Chapter Four A Most Improper Proposal #3
“Those are not separate things.”
Sebastian recognized the danger.
“Fair.”
That checked her slightly. He continued.
“If we establish your direct entitlement before the trust review, Bellamere and the associated funds may be restored to you independently.”
“May?”
“Yes.”
“And if we do not?”
“Litigation.”
“How long?”
“Years, potentially.”
Clara leaned back. Augusta’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth.
“That is unacceptable,” she said.
He turned fully toward her.
“Thank you, Augusta. The law will undoubtedly change immediately.”
“Someone should improve it.”
Clara ignored them.
“What does Lionel Harcourt have to do with this?”
“He has claimed Bellamere under Adrian’s final will.”
“So he intends to fight.”
“He intends to preserve what the will gives him.”
“That is a diplomatic answer.”
“I have been abroad too long.”
“Do you trust him?”
Sebastian considered.
“No.”
Clara nodded slowly.
“Neither do I, and I have never met him.”
“He is not an obvious villain.”
“How disappointing.”
“He is ambitious.”
“So are half the men in Parliament.”
“Yes.”
“What makes him different?”
“I do not yet know.”
Clara looked down at the memorandum.
“And the other route?”
Sebastian went still. She noticed.
“There is one.”
“Several.”
“That means there is one you dislike.”
Augusta made a small sound suspiciously like amusement. Sebastian looked at her. She examined the tea tray. Clara waited. He had negotiated treaties with men less persistent.
“There is a clause concerning legal spouses.”
Her brows drew together.
“Whose?”
“A Harcourt’s.”
Silence. Clara stared at him. Sebastian continued before he could reconsider.
“If the claimant became the legal spouse of a member of the Harcourt family before the trust review, her standing in relation to the family settlement would be substantially stronger.”
Clara’s expression changed. Not yet comprehension. Then it arrived. Her eyes widened. Augusta lowered her cup very carefully. Sebastian heard his own heartbeat. Clara looked from the document to him.
“No.”
“I have not asked anything.”
“You are about to.”
He had intended to approach this more intelligently. Apparently intelligence had abandoned him.
“Perhaps.”
“Sebastian.”
The use of his name made the situation worse. He stood.
“I think we should speak privately.”
Augusta took another sip.
“I am deeply offended.”
Clara looked at her.
“Would you mind?”
“Yes. But I shall go anyway.”
Augusta placed the cup down and crossed toward the door. As she passed Sebastian, she stopped.
“Walk with me.”
“Augusta—”
“Now.”
He followed her into the corridor. The door closed behind them. Lady Winterbourne turned on him.
“You are going to propose marriage.”
For once, Sebastian had no immediate answer.
“Do you announce everybody’s private intentions aloud?”
“Only when they are obvious.”
“It is not obvious.”
“My dear boy.”
“I am thirty-five.”
“You remain a boy whenever you are foolish.”
Sebastian folded his arms.
“This is a legal solution.”
Augusta looked at him for several seconds. Then laughed. He disliked the sound.
“What?”
“You looked at her exactly like that when you were four-and-twenty. I had hoped age might have made you less obvious.”
Sebastian went completely still. Augusta’s amusement faded slightly.
“You did not know?”
“Know what?”
“That people noticed.”
“People?”
“I noticed.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is sufficient.”
Sebastian looked toward the closed door.
“Did Clara?”
Augusta’s face softened.
“No.”
Relief and disappointment arrived together. He hated both.
“She never knew?”
“Not from what I saw.”
Sebastian remembered those months. Clara laughing with Adrian. Clara dancing. Clara looking at him with friendly trust and no idea that he had begun planning conversations with his father about courtship.
“Good.”
Augusta watched him.
“You do not mean that.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He turned back to her.
“This marriage would solve the immediate legal difficulty.”
“Yes.”
“It would protect Sir Edmund’s property.”
“Probably.”
“It would give Clara standing.”
“Yes.”
“And I can settle Bellamere and the recovered funds entirely upon her.”
Augusta tilted her head.
“You have rehearsed this.”
“No.”
“You have.”
Sebastian exhaled.
“I will not pressure her.”
“Good.”
“I will make the terms clear.”
“Better.”
“If she refuses, the matter ends.”
Augusta studied him.
“And if she accepts?”
Sebastian could not answer honestly. Because if Clara accepted, the impossible would become real.
She would be his wife. Even temporarily.
Even in name only. He would wake in the same house knowing she was there.
Sit across from her at breakfast. Watch the world call her Duchess of Ashcombe.
The desire beneath those images was not temporary.
It never had been. Augusta understood more than he said. Her expression gentled.
