Chapter 9
Charlotte Hale had opinions. This much was clear to Sebastian before the footman had even shut the carriage door.
It had started at the dining table. She’d declared such a hearty approval over her dessert that the duchess had sent a maid to fetch a second helping.
Both the duchess and Charlotte had pretended not to see Estella’s wide-eyed look of horror.
Then the child had given her opinion on the duchess’s gown and the baroness’s necklace.
Fortunately the girl was ample in her praise.
He couldn’t imagine the general goodwill at the dining room table would have survived if Charlotte had insulted one of the ladies.
Overall, the guests had been charmed by the little imp. Including the duchess.
No, especially the duchess.
Sebastian crossed his arms and studied the little girl who swung her legs on the carriage seat across from him.
He’d seen her several times over the years, but it never ceased to amaze him how quickly she grew.
She’d gone from a baby to a small human in remarkable time.
But what was even more amazing was her fearlessness.
She resembled Estella in that way. Though Estella’s bravery was more subdued. It was a courage built out of necessity and concern for her family rather than an inherent desire to face down her foes. But Charlotte…
She was another sort of brave altogether.
The girl kicked her heels against the seat, and when the carriage set off, she surprised Sebastian with a pleasant grin. "This carriage is very fancy. Much nicer than ours."
He wasn’t certain how he was meant to respond, but his "Thank you" seemed to suffice.
Charlotte nodded and turned back to look out the window. "You didn’t have to escort me, you know. I could have gone alone."
Sebastian’s lips twitched at the forced confidence in her tone.
It was almost convincing.
He didn’t bother pointing out that she most certainly could not have gone home alone. Not without Estella losing her mind with worry.
So instead, he sank back into his seat, his eyes on Charlotte but his mind still, as always, on Estella. Estella, who wore her bravery with a straight spine and a lifted chin—while her sister waved her fearlessness like a battle flag.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The line from Hamlet ran through his mind as the little girl prattled on with her opinionated comments.
About the evening drizzle, which she considered a minor inconvenience rather than the genuine hazard Sebastian had apparently made it out to be.
And about the dessert course, which had been a lemon tart that Charlotte told him in a hushed tone was good, but not as good as the ones Estella made at home.
"But good enough for a second helping," he said.
"Of course."
"I see."
"Estella's are better because she puts extra sugar on top of mine," Charlotte informed him. "She thinks I don't know she used the last of the sugar for mine rather than hers, but I do."
And she clearly did not like it. Charlotte’s scowl said that clearly enough.
Sebastian filed this information away. At this point, he could write a tome about all of Estella's small sacrifices that he’d learned about over the years. The skipped meals, the mended gloves, the household budget stretched past breaking so Charlotte could have new shoes.
"That was kind of her," he finally said, because something seemed to be required.
Charlotte studied him. "Why does your hand do that?"
He glanced down. His left hand was doing its usual tremor. He'd long since stopped being self-conscious about it in private, but in company he usually kept it out of sight.
"It was injured," he said. "In a fire."
"The fire that killed Andrew?" The words were matter-of-fact.
"Yes."
Charlotte nodded slowly. She didn't offer condolences or change the subject, and he appreciated that.
"Does it hurt?"
He tilted his head from side to side. "Sometimes."
"Estella's hands hurt too. She doesn't say so, but I've seen her rub them when she's been writing at Papa's desk for too long." Charlotte tucked her legs up beneath her on the seat, unconcerned with propriety. "She does all the accounts, you know. Even the ones Papa is supposed to do."
"I know," he said, and then wished he hadn't, because there was no reason a man who'd been reintroduced to Estella a week ago should know the details of her household responsibilities.
Charlotte didn't seem to notice the slip. "Are you married?"
The question was so abrupt, and such a turn from what they’d been talking about, he blinked in surprise. "I am not."
"Why not?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why aren't you married?" She looked directly at him. "You're old enough."
Old enough. He was eight and twenty. It was a fair, if brutally blunt, assessment.
When he didn’t respond, she added, "Don't you want to be married?"
Sebastian could feel the honest answer pressing against the inside of his ribs, and he had absolutely no intention of sharing it with an eight-year-old in a carriage.
"It isn't that simple," he said.
"It seems simple. You find someone nice, and you marry them. That's what Estella says she's going to do. She says she doesn't need to be in love, she just needs someone kind and responsible." Charlotte frowned. "I told her that sounds horrible."
His hand clenched with a spasm. Kind and responsible. That was what Estella wanted. Or was it all she dared to hope for?
All he knew was it was the very least of what she deserved.
He cut the thought off. What she deserved was irrelevant. What mattered was what she needed, and she needed someone without blood on his hands.
Charlotte was watching him. "Why don't you marry Estella?"
The carriage hit a rut. Sebastian's hand gripped the edge of the seat. "Pardon?"
"I only mean, you must marry, mustn’t you? Isn’t that how a marquess gets an heir?"
Sebastian stared at her, torn between horror and amusement. "Have you been talking to my mother?"
Charlotte's brow furrowed. "No. Why? Does your mother want you to marry Estella too?"
Too. The word implied that Charlotte wanted it, which was—absurd, given that she'd known him for approximately ninety minutes, and for most of that time he'd been sitting silent at a dinner table.
Children had the most astonishing lack of discernment.
But this child was waiting expectantly for an answer. He chose his words carefully. "My mother does indeed want me to marry someone. But it needn't concern you."
Charlotte leaned forward with a frown. "Do you already have a fiancée, then?"
