Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“I am glad, too, to know that Father was not as absolute a tyrant as all that.”
Nicholas inclined his head. “Indeed. That is good news.”
After discussing what should be done, they made their way to his mother’s private parlour so Sebastian could confront her with the truth.
He swallowed hard. Years of her retreating into wounded virtue whenever challenged made the very act of speaking honestly feel like stepping into a storm. He did not wish to wound her—he loved her, despite everything—but matters could no longer remain unspoken.
He took a steadying breath and entered.
She sat at a small table, reading The Lady’s Gazette. She looked up, smiling faintly—until she saw his expression.
“Why did you lie about the will, Mama?” he demanded.
Her brows shot up, indignation replacing confusion. “I never lied about anything! Whatever do you mean?”
If she had shown sorrow—true remorse—he would have forgiven her in an instant. Her reflexive offence instead only steeled him.
“Oh, I think you know precisely what I mean. The clause. Wilton spoke. We know the truth, Nicholas and I. Please do not tell me it is a lie.”
She stared at him, horror widening her eyes. “Wilton told you?”
“Yes,” he lied. “Did you pay him to keep it secret?” His voice was ice cold.
“Well…I—” She stammered. “I did it to help you! You must see that. I wanted only to secure an heir for the family, and you made no effort at all!”
Sebastian regarded her without expression. Once, seeing her flounder might have given him grim satisfaction. Now he only felt a distant ache. She no longer held the power she once wielded—neither over him nor over his life.
“You could have ruined my life,” he said harshly.
“But I did not. I made it better,” she insisted. “And now you will have an heir, and the estate will be secure for another generation. Succession is everything, Sebastian. Your father and I wed for that purpose alone. Duty must always come first. There is no other sensible aim in life.”
“No,” Sebastian said mildly. “You’re wrong.” He met her gaze squarely. “But so was I.”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Whatever do you mean?” Her voice had lost some of its sharpness, shaded now with wary confusion.
“Duty is not the sole purpose of life, Mama. There is something higher—truer. Following what is written in our hearts. Perhaps you never found it.” His voice gentled despite himself. “But I have. And once found, the smallness of living only for duty becomes impossible to ignore.”
He turned slightly away, hoping—despite everything—that she might understand. A thin, incredulous breath escaped her.
“Son! What madness is this? I declare—that woman has turned your mind to folly.”
Sebastian stilled. If she had struck him, he could not have been more shocked. He faced her fully, and whatever she saw in his expression robbed her of her next words.
“Mother,” he said, very steady, “that woman, as you call her, is the most precious part of my life. I will not have you speak of her with contempt.”
“Contempt?” she cried. “I elevate her beyond her due merely by speaking of her. She is nothing—the disgraced daughter of some insignificant viscount who ought never to have been admitted to this house.”
“Enough!” Sebastian’s voice cracked like a whip.
She stopped and stared blankly at him in utter astonishment. Sebastian turned to face her.
“I will not hear such slander. If you do not wish to share the roof with Evelyn, then I suggest that you move to the house on Ellwood Place.” It was a small house, a short ride from the estate, purchased by his grandfather with the intention of Grandmama occupying it after he passed away.
Grandmama had been very fond of the house, which was small, but comfortable and well-appointed.
“Sebastian…” she began, a tremor of disbelief running through the single word.
He shook his head. “Mama, please. I do not wish for an argument. But I cannot continue as we have—enduring deceit, and watching you wound Evelyn again and again. It must end. I would have you go to Ellwood Place. It is best for us both. Perhaps, in time, we will find our way back to better understanding.”
She stared at him, her expression a muddle of affront, confusion, and something that—had it appeared earlier—might have resembled hurt.
He looked away. Hurting her had always pained him, but that instinct had been used to govern him for far too long.
He could not allow guilt to unman him now.
Not when the peace of his home—and the dignity of his wife—hung upon it.
“As you wish,” his mother said at last, her tone prim and thin.
“It will be best,” Sebastian murmured.
“Very well.”
His mother said nothing more, only turned and strode from the room. Sebastian remained where he was for a few moments, unsure of what to say or do. The silence was cold and empty, and he turned away, heading up the hallway again.
“I did it,” he said wearily to Nicholas as he entered the drawing room. “I confronted her about it.”
“Truly?” Nicholas gazed at him, surprised. “Whatever happened?”
“Mama was… not exactly sorry,” Sebastian replied, gaze lowering. He swallowed. Her utter lack of remorse troubled him far more deeply than her anger ever had.
“I cannot claim surprise,” Nicholas said gently. “But I am sorry.”
Sebastian nodded once. “I need to rest. It was not an easy confrontation.”
“I imagine not,” Nicholas answered with quiet compassion. “If you wish, I can inform William and Gemma of the situation.”
“Please,” Sebastian murmured. “And thank you, Nicholas. Truly. You did me a great service in bringing me the truth.”
Nicholas inclined his head, something tender and relieved flickering through his eyes. “Thank you, brother. I am glad you see it so.”
Sebastian had no more words. When the silence settled comfortably between them, he excused himself and turned toward the staircase.
He wished to find Evelyn—to tell her everything, to draw her into his arms, to let the comfort of her presence ease the rawness of the morning.
That was all he needed.