Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
E leanor woke refreshed and reinvigorated. The things he had done to her body certainly helped her feel as though she was ready to take on the world, but more, she had seen the pain in his face when he denied being discontented with his lot in life.
There was something more under the surface here, and she would discover it.
This was the day the servants changed once more—with the exception of Abigail, whom Eleanor had requested remain—and Eleanor took advantage of the relative chaos to slip into his study and close the door behind her. Sebastian had ridden out to London again, no doubt to avoid the confusion of people entering and leaving the house—and to ignore her—so she knew this was her moment.
To her surprise, she found the study to be far cleaner and tidier than she recalled it being the first time she visited. After she had tidied everything, and his subsequent annoyance, she had assumed he’d have gone back to his old ways. But although the decanter of brandy lay on his desk, an empty glass beside it, the clothes and trays of used plates had been removed. Whether Sebastian had done so himself or whether he had instructed a servant to clean up after him, she couldn’t say, but it sent another spiral of warmth through her. Perhaps he didn’t want to admit it even to himself, but she had made an impact on him. He had changed because of her.
A pleasing prospect. A remarkably satisfying one. She had been the direct cause of this, and it had changed the trajectory of his life, even by a very small amount.
She moved to his desk where he kept his correspondence. One thing she had noticed since being in the house was that he kept no paintings of his ancestors on the walls—and particularly none of his parents. Either of them. A gallery of portraits lay on the second floor, and she had walked the uneven floorboards often enough, staring into the faces of King Charles II and other such famous men—but she had not once seen a face that pertained to the Dukedom.
It did not take an oracle to conclude that Sebastian held something against them. Or even that he grieved their deaths to such an extent that seeing their portraits around would have hurt more than he could have borne. But she did not think that could be the sole reason for his seclusion. Not only did he reject her, but he rejected everyone else in his life—including servants and his former friend. Something did not quite add up.
She flicked through the invitations and cards across his desk, as well as inventories, letters to his steward and man of business in town, and set them aside with a sigh. This had nothing of use.
Unless anything more sensitive had been hidden.
She opened and closed the drawers in the desk, rifling through papers and ink and wax, a large ring rolling around the wooden bottom of one drawer. She ran her fingers across the crest stamped at the top. His signet ring. Most gentlemen she knew wore theirs, but then again, Sebastian did not resemble the other gentlemen she knew.
As she placed the ring back, her fingers brushed against the end of the drawer and she heard a faint click . A hidden panel opened, and Eleanor saw a flash of white. Paper.
Fingers trembling now, her heart in her throat, she pulled the panel free and drew out the papers, all tied together with string. There were a collection of letters and newspaper clippings, meticulously cut and bound together. She sank onto his chair as she flicked through them. A recording of his parents’ deaths, suspected poisoning—though by the look of things, nothing had ever been confirmed. The article mentioned the way that Sebastian, described as a mere boy, had stumbled across his parents’ bodies.
Her throat burned, and she lowered the clipping, staring into the distance with blurring vision.
In her mind’s eye, the scene played out in heartbreaking detail. Young Sebastian—only thirteen years of age—entering his parents’ bedchamber. Their frozen bodies. His horror.
She could not bear it.
Poor Sebastian. How could he have borne such a thing?
No man should ever endure what he, as a boy, had been forced to suffer.
For a moment, she attempted to imagine what she would have felt if she had walked in on her father’s lifeless corpse. Her throat closed, and a tear slid down her cheek. Phantom pain ripped through her chest; her stomach cramped. The grief—not hers, not earned by her, yet still so achingly present in her body—nearly stopped her lungs.
No . She could not fall apart over something that happened fifteen years ago, and to someone else. But even as she picked up the paper and continued reading, she had an image in her head of the dark-haired, mischievous boy, whose childhood had been stolen so abruptly.
Behind the first clipping was another, briefly detailing how Sebastian’s uncle made a claim regarding Sebastian’s supposed illegitimacy. Eleanor knew nothing about it, not even rumors, but from what she could gather, nothing could be proven. Sebastian’s father, the former Duke, had claimed Sebastian as his son; that was enough. The claim of succession had evidently not been altered. Yet the fact that Sebastian’s uncle would betray his own nephew in such a way, at such a time… Eleanor could hardly believe it. She had been betrayed many times by her stepmother and her family, but could it be classed as betrayal if she never cared about them or their good opinion to begin with? This here— this felt like betrayal. She pressed a hand to her mouth as she stared at the cold typed words, then carefully set them aside to see what lay underneath.
Letters. A pile of them, kept so carefully it made her heart sting. She gently unfolded the first. This missive was short and to the point, an official resignation by what sounded like a butler. The date listed it as being delivered only a few days after the death of Sebastian’s parents. Such a cruel, heartless thing to do to a boy who needed nothing more than familiarity and support. If she had been there, she would have—
Well, she would have been too young to be of use to him. But she would certainly have done her best.