Did he? No. Not yet. But his mother's last letter sat in the top drawer of his desk, and the woman she'd suggested was everything Estella was not. Well-connected, well-funded—and entirely unknown to him.
He’d never met the woman, but he could say with certainty that Lady Clarissa was a woman who would never make him wish for things he didn't deserve.
"I might," he said.
Charlotte's face fell, but she recovered quickly. "Is she nice?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I’ve heard that she is."
"You’ve never met her?" Charlotte sounded horrified.
He shook his head, resisting the urge to fidget under her wide-eyed stare. Blast. He would not feel sheepish before a child.
"Then how can you marry her?" Charlotte looked genuinely baffled. "You should marry someone you know. Someone who makes good lemon tarts and doesn't mind that your hand does that."
He looked down at it. "Charlotte—"
"Estella wouldn't mind," Charlotte continued. "She doesn't mind anything like that. She says that people are more than what they look like on the outside, and that anyone who thinks otherwise isn't worth knowing."
He stared at the trembling hand and tried very hard not to think about Estella's voice saying those words.
The carriage slowed. He glanced out the window and saw the Hale townhouse, its windows dim. One lamp burned in an upper room. Charlotte's, perhaps, left on for her return.
Had anyone even noticed she’d been missing?
"We've arrived," he said.
Charlotte looked out the window, then back at him. "You should think about it," she said. "About Estella. She deserves someone who actually likes her, not just someone kind and responsible." She wrinkled her nose. "Kind and responsible is what you want in a governess, not a husband."
Sebastian chose to ignore all this as he helped her down from the carriage.
At the door, a flustered maid appeared, clearly relieved. This, in turn, filled Sebastian with relief. At least someone had noticed she’d been gone. But he still made a note to inquire after Charlotte’s caretakers.
Charlotte turned on the step. "Thank you for bringing me home. Your carriage is very nice." A pause. "You're not as scary as Estella said."
Before he could respond to that, she disappeared inside.
He got back in the carriage and sat in the dark for the ride home and tried not to think about it. About any of it.
“She deserves someone who actually likes her.”
"She’s just a child," he muttered to himself. "She doesn’t know anything."
But apparently she felt confident that he cared for Estella. He frowned down at his left hand. What had given him away?
Did the duchess suspect? More importantly… Did Estella?
He shook off the thought. It hardly mattered. It didn’t change anything. His feelings held no weight when it came to Estella’s marriage prospects.
But then, as if to belie the thought, he heard Charlotte’s voice, blunt and matter-of-fact. “Why don't you marry Estella?”
Because I killed her brother. Because I am the reason she's standing alone at balls and skipping meals and mending gloves that should have been replaced years ago.
Because he had no right to her smiles or her laughter, let alone her hand in marriage.
But Charlotte had asked why don't you marry Estella as though it were the most obvious solution in the world, and for one treacherous moment, Sebastian let himself imagine it.
Estella at his breakfast table, her hair loose, laughing. Estella in the library, curled in the chair by the window with one of her books, looking up when he entered with that smile. The real one. The one he'd seen aimed his way precisely once, in the park, when he'd told her about the duck.
He would keep the estate in perfect order, because she cared about such things.
He'd hire whatever tenant farmers she recommended, implement whatever crop rotation she devised.
He'd spoil her with gowns and jewels and more sugary treats than she could manage. He’d sit across from her at dinner and listen to her talk about literally anything, and he would find it genuinely fascinating because it was Estella talking. And at night—
No. He slammed an invisible lid down on his runaway thoughts before he drove himself mad with longing.
But the damage was done, because when he entered his home a little later, it felt emptier than ever before. The house was painfully quiet. His valet had left a lamp burning and a glass of whiskey on the desk, and Sebastian sat in his chair and stared at the drawer of his desk.
His mother's letter had arrived three days ago.
He'd read it once and spent every subsequent evening pretending it didn't exist. Truthfully, marriage and heirs had been a topic he’d avoided even before the fire. Of course, then it had been because he’d thought himself too young to think about settling down.
But really, he hadn’t been all that young. And now it was well past time he gave it some thought. He opened the drawer.
My dearest Sebastian,
I hope this finds you well, though I suspect you are not sleeping. I also suspect you are spending entirely too much time on whatever project currently has you in its grip. You are your father's son in this regard, and I say that with love and exasperation in equal measure.
I write with a proposal. Lady Clarissa Whitfield, daughter of Lord and Lady Hawthorn, has recently returned from a year abroad. She is well-bred, sensible, and by all accounts not given to excessive temperament. Her family is excellent. The match would strengthen both estates considerably.
I have taken the liberty of discussing the possibility with her mother, who is amenable. Lady Clarissa is, I understand, equally so. She is aware of your injuries and is not, her mother assures me, of a disposition to be troubled by such things.
Sebastian, it is time to think about the future. I would never suggest that you forget the past, but, my darling boy, it is time to stop punishing yourself for a fire that was not your fault.
I know you will not listen to that last part. But a mother must try.
Write to me. Let me arrange the introduction, at least.
With all my love, Mother
He read it twice. Lady Clarissa Whitfield. Sensible. Not given to excessive temperament. Not troubled by scars.
She sounded perfectly adequate. Exactly like what he needed. He slid the letter back into the drawer. She sounded like a competent partner and an excellent mother and who would never, not once, look at him with Estella Hale's eyes or slay him with a single smile.
“Why don't you marry Estella?”
Because I can't.
“She deserves someone who actually likes her, not just someone kind and responsible.”
He let out a huff of wry amusement. Someone who liked her? Then that was not him. For he did not merely “like” Miss Estella Hale. And that…
That was the problem.