“Do not punish her for not knowing what you never told her.”
“I do not intend to.”
“And do not pretend this is only about Bellamere.”
Sebastian looked away.
“That is the only part relevant to her decision.”
“Perhaps.”
Augusta opened the drawing-room door.
“Go and be administratively convenient.”
Sebastian glared. She smiled sweetly. Clara was waiting when he returned.
She had moved from the account table to the smaller library adjoining the morning room, apparently deciding that if she was to receive a proposal prompted by trust law, she preferred to do so among books.
Sebastian closed the door. Clara stood beside the fire.
“You sent Lady Winterbourne away.”
“She sent herself.”
“That sounds more likely.”
For a moment neither spoke. Sebastian had imagined proposing to Clara once.
Long ago. The fantasy had been embarrassingly traditional.
A garden perhaps. Permission from Sir Edmund obtained first. Clara looking surprised but pleased.
He had been twenty-four and sufficiently na?ve to believe important moments announced themselves properly.
Now he stood in Augusta Winterbourne’s library carrying a legal memorandum while Clara waited with suspicion in her eyes. Life had acquired a sense of humor.
“I am going to say something you may reasonably dislike,” he began.
“That is an encouraging opening.”
“If you marry me before the trust review, your legal position changes.”
Clara stared at him. Sebastian continued because stopping would be worse.
“As Duchess of Ashcombe, you would have standing in matters relating to the family settlement. I could immediately secure funds against the mortgage on Brook Street and Whitcombe Park, which would prevent proceedings while Fane establishes the full history of your mother’s investment.”
Clara’s expression remained unreadable.
“You are proposing marriage because it is administratively convenient?”
“At present, convenience is the quality most likely to keep your father housed.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then, to his surprise, she laughed. Only once. Disbelievingly.
“That may be the least romantic proposal ever made in London.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“No flowers.”
“No.”
“No declaration of devotion.”
He said nothing. That was dangerous ground. Clara lifted her brows.
“No?”
“I am attempting not to lie to you.”
Something shifted in her expression.
“Then why?”
“I told you.”
“Law.”
“Partly.”
“There is another reason.”
Sebastian’s pulse changed. Clara crossed her arms.
“You are a duke.”
“So I am repeatedly reminded.”
“You may marry almost anyone.”
“Not literally.”
“Do not be tiresome.”
“I will try.”
“You could select some beautiful twenty-year-old with a fortune, excellent family connections and no scandal involving your dead brother.”
“I could.”
“But you are offering marriage to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sebastian looked at her. The truthful answer stood too close.
Because I wanted to marry you before he did.
Because I have compared every woman since to someone who never knew she was being compared.
Because after eleven years I walked into your drawing room and discovered the problem had not improved.
He chose the portion of truth he could safely give.
“I have no intention of marrying anyone else.”
Clara blinked. Sebastian meant it absolutely. She interpreted it differently.
“Ah.”
He heard the misunderstanding and allowed it. Coward.
“So you mean you had intended to remain unmarried.”
“Yes.”
That was true too.
“And therefore marrying me costs you nothing.”
He almost laughed at the absurdity.
“Not exactly.”
“It is very practical.”
“You requested honesty.”
“I did.”
She walked toward the window. Rain had begun again, tapping lightly against the glass. Sebastian waited. At last she turned.
“No.”
He had prepared himself. The word still hurt.
“All right.”
Clara seemed surprised.
“That is all?”
“What else should there be?”
“An argument.”
“You said no.”
“You traveled across Mayfair to propose marriage and are surrendering after one syllable?”
“I told Augusta I would not pressure you.”
Clara stared.
“Lady Winterbourne knows?”
“She guessed.”
“Of course she did.”
A reluctant smile almost appeared. Then it vanished.
“I will not be rescued by another Harcourt.”
Sebastian’s restraint snapped.
“For God’s sake, Clara, not every kindness is a trap.”
Silence fell. He regretted the tone immediately. More than the words. Clara’s face had gone still. Sebastian took a breath.
“I am sorry.”
She said nothing.
“I should not have spoken to you that way.”
“No.”
He waited. Clara looked toward the fire.
“You think I am being foolish.”
“I think you have spent eleven years learning that accepting anything from my family may have consequences.”
Her eyes came back to his.
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
“You understand.”
“Yes.”
The tension changed. Not gone. But softened. Sebastian stepped closer, though he left distance between them.
“This is not Adrian’s proposal.”
Clara’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“He offered you a future and disappeared before it began.”
“Sebastian.”
“I will not do that.”
She looked at him. He continued, quieter now.