Chapter Twenty-Three
Sebastian woke to the steady rise and fall of soft breathing.
He rolled carefully onto his side and opened his eyes—and wonder washed through him.
Evelyn slept beside him, her face relaxed, peaceful, touched by the early sunlight that filtered through the net curtains.
Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks; her lips were faintly parted.
She looked unreal—like something painted, serene and impossibly lovely.
He sat up slowly, not wishing to wake her, and gently pulled the coverlet over her shoulder where it had slipped.
His gaze lingered on her satin-smooth skin, and a fierce longing rose in him to slip beneath the blankets and claim her again.
Instead, he tore his eyes away, not wanting to be too aroused, and stood up.
His ankle ached, and he recalled the previous day vividly.
She stirred as he walked to the chair where he had discarded his clothing, and when he turned around, Evelyn was gazing into his eyes.
He smiled and blushed, feeling acutely aware of his own nakedness.
“Good day,” he murmured, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.
“Good day,” Evelyn answered softly, shyly.
“I am sorry if I woke you.”
“Do not be.” A small smile curved her lips. “I would not have wished to sleep a moment longer.”
Her gaze dipped down his body; Sebastian felt his breath tighten. She wanted him—openly, unmistakably. Delight surged through him.
“We ought to return to the manor,” he managed. “Though I would far rather remain here with you.” He could not keep the longing from his words.
“As would I,” she whispered, her eyes lowering. His heart turned over. He could not stop his grin—nor did he wish to. She looked up, saw it, and laughed quietly.
He crossed to the looking glass, clothes in hand—and blinked. One side of his face was a riot of bruises. His eye, though miraculously not swollen shut, was ringed in deep purple. His knuckles were badly swollen, his ankle tender.
“I look dreadful,” he muttered.
Evelyn slipped from the bed. Naked, warm-skinned, luminous in the soft morning light, she came to him and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“You do not,” she whispered. “You look brave, my dear. You fought for me. When I see those bruises, I see only your courage.”
He inhaled sharply. My dear. It was the first time she had called him that. A knot rose in his throat.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I—I…should dress.”
She went to gather her clothes. He could not help watching as she stepped into her shift; she caught his gaze, blushed, and smiled—a radiant, bashful thing that lit her whole face.
“You lovely, lovely woman,” he murmured. She glowed scarlet and looked down, smiling helplessly.
“Yes…we should dress,” she said.
Still grinning, he shrugged into his shirt and trousers. When he tied his cravat—nothing elaborate, merely tidy—and pulled on his riding jacket, he turned back to her.
She wore the same muslin gown as the previous day, her hair loose around her shoulders. One look at her and desire slammed into him again; he nearly forgot his intention to behave.
“Let us go downstairs,” he said, voice only barely steady. “We should eat before we depart.”
“Yes. I am rather hungry,” she admitted.
“So am I,” he laughed.
They shared a warm breakfast in the parlour, then went out to the coach that had been prepared while they ate.
The morning was clear, bright, and full of the promise of home.
Sebastian handed her into the carriage—it felt strangely, wonderfully right to do so—and they settled close together, as they had the night before.
He held her, savouring the nearness. Soon, they would be back at the manor, back in the rhythms of daily life. But everything would be different now. They were different now.
He longed to keep her in London for a day—walk with her in the parks, take tea, wander where she wished, see the city through her delighted eyes. But they had responsibilities. He had to speak with Nicholas. With James. He worried for Gemma and William. He wanted everyone reassured, safe.
Fields gave way to hedgerows, woodlands to farmland. Evelyn dozed against him until the coach neared the gravel drive. Sebastian’s arm tightened around her, feeling her stir, sensing the tension that crept into her.
He cursed his mother inwardly for the humiliation and discomfort she had caused.
“Come,” he murmured. “We will go in together. I only need a word with Nicholas, and then we shall go out into the grounds. The whole day, if you wish. It promises to be a lovely morning.”
“Yes,” Evelyn whispered, gazing at the sunlit fields. “It does.”
The coach slowed before the steps of the manor. Sebastian helped her alight, his resolve settling firmly. Whatever awaited them inside, he would shield her from it.
“Your Grace!” the butler said warmly. “Welcome home. Lord Nicholas is upstairs awaiting you.”
Sebastian shook his head and thanked the man.
“Shall I bring tea for you and for her Grace?” the butler asked.
