Chapter Fifteen
Sebastian stretched and opened his eyes, drawn at once to the soft, warm body lying beside him. He had not slept at all. She, by contrast, had drifted into slumber an hour earlier—curled on her side, breathing softly, her entire posture relaxed in a way that made something inside him ache.
He pushed himself upright with great care, desperate not to wake her. She sighed; he froze—then breathed again when her breath settled back into its steady rhythm.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
Guilt twisted sharply through him. Her face, softened by sleep, looked impossibly gentle—innocent, even.
Vulnerable. He had done the very thing he had sworn he would not do, had allowed himself to cross a boundary he had insisted—insisted—must hold.
Their agreement had been one of mutual convenience, of necessity.
They had never once spoken of anything beyond that.
What have I done—and what will happen now?
That was what tormented him and kept him from sleep despite the joy and wonder that surged through him with every recollection of the night and every chance touch of his skin on hers where she lay beside him.
He gazed at her, tenderness flooding him with such force that he had to clench his fists. His heart ached. He longed—ached—to bend down and kiss her cheek. But the fierceness of his feelings terrified him.
He had broken his own rule. He had let himself care. He had let someone close.
“And now?” he breathed.
Was he destined to repeat the misery he had witnessed all his life? The cold silences, the bitter words, the erosion of affection until nothing but resentment remained? He had vowed—vowed—never to subject himself to that. And vowed, too, never to trap another person within such unhappiness.
And yet here he was, dangerously close to doing precisely that.
A low sound escaped him—half groan, half curse. Her breath shifted, and he froze again. When she remained asleep, he slipped from the bed, gathering his clothes from the chair. He carried them to the door, dressing silently, shame and confusion thick in his throat.
He left the chamber, closing the door with infinite care.
He walked quickly to his chambers and, once inside, donned his nightshirt. He did not even attempt to sleep. Instead, he lit the oil lamp on the mantel and opened a book.
It was futile. Every few lines, his thoughts returned to Evelyn: to her soft skin, to the warmth of her leaning against him, to the way she had curled unconsciously toward him as she slept. Each recollection was a torment. His heart ached—almost physically.
With a groan, he closed the book and checked the clock. Four o’clock. A faint grey shimmer of dawn crept behind the curtains.
He pulled on a fresh shirt, riding breeches, and a jacket, and stepped into the hallway. The cool air struck him like a balm. The suffocating heat of the night had made rest impossible; the chill steadied him.
Outside, dew glistened faintly on the lawns.
He breathed deeply, stepping across the wet grass toward the stables.
It was too early to ride—hazardous for the horses and unsafe besides—but the familiar scent of hay and horse filled him with something like comfort.
Almost all his happiest memories lived in places like this, with Nicholas, or alone, tending to his horses.
I wonder if Evelyn might take up riding more regularly now that she is here and has a stable of horses to choose from? h wondered. That small thought made his chest tighten painfully. Everywhere he turned, she was there in his mind.
Restless, he left the stables and walked the long path around the manor grounds to the lake. By the time he returned, the sun was rising; birds filled the air with song. Five o’clock felt reasonable—finally—to rouse the horses.
He saddled Stormcloud and rode out.
After two hours across the countryside, hunger forced him to turn toward the inn rather than home—the thought of facing anyone at the manor made his stomach knot.
At the inn, he requested breakfast, retreating to the upstairs parlour reserved for gentry.
Sunlight spilled across the green hills outside the window, and for the first time since waking, he felt the faintest sense of ease.
Once he had broken his fast—fresh-baked bread, boiled eggs, and cheese—his thoughts felt clearer. Stormcloud was settled in the stable with mash and hay. Sebastian paid the account, barely hearing the innkeeper’s effusive gratitude, and went to fetch his horse.
A bright-eyed groom thanked him again for the coin as he mounted, but Sebastian only nodded, already turning onto the road. He had made his decision.
He would ride to London.
He would dine at his club, spend the midday hours in blessed anonymity, and return before evening.
At the club, the quiet wrapped around him like a blanket.
“Tea, if you please,” he demanded of the proprietor as he strode to his usual seat by the window.
The main room of the club was dim, its windows set along the western wall so that no passer-by might glimpse inside.
Filtered sunlight fell across leather chairs and polished mahogany tables; the panelled walls lent the space a hushed, dignified air.
A great fireplace occupied nearly an entire section of wall, though it remained unlit in the warmth of the day.
The room was silent save for Major Simmons, the elderly gentleman who sat in his usual corner, reading the newspaper and sipping a quiet drink.
It felt like a chamber apart from the world—untouched by haste or change, as though time itself paused at its threshold and left everything within exactly as it had always been.
The proprietor brought Sebastian his tea and a copy of the newspaper, and retreated, granting him his peace and quiet.
