“What do you think? Isn’t it marvelous?” Freddie was at his elbow at one of the lower tables, wearing an unfortunate pink velvet dress that looked very much like a discarded curtain. With one hand, she balanced a pointed hat on her head, its veil falling over half her face. The other half was obscured by a pink silk mask, but Sebastian would know her anywhere.

“I think it’s ridiculous.” He grabbed a whiskey from a passing footman. At least he was not forced to drink the medieval swill. “What’s your pleasure, Freddie?”

She squinted through her veil at the tray. Impatiently, Sebastian snatched the hat from her head, so that she was now merely covered by what looked like a linen bandage wrapped around her hair and chin. The waiting footman averted his eyes in pity.

“Sebastian!”

“Freddie, you haven’t moved from this spot in hours. You haven’t even been able to cut your meat one-handed. The hat is a disaster. Admit it.”

“You have no idea how long it took me to make it,” she said crossly. “A woman was not permitted to wear her hair uncovered. It was considered a sin.”

“It’s a sin in this day and age to adhere to such silly rules. Take the rest of that stuff off.”

Muttering, Freddie unwrapped the linen to reveal a rumpled coronet of braids.

“There! Much better. Now. Champagne or ratafia?”

Freddie rubbed her hands in nervousness. “I don’t know. I’ve never had either.”

“What! Impossible. You really have led a sheltered life. Hm.” He tapped his chin. “Champagne is apt to go straight to your head on an empty stomach. I’d advise the ratafia.” He took two glasses and set them in front of her.

Freddie took a suspicious sniff. “Apricots.”

“Yes, fruit. Good for you. How can one abstain? Drink up. I can’t believe you’re still sober. I know I’m not.”

“As does everyone else. You’ve been quite rude tonight.”

“Oh, don’t go all governessy on me, brat. Bad enough the old man is giving me the eye. What’s next on the agenda now that we’ve eaten the wild boar?”

“It was only Farmer Easton’s pig. Two of them, actually.”

“You never touched your bream and eel pasty.”

Freddie shuddered. “I have more enthusiasm for the wardrobe of the Middle Ages than the menu. The frumenty wasn’t bad. You can’t go wrong with honey and raisins.”

“Porridge by any other name. And impossible to eat with a knife. Just like my father to forgo the bloody forks for us peasants.” Sebastian set his elbows on the table. “I’m afraid I’ve had enough, Freddie. Of the food and the company. Oh, not you,” he said quickly, seeing her hurt expression. “You’ve been an amusing dinner companion, for all you didn’t eat your dinner. But I’m for bed. Care to join me?”

Freddie blushed as brightly as her hideous dress. “Not if you were the last man on earth. And there’s to be a scavenger hunt. You won’t want to miss that.”

“How old are we? Eleven?”

Just then his father tapped his crystal goblet at the dais and the room fell still. No wooden drinking vessel for the Duke of Roxbury. Sebastian leaned back as the duke rambled on about Goddard Castle through the centuries. He was so long-winded Freddie drank both her glasses during the speech, so Sebastian flagged down another footman for her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. The poor little thing was getting drunk for the very first time.

He stumbled up when the talk got around to the scavenger hunt and its rules. Sebastian always broke rules when he could, and the quest for a mock unicorn held no interest for him. He whispered to Freddie that he was leaving, and she waved him away. She sat transfixed at his father’s nonsense, an odd smile on her face.

When faced with the four stone walls of his little room, he had a desire to escape. He changed into an elegant striped robe, a souvenir from a grateful Italian widow, stashing his comforting brandy flask in a pocket. He made his way through the Byzantine halls of the castle by flickering candlelight, carrying a tooled leather case with his smoking utensils inside. Precious balls of poppy resin mixed with headache powder rattled around between the implements, promising peace.

His father had warned the guests about the north tower. It was unsafe, therefore off-limits for the foolish revelers. There was a rope with threatening signage blocking the steps, which Sebastian cleared easily even though he was more than a bit drunk himself. Soon he would be entirely at one with the universe. A universe where his father was in a different galaxy altogether.