The note itself held no emotion, but the fact Sebastian had held onto it even after all this time told a different story. Even if the butler in question had felt nothing, Sebastian must have felt the blow acutely. And he kept the letter to…
She didn’t know why. A reminder, perhaps. Or a token of affection.
No, surely not.
But a reminder of what? Eleanor thought about the servants, replaced so frequently. Could that all be because of this one resignation?
Her breath came too quickly as she flipped through the remainders of the letters. Several from the Earl of Greycliff, who signed himself as Luke from the first until the last. The first letter detailed Greycliff’s intentions of leaving for the Indies for personal reasons that he never expressed. After that, he wrote further letters that Eleanor inferred Sebastian had never replied to. Eventually, after a period of years, the letters stopped, aside from one final one informing Sebastian that Luke intended to return to England.
No doubt Sebastian had not responded to that, either.
They had been young when Luke left, Eleanor saw, perhaps in their early twenties. Perhaps, even directly after they had graduated from Oxford together. She felt that blow deep in the pit of her stomach too. Understanding, on a fundamental level, what losing friendship in that manner might have done to a man who already felt so alone in the world.
No wonder he had chosen to spurn Luke now. No wonder.
Yet Luke had continued to write. And now, back in London, he continued to seek Sebastian out. Perhaps due to his own need for absolution, but Eleanor suspected it was more than that. Guilt, yes, but also genuine friendship. Friendship that Sebastian, so lost in his own lack of self-worth, could not see.
Eleanor hurt along with him. She knew how it felt to lose almost everything, the pain it brought with it, and the way that nothing could ease that hurt. But if he wanted to save himself from pain in the future, he would not achieve that by blocking out the only people who could bring him joy. His friends. Her .
The final pile of letters underneath were more notes. Slips of perfumed paper signed with an L . The perfume had almost entirely worn off now, but Eleanor could imagine that they had been once liberally scented. From the affectionate tone of the notes, agreeing to meet and expressing a wish that Sebastian would be at the same events, they had been lovers.
No, not lovers. Courting . Sebastian had been courting her. No doubt with the intent to marry. Eleanor swallowed the utterly irrational lump of jealousy in her throat. Sebastian hadn’t so much as known her then, and he had asked her to marry him, even if his reasons still weren’t clear to her. He had shown no signs of being in love with another lady,
Except that Eleanor did not doubt he had been—or at least if not in love, then certainly affectionate toward. In a way he was decidedly not with her.
Yet, for all that, nothing had come of it. After all, he had not married this mysterious woman.
Eleanor flicked through the notes, frowning when they stopped abruptly with no resolution to be seen. The last few felt somewhat colder in tone, but they still professed affection and agreed to their usual arrangements and meetings.
Eleanor sat back in her chair and tried to think. Although she had never engaged in her half-sisters’ gossip about Sebastian, she vaguely recalled someone mentioning something about a former beau of his.
Lady Lydia.
Eleanor’s stomach lurched. She knew Lady Lydia, as most young ladies did; she was nothing more or less than one of the most beautiful ladies to have ever graced the ton . At three-and-twenty, she remained unmarried, but several people reported she had received no fewer than five offers of marriage.
Was Sebastian one of those number?
She disliked the thought and the surge of hurt that came with it. So what if Lady Lydia was reputedly one of the ton’s most beautiful ladies, and she was not? Sebastian had married her .
Because she had not said no... Had Lady Lydia refused him? Or had she merely not come up to scratch?
Perhaps I should not presume, but I hope it’s the latter.
Regardless, he had kept the letters.
She tallied the loss Sebastian must have faced over the years. First the death of his parents, which he himself had discovered. Then his uncle, his butler—or perhaps valet?—and Luke. And then finally, Lady Lydia.
There was a chance, of course, that Sebastian had been the one to end things. After all, he had done his utmost to end things with Eleanor, as much as one could end things when they were already married. But somehow, given the affectionate tone of the notes, and the slight coolness toward the end, Eleanor doubted it.
How he must have suffered over the years. No wonder he feared letting anyone in now. Her nose stung at the thought, and she smoothed her fingers over the newspaper clippings. Still. She could do at least one thing for him: prove beyond all doubt that she wasn’t going anywhere. She would not be another person who abandoned him. Even if it took years for him to trust her, she would give them to him. After all, they had the rest of their lives together.
But she wouldn’t let him know that she had rifled through his personal things. Already, she felt as though it was too much of an imposition.
Presently, there was at least one thing she could do. She brought out Lady Lydia’s directions and a fresh sheet of paper, then began to write.
