Chapter Five The Second Wedding #2
Augusta went completely still. For one extraordinary second, Clara had the sense that she had asked the wrong question. Then Augusta recovered.
“With responsibility.”
Clara’s attention fixed on him.
“That was a dreadful answer.”
“I am old. Permit me occasional failure.”
“You are forty-eight.”
“Ancient.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. Augusta smiled blandly. Before Clara could pursue it, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Hargreaves opened the door.
“My lady.”
“Yes?”
“His Grace has arrived.”
Clara’s heart stopped. Only for a second.
She looked toward the mantel clock. Ten minutes early.
Sebastian was early. The fact should not matter.
It did. Augusta saw something in her face and said nothing.
Clara turned toward the mirror. Eleven years collapsed.
Not entirely. Enough. Another room. Another morning.
Her mother moving anxiously between the windows.
Her father checking the clock. A wedding breakfast cooling downstairs.
Every sound from the street making Clara turn because perhaps Adrian’s carriage had arrived.
Ten minutes late. Twenty. Forty. Then Mr. Fane at the door. Not Adrian. Never Adrian.
Clara closed her eyes. Behind her, Augusta’s voice became very gentle.
“He is here.”
“I know.”
“Early.”
“Yes.”
Clara opened her eyes. The woman in the mirror was twenty-nine. Not eighteen. Her mother was gone. Her life had moved on. And downstairs, Sebastian Harcourt was waiting for her. Waiting. Not absent. Not delayed. Not represented by a solicitor. There. Clara drew a breath.
“Let us not keep him.”
The ceremony took place in Winterbourne House’s small private chapel because Augusta’s grandfather had apparently considered the possibility of snow, scandal and inconvenient parish clergy sufficient reason to construct one.
Clara entered on her father’s arm. No music played.
She had asked for none. But someone had filled the chapel with flowers.
Not bridal garlands. Spring flowers. White tulips, pale roses, greenery and narcissus arranged loosely along the windows and altar.
Clara knew without asking that Augusta had done it.
Then she saw Sebastian. Everything else became less distinct.
He stood beside Mr. Fane near the front, dressed in dark blue with a silver-gray waistcoat, his hair still slightly damp from the weather. There was nothing flamboyant about him.
Sebastian never seemed designed for flamboyance.
He looked serious. Steady. And when Clara entered, his gaze moved to her and stayed there.
Something shifted in his expression. Very small.
But she saw it. Surprise. Then something warmer.
He did not look away. Clara became unexpectedly conscious of the cream silk against her skin.
Her father’s arm tightened beneath her hand.
“You are certain?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Sir Edmund had struggled with the decision more than Clara anticipated.
Not because he disliked Sebastian. Because he knew why the marriage was happening.
The knowledge that his financial mistakes had contributed to his daughter marrying for practical security had weighed heavily upon him.
Clara had tried to explain that the choice was hers.
He believed her. He simply had not forgiven himself.
At the front, Sebastian bowed to Sir Edmund. Then to Clara.
“Miss Whitcombe.”
She almost laughed.
“For another few minutes.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Apparently.”
The clergyman began. The ceremony was simple.
That should have made it easier. It did not.
Clara knew the words. Of course she did.
She had learned them at eighteen. She had once repeated them privately in her bedchamber, imagining Adrian’s voice answering.
Now Sebastian stood opposite her. When the clergyman asked whether any impediment existed, Clara felt absurdly aware of every person behind them.
No one spoke. Then Sebastian took her hand.
His palm was warm. The contact steadied her.
The vows began. Clara listened to Sebastian promise to have and hold her. The language struck differently now.
At eighteen, she had heard romance. At twenty-nine, she heard obligation.
Comfort. Honor. Continuance. Then came the phrase.
Forsaking all others. Sebastian’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers.
Clara looked up. He was already watching her.
The chapel seemed suddenly too small. She had not expected this.
They had discussed separate rooms. Financial independence.
Legal standing. Property. Nothing in those negotiations had prepared