He gave up counting the steps, but there were many. They were worn and slippery beneath his bare feet. Once he reached the top, he found himself in an odd-shaped room with half its ceiling gone. The black Yorkshire sky was sprinkled with stars winking down on him, cementing his idea he was rather insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He swept away some rubble and settled in the window alcove, or what would have been a window if it was still intact. A pleasant summer breeze swept through the space, nearly clearing his muzzy head. That would not do.

With the sort of patience his father would apply to reconstructing a medieval document from fragments, Sebastian opened his case and heated his metal needle, turning a pea-sized lump of opium into a cone. Holding his pipe over the flame, he warmed it, then placed the cone into the bowl. Some of his friends skipped all these laborious steps and simply wrapped the opium in rice paper and inserted it into their rectums, but Sebastian respected the traditional way. The ritual was nearly as compelling as the smoke. He inhaled deeply.

Heaven. Or hell. Opium was highly addictive. He felt the need for it more urgently every day, especially since he was now subject to his father’s disapproval. His supply was limited, and not apt to be replenished in Yorkshire. He could fob himself off with drink or hashish for a time, but this was his greatest, most sinful pleasure.

Where was the chubby chit he remembered? The girl who fenced and fished with him? In her place was a curvaceous creature with gilt-streaked hair, her tongue licking a lucky wayward crumb from plump pink lips. Whose plumper white breasts nearly spilled from a flimsy dress that was surely too low-cut for tea. And damn it, where was her flirtatious companion when he had most need of her? He’d been without a woman too long if just the sight of his old enemy caused him such stimulation. This was Freddie, whose pigtails he’d pulled, whose feet he’d tripped, who bedeviled him like a little leech until he went away to school.

And when he came home, she tried to trick and trap him, until her head was turned by the promise of few pounds.

“Hallo, Freddie. I see you started without me.” He swiped a miniscule biscuit and swallowed it whole.

She wrinkled her perfect little powdered nose. No doubt she found the childhood nickname abhorrent. He’d have to keep calling her that to keep her at arm’s length, make sure she knew she held no sway over him. Damn her father for dying, damn his father for dying, damn Freddie for not finding some other man to bother with her hair and her breasts and her rosy mouth.

She inclined her head, as if she were a queen greeting a vexatious subject. By God, she had nerve. The last time he’d seen her, she had been half-naked and white-faced, every freckle on her face like a spatter of mud, their worlds smashed to pieces. One would never know from her sang froid that they were anything to each other but passing acquaintances.

“Sebastian. Or should I say Your Grace, although that seems very odd. How was your trip north?”

He pressed his thumbs to her cheeks, his fingers resting lightly on her temples. His pupils were huge, black as his soul—if he still had one—ringed in dark, fathomless green. She longed to touch the bump on the bridge of his nose, the only imperfection she could detect in his shadowed face. He was whispering something scandalous, but she couldn’t listen for watching his lips move. Then he smiled and slanted them over hers, the soft strength of them warm and insistent. Her mouth opened in protest and his tongue traced the seam of her top lip slowly, as if he were measuring by touch, calculating the inches of pink. He did the same to her bottom lip, shocking her with his gentleness.

When they’d last kissed, he’d tasted of too much brandy and smelled of sweet smoke. Tonight there was the merest hint of wine. His clean skin was scented with the rose petal soap she had made herself from the overgrown canes that tumbled over the outer wall. What should have been feminine had been converted into something else altogether—he’d captured the briar as well as the bud. She hoped to steady herself with a deep breath, but instead was swept away to the wild roses and the heat of last summer. Her skin beneath the pressure of his fingertips tingled as he drew her closer, his mouth skimming effortlessly over hers, brushing, savoring. There was nothing to do but meet his tongue and shiver as he tore her defenses down lick by wicked lick.

She felt herself sway, and reached for something to hold on to, although she was still sweetly trapped between his hands. She should touch him, if only to feel his smooth brown chest or span his narrow hips or tousle his curling dark hair. But there was no safe place to touch that wouldn’t scorch her as he brought her to him, his velvet mouth angled expertly so that even the corners of her lips received attention.