“Yes—thank you.” Sebastian noticed the butler’s eyes flick to his bruised face. He looked away, uncomfortable.
“Sebastian?” Evelyn murmured. He turned to her at once.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind terribly if I rested awhile? I…I think I should not be underfoot while you meet with your family.”
“Of course,” he said softly. “Rest. I will go to Nicholas alone.”
She thanked him. He walked her to the bedchamber, fighting the vivid images that rose as he imagined her resting there, soft and unguarded. He kissed her hand, closed the door gently, and forced himself toward the drawing room.
Nicholas rose the instant he entered.
“Brother!” he exclaimed.
“Nicholas. Good morning.”
“Good grief—look at you! You need a physician,” Nicholas began, staring at his face in shock, but Sebastian shook his head impatiently.
Sebastian waved the concern aside. “Later. There is time for that. I wished first to thank you for your promptness yesterday. We would not have succeeded without you.”
A flush of pleasure crossed Nicholas’s face, quickly smothered under composure. “I am glad,” he said quietly. “Glad it ended as well as it did.”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat, his expression tightening with the memory of what he had meant to say the previous day.
“There was…something I wished to tell you at the club yesterday,” Nicholas said. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides. “And now that you are safely home, I believe you should hear it.”
Sebastian studied him, hearing the strain beneath his words. “What is it, brother?”
Nicholas’s dark eyes widened, and he looked around as though searching for courage in the carpet, the mantel, anywhere but his brother’s face.
“I don’t—well—I hardly know how to begin…” He faltered, breath catching, words scattering like startled birds.
Sebastian softened his tone, trying to make it easier for him. “Is aught amiss?
“It’s about Father’s will. The clause. Mama,” Nicholas said at last, each word more tense than the last.
“Mama can hardly object to that now. I fulfilled the clause admirably,” Sebastian began, but Nicholas shook his head at once.
“It is not that. Not an objection.” He swallowed. “Sebastian—Papa never wrote that clause. Mama added it later. She had Mr Wilton put it in. I overheard the man admit as much. It was never in Father’s hand. None of it.”
“What?” Sebastian stared at him, appalled. Rage—hot, unbounded—surged through him, colliding with disbelief. The depth of such deceit was staggering. And why? He dragged in a breath, fighting for calm. “Why would Mama do such a thing?”
Nicholas hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. “Mama wished for you to wed. That much we knew. What we did not realise was that she would go so far as to bribe a solicitor. That…I confess, I never imagined.”
“No,” Sebastian breathed. “No—nor I.”
He stood still, his thoughts a maelstrom: horror at his mother’s dishonesty; bewilderment; a sharp sting of betrayal. But rising through it, slow and undeniable, came a quieter truth.
If not for that clause, I would never have married at all.
He had been determined—stubbornly, irrationally determined—to avoid marriage entirely. It had taken nothing less than a forged obligation to force his hand. And yet, that very deception had led him to Evelyn.
From that moment on the London road, something in him had shifted toward her—drawn, despite himself, by her courage, her gentleness, the astonishing steadiness of her spirit.
He would never have sought a bride, never have allowed himself to imagine a future with anyone.
But fate—through his mother’s meddling—had maintained Evelyn in his path.
And he had chosen her. Even believing the clause to be real, he had been free to choose any suitable lady. His mother had made her preference for Belinda very clear. But he had not chosen Belinda.
He had chosen Evelyn.
Not from duty. Not from necessity.
Because he wanted her.
The realisation struck with quiet, devastating certainty: the lie had changed his life, but the choice had been wholly his.
He drew a slow breath, some of the storm inside him settling.
“Thank you, brother,” he murmured at last, seeing how deeply Nicholas felt the burden of delivering such news. Nicholas always felt things strongly, even when he hid behind reserve and study.
“I hardly feel worthy of thanks,” Nicholas said sorrowfully. “I feel rather awful that I told you.”
Sebastian gave a soft, reassuring laugh. “I understand. But you have helped me more than you know. Perhaps more than I yet understand.”
“Well…” Nicholas managed a faint, uncertain smile. “If you put it that way…”
Sebastian chuckled, unexpectedly lighter. “In a strange sense, I am relieved that it was not Father’s doing. Knowing that…it alters a great deal.”
He saw understanding dawn slowly in Nicholas’s eyes.
They had just settled into chairs with the tea the butler brought when Sebastian’s thoughts returned to the matter at hand.