Chapter Two #2
The clock struck three. Its steady chime cut through the echo of Catherine’s scorn. A moment later, the door opened without announcement.
“Brooding again, I see?” James Henderson’s voice carried the same note of calm it always did, though his eyes, keen and watchful, took in Sebastian’s rigid stance.
Sebastian turned slightly, though not enough to expose the full breadth of his scars to the afternoon light. “I had no warning you would descend upon me today.”
“You knew I would,” James replied easily, striding across the study with the familiarity of long habit. He settled into the worn leather chair opposite the desk, stretching his legs in casual comfort. “I left word last night. But perhaps you were too deep in botanical Latin to notice.”
Sebastian sank into his own chair, though the stiffness of his posture belied any relaxation. “Eleanor sent you as reinforcement, did she not? A general calls in his captains when the enemy proves stubborn.”
James folded his hands loosely over one knee. “Eleanor requires no reinforcement. She already won the skirmish. You are to attend Lady Ditton’s ball this evening irrespective of your own wishes.”
A dark laugh escaped Sebastian. “Won, did she? The victory is hollow. I will stand there as an object of curiosity; one more beast to amuse the masses when card games and champagne grow dull.” He reached for a quill, twirling it between scarred fingers with restless agitation.
“I will be a museum exhibit for the ton’s derision. It is cruel.”
“You are not a beast,” James said quietly.
Sebastian clenched his jaw. He did not answer.
The silence hung between them, heavy and brittle. James studied him with the same steady patience he had shown since their Cambridge days—patience that Sebastian both treasured and despised.
At last, Sebastian thrust the quill aside and rose, striding toward the tall windows.
The London street below hummed with life.
Carriages rattled, hawkers sold their wares, and fine ladies stepped daintily from gilt equipages.
The world kept turning quite happily without his interference.
He didn’t see how changing that could benefit anyone.
He kept his back to James when he finally spoke.
“She gave me little choice,” he admitted, his voice stripped of color. “My grandmother will drag me there in chains if necessary.”
“Chains will not be required,” James replied, rising to join him at the window.
His hand came to rest briefly upon Sebastian’s shoulder.
“But tell me, what is the true danger? That people will stare? Nothing new there, even for those of us who aren’t worried about what people might think.
Or is it more that someone may fail to look away? ”
Sebastian sighed. His gaze fixed hard upon the blurred motion of the street. “I fail to see what purpose my attendance serves beyond parading myself for ridicule...or worse...pity.”
“Perhaps,” James said softly, “some lady exists who values genuine conversation over mere flattery.”
Sebastian gave a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps. Though my experience suggests otherwise.”
Catherine taught me well. Affection dies the moment the skin does not please the eye.
James did not withdraw his hand until Sebastian turned with a sudden, abrupt movement. His eyes flashed, storm-gray beneath heavy brows.
“The possibility of finding someone who could see past this,” he gestured sharply at the ruined side of his face,“is more dangerous than enemy fire. A man may brace for a musket ball. He cannot brace for hope.”
James met the words without flinching. “And yet hope is what you most fear.”
“Because hope is treachery,” Sebastian snapped.
His chest rose and fell in a harsh rhythm.
“It whispers that one may be accepted, only to laugh as it slams the door in your face once more. I have no wish to endure another Catherine, or indeed any other woman who will turn against me for matters beyond my control.”
“Then perhaps,” James said slowly, “the fault lies not with hope, but with placing it in those unworthy of it.”
Sebastian turned away. The weight of memory pressed too heavily upon him; Catherine’s contemptuous face rose unbidden, blotting out the gentler images of his youth. He braced both hands against the window frame, staring into the glass as though the world beyond could provide answers.
James’s voice softened. “Six years you have hidden here, Sebastian. Six years of silence and shadows. Do you not tire of your own company?”
“I tire of the world’s cruelty more.”
“The world certainly contains cruelty,” James agreed, “but it also contains music, friendship, and discovery. Conversation. Even affection. Must all of it be abandoned because one woman lacked courage? In some ways, she did you a favour. She obviously wasn’t in love with you if she could leave so easily. ”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Sebastian’s throat tightened.
“Not at all. I am simply stating that you may have sidestepped a worse fate. Would you really want to spend your life with someone who baulks at the first hurdle? Not all women are Catherines. Some have the wherewithal to see beyond the exterior to the heart of the man beneath.”
Sebastian’s voice dropped to a growl. “You speak as though I am not already abandoned.”
James sighed, long-suffering. “You mistake exile for choice.”
The words landed like a blow. Sebastian’s head bowed; the ridges of his scar catching the dying light.
Is it true? Have I built this prison myself?
“I remain,” James continued gently, “because I’m your friend. I remember who you were before. You laughed easily. You debated fiercely. You believed knowledge itself could mend the world. That man is not wholly lost. He is just hurt and hiding.”
“Burned away at the war,” Sebastian muttered.
“Not burned away,” James countered firmly. “Scarred, yes. Tempered, certainly. But not destroyed. It is up to you to regain your former self. Your experiences have marked you, indeed. But these scars do not define you, Sebastian.”
Sebastian closed his eyes. For a long moment, he stood motionless, the clash of voices, Catherine’s cruel dismissal and James’s quiet loyalty, warring in the silence.
At last, he exhaled. “Very well. I will go to Lady Ditton’s ball. But let no one imagine I go willingly. This is coercive, and I go under duress.”
James’s mouth curved in faint triumph. “I imagine Lady Ditton cares not whether you go willingly, as long as you go.”
Sebastian shot him a dark look, but James only chuckled, undaunted.
“Besides,” James added, “it would amuse me to see the expressions of half the ton when the Beastly Duke stalks through their gilt-edged ballroom.”
“I shall endeavour to provide a suitable spectacle,” Sebastian replied dryly, though his lips twisted; not quite a smile, but something perilously near it.
James clapped him lightly on the back. “That is the spirit. Now...shall we discuss strategy? You need not endure every simpering debutante who parades before you. Choose your ground. Speak to a few. Withdraw when you must. The evening need not be a torment.”
“Strategy,” Sebastian repeated, shaking his head. “We speak as though I prepare for battle.”
“Perhaps you do,” James said with a grin. “But who knows? The field may hold surprises.”
Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. “I do not require any surprises.”
“Then I shall pray for them on your behalf,” James said cheerfully.
Sebastian remained at the window, his reflection looming dark in the glass. The scars mocked him, but James’s words lingered: some lady exists… perhaps… hope is what you most fear…
The possibility unsettled him more than going into battle ever had.
James rose to leave, pausing at the door. “Sebastian,” he said quietly, “not every woman will look away.”
Sebastian’s head jerked up. “And if they do not?”
James met his gaze steadily. “Then, my friend, you may discover the one danger worth facing. I shall see you later, Sebastian. Keep an open mind.”
The latch clicked softly as the door closed behind him.
Sebastian turned back to the window. Outside, the afternoon dimmed toward evening. Carriages rattled, carrying ladies from dressmakers and gentlemen toward their clubs. The city pulsed with anticipation for the night’s revels.
If even one dares not look away—what then?
The question struck like lightning, leaving him raw, exposed, and vulnerable.
The idea was far more terrifying than Catherine’s scorn.