Sebastian came back from London in a bad mood, made worse by his wife greeting him in the entryway and informing him that she required him to accompany her on an outing she had arranged.
“After all, you are my husband,” she said, entirely unnecessarily. “And perhaps husbands do not accompany their wives everywhere, but they do at least accompany them sometimes. And we should go for a walk this afternoon while the weather holds. You declared yesterday you intended to meet with your tenants.” She looked up at him with smiling lips and clear eyes, and Sebastian felt his frown slipping. What he ought to do, he knew, was tell her that she was going nowhere with him, and that he would not accompany her anywhere.
But he had lost his appetite for pushing her away. The entire endeavor seemed futile, and he had given in so often in order to please her. Despite his every attempt, his days were ruled by thoughts of her happiness.
Is there a way of convincing her to give up on this marriage?
He could not think of one.
If he thought about it from a particular direction, he could perhaps convince himself that the only reason he had given into her seduction—for that had been precisely what it was—was so he could show her what she would miss out on in their marriage.
A different brand of cruelty, if that truly was what he aimed for.
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t. And he knew, deep inside, that the reason he heaved a sigh and murmured, “I suppose you give me no choice,” was because he could not quite bear seeing disappointment cloud the sunniness of her expression.
“Excellent!” she chimed. “Would you like something to eat? Drink? I prepared some food for your arrival.” She took his arm, and somewhat blindsided, he allowed her to lead her to the dining room, where a light luncheon had already been laid out. He was in his riding clothes, unfit for company, but Eleanor kept up a steady stream of light conversation, not seeming to require a reply. She had, he noticed, gone ahead with changing the curtains, and although he had resolved to oppose her decision, he rather liked the new brilliance they added to the room.
He was, he realized in a rush, doomed.
Once he had finished eating, she accompanied him upstairs and waited for him to change before taking his arm once again and walking him downstairs. He had the overwhelming impression that he was merely a bystander in the events of his own life.
“Is there something you would like to speak with me about?” he asked finally as they emerged into the formal gardens together.
“I merely thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together.”
“I thought I had made my views on the subject perfectly plain.”
“Oh, yes.” She gave him a sunny smile. “But then I decided it was foolish for a husband and a wife to know so little about one another. You may ask me any question you like.”
“And if I wish to know nothing about you?” he asked.
“Well, then I suppose I will have to tell you something I think of.”
“ Wait , I have a question.” He pointed to the slight bulge in her skirts where he knew that infernal mouse lay. “Why do you have a mouse? What in the world possessed you to choose such an animal for a pet and companion?”
She gave a rueful laugh, stroking the rodent with altogether too much affection. “My stepmother would never have allowed me a pet, and she despised mice and all other creatures. I’d have gotten myself a rat, but I could not quite bear the sight of their tails, and I could not have hidden it so effectively about my person. When you encountered me first in my stepmother’s house, I had lost him and needed to find him before I risked something terrible happening to him.”
“But where did you acquire him?”
“I found a tiny nest of babies. I suppose the cat had discovered it? I took him and raised him as my own—fortunately, he was old enough that he could eat solid foods.”
“And no one else knows about him?” Sebastian clarified, feeling as though he was living a dream.
“Correct. I thought that was best, considering the situation.”
Considering the situation indeed. If he had encountered the thing without her influence, he certainly would have gone out of his way to dispose of it. He scowled down at her. “I dislike it.”
“That’s because you don’t know him.” To his horror, she put her hand into her pocket and withdrew the creature. “Here. He’s perfectly docile, as you can see.”
To give her credit, the rodent sat calmly in the middle of her palm, cleaning its whiskers and looking up at him with the utter absence of fear. If anything, he suspected he was more afraid of it , which was a ludicrous thought for a grown man. He had faced death in a curricle during a race to Brighton—which he had won, and bet heavily on the outcome of his doing so. By comparison, allowing a tiny beast to walk across his hand hardly seemed like much of a trial.
“Does it have a name?” he asked finally, reluctant to hold out his hand to encourage it to move.
“Of course. He is named Scrunch . Here, try holding him.” She grabbed his wrist and brought his hand down level with hers. To his horror, though he ought to have known it would happen, the mouse stepped across onto his skin, tiny claws digging in. The weight was miniscule, and he had to fight the urge to fling the creature away.
“There.” Eleanor beamed up at him, and the urge to dispose of the mouse lessened considerably. “Many people seem to be afraid of them, but I hardly know why. Even if he decided to bite you—and he would never, of course—he could hardly do any damage. And he is a wonderful companion.”
It occurred to him, not for the first time, how lonely her life must have been for her to rely on the company of such a small, relatively stupid animal. Perhaps it felt some affection toward her as the hand that fed it, but he doubted it experienced any real loyalty.
But Eleanor looked as though she considered it a friend. How few friends must she have had to feel that way?
