibility—the barest chance that there might someday be more for her. In some other place, some other Violet might get kissed. It was all she knew how to hope for—some other person’s happiness—but she hoped it with every wistful part of her heart.