Sebastian shut his eyes and leaned back, memories of the previous night slipping traitorously into his mind as he did so.
He could not escape them. Pale skin, soft curves and a river of brown hair on the pillow, tousled and sweet-scented, slipped into his head and haunted him.
He could not ignore the memories, and he hated himself for his weakness.
He had allowed himself to fall into desire and longing, and this was the result.
I’m weak, he told himself angrily. A weak fool.
It was his father’s voice he heard, his father’s words.
The man had said it to him a hundred times: that feeling—caring—was weakness.
Sebastian had once believed himself immune to that lesson.
Discovering Shakespeare had cured him of the notion that emotion was some shameful failing; even the greatest characters were ruled by it.
And yet, whenever he despised himself, it was still his father’s voice he heard, his father’s judgement that echoed in his mind.
He flipped the paper over and skimmed the back page—reports of London cricket clubs, small mishaps, new building works.
The world felt strangely unreal. His feelings were too new, too raw, and they made everything he had known before—his tidy, ordered life—seem distant, like a story he might once have lived.
He lingered over the article on cricket, fond memories of Cambridge drifting into his thoughts, and gradually his mind settled enough that he could finish the paper and drink his tea without quite so many traitorous images intruding.
He glanced up, about to consider ordering luncheon, when a familiar voice sounded behind him.
“There you are! I thought I might find you here.”
“William?” Sebastian looked at his brother-in-law in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I had business in town,” William began, “and I said I would look in here on the chance you were about.”
Sebastian frowned, his blue gaze narrowing. “You were looking for me? Why?”
A sudden surge of dread swept through him—Gemma hurt, his mother in one of her rages, Evelyn… His thoughts halted there, horror gripping him.
“We were concerned,” William said simply. “It is unlike you to vanish without leaving word.”
Sebastian exhaled. “I am sorry.” He truly had not considered that anyone might worry.
“No apology needed for my sake,” William replied, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation.
“Well, I worried you. And Gemma,” Sebastian added.
William lifted a shoulder. “I’ll pass your regrets along. But it isn’t we who should occupy your thoughts.” His voice remained mild. “Evelyn seemed… upset.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “That was not my intention. It was merely… unavoidable. I left early.”
“I assumed as much. Though one might infer your business was extremely urgent, to require such haste.”
“I ate on the way,” Sebastian muttered.
“I imagine you did. None of us ate much last night.” William grimaced.
Sebastian had almost forgotten the strained dinner. He sighed.
Silence settled between them until he looked up and found William watching him, not sternly, but with an expression approaching sadness.
“Is something troubling you?” Sebastian asked, surprised into gentleness.
“No,” William said slowly. “I was only recalling her Grace’s expression this morning. Not Evelyn—your mother.” His mouth tightened. “She was best pleased with your absence.”
Sebastian scowled. “What are you suggesting?”
“Only that the Duchess’s unhappiness suited her.” William’s tone remained even.
Sebastian’s hands clenched. His anger was not solely for his mother—it was for himself. He had left Evelyn unprotected, and his mother would have revelled in it.
“You needn’t lecture me,” he said sharply. “I can envision the scene well enough.”
“You asked what troubled me,” William replied, unruffled.
Sebastian sighed. “William...it’s not simple, you know,” he began to explain. William’s smile lifted at the corner.
“I know. Truly, I do.” He smiled. “Love rarely is simple.”
Sebastian shook his head. “You misunderstand. When you met Gemma, you both knew at once how you felt. I—”
He hesitated.
“I had never even met Evelyn before she saved my life.”
William smiled. “A memorable introduction.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Sebastian’s mouth. “I suppose.” He looked into his teacup. “But I do not know whether she wants anything from me beyond a convenient arrangement.”
That was the heart of it, the worry that gnawed at him.
William’s brows rose in silent prompt.
“What?” Sebastian demanded.
“Ask her,” William replied mildly, though the glint in his eye betrayed a certain satisfaction at striking the mark.
Sebastian’s temper pricked. “I could do with less patronising.”
William inclined his head. “Quite right. My apologies.”
Sebastian exhaled through his nose. “Let us leave it.”
“As you wish,” William said, and though the words were mild, something in them pressed too close to Sebastian’s raw nerves.
He looked away, fingers tightening around the arm of his chair. He needed space—silence—anything that was not William’s quiet insight or Evelyn’s soft, bewildering gaze echoing in his mind.
“I should like a moment alone,” he said at last, tone even but final. “There is…a good deal to consider.”
William studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Very well.”
Sebastian stood. “My thanks.”
William offered no further comment—no advice, no censure—which was almost a relief.
As Sebastian turned from the table, the familiar hush of the club settled around him, giving him what he needed most: a pause.
A breath. A little time to think before the world—and Evelyn—demanded anything more of him.