And how much of a bastard was he to contemplate sending her back to that loveless, friendless existence just so he could go back to his life of peace and solitude?
Sometimes he thought there could be no man less deserving of a woman like her, who had so much to give—and who evidently wanted to give so much. Perhaps it would be better if he allowed her the chance to marry another. She was a Duchess, after all.
Yet, somehow, he doubted that she would have that liberty. Just now, as he watched the way she stroked her tiny pet, he realized that she would have nowhere to go except back to her stepmother’s, and although she had gained a backbone with him, her stepmother put the true fear of God into her. The way he never had.
“I think he likes you,” she said, still holding his wrist, the touch of her fingers a flagellant against his skin. He could feel every press of her fingertips as though they were imprinted upon his very soul. Even if she let him go now, he would be carrying the mental bruises of her touch for the remainder of his life. He could be cruel to her, he could hurt her so very easily—she was so much smaller than him—but he could never wound her the way she had done to him. And she had no clue. None whatsoever.
“You can have him back now,” he said, tipping the mouse back into her cupped hands. “I’ve recalled some urgent business I have in the house.”
“Sebastian?”
He had turned away, but now he spun back. She looked at him with such hope in her eyes, he felt like a villain for walking away. “What is it?”
“You know that I will…” She fiddled with the skirts of her dress, putting Scrunch back in her pocket. “You know that I will always be here for you, don’t you?”
He stared at her. “Many people make promises they can’t keep, Eleanor. Don’t be one of them.”
“I’m not. I—” She frowned, looking as though she was searching for words. “I want you to know because I care about you.”
Others had said similar things over the years. His uncle, before telling the world that Sebastian was a bastard, had insisted that he cared. His parents cared—that, he believed—and much good it had done them.
Eleanor did not care. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t let this be who they were.
She came closer, putting her hand on his arm, slim fingers cool against his overheated skin. “I know you don’t want to risk anyone abandoning you again. It is why you change the servants and why you won’t let Luke back in. You were friends before, weren’t you?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. But you are too familiar with each other to be anything but former friends. Let him in, Sebastian. Let us all in. Tell me what you fear, and I will soothe it for you.”
“ Impossible .” But even as he said it, he found himself aching to believe her. For a moment, he forgot why he married her in the first place, and when he remembered, it was an unwelcome thought. A pointless one, too, because what good was that promise he had made to himself? She would not let him go.
And the scariest thing was he wasn’t sure he wanted her to leave.
He just didn’t know if he could trust her to stay.
“You are too good to me,” he murmured, cupping her chin in his hand before stepping back. “But my fears are beyond even your touch.”
“Tell me them. Entrust them to me, Sebastian. You don’t think I can help, but if you trust me, if you let me in…”
If he let her in, he risked opening himself up to the kind of pain he didn’t think he could survive twice.
What if he cared for her? And then, what if she left?
But even as he thought that, he became aware of an increasing urge to give in. He had the money so long as he married—what if he came to care for his wife? What if they were married in the traditional sense, in the sense that they loved one another?
Could she love him? He wasn’t certain he was lovable.
“If I let you in, I will never be able to let you out again,” he said gently. “You might think that you can fix all the breaks and holes in me, but they are too much for anyone, even you.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Because he had loved before, and his insecurities had broken them apart.
She raised her gaze to meet his, the vulnerability in her expression halting him where he stood. Awareness of it lanced through him, the sudden desire to bring her into his arms and soothe her old hurts away. “When I lost my father, I thought I was alone in the world. And I thought, perhaps, that I would always be alone. But then you came along, and you married me. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the reason why, because at the time, it certainly wasn’t out of affection.” She chewed her lip. “But now I know you a little better, and I think that you have also known how it feels to be alone, to feel as though you have no one there but you. Only, now we have each other.” She stepped forward, looking up into his face, and the desire to gather her closer almost overwhelmed him. He had the unfamiliar sensation of wanting to punish her family for leaving her feeling so hurt, so worthless.
The way she felt resonated in him. How many times had he felt as though there was something fundamentally wrong with him?
He could soothe her pain. When she came this close, it grew harder to push her away again. And when she had her hands on his arm, her eyes on his, he found the old fear banked. Only when she left his sight, would it rise again, threatening to swallow him.
“Being here with you has made me feel as though I am—as though my life could mean something,” she blurted. “I’ve seen parts of the man you are underneath, and I know that you feel the same way. We can heal each other, but only if you let me in. Open your heart to me. Let me be here for you. I am not going to leave the way other people in your life have.” She paused, as though she had struck a sword straight through the heart of his fears. He stared at her, wanting to believe her more than he had wanted anything in his life. “I’ll be waiting for you to realize it. One day, I hope you’ll understand how special this thing between us can be, if only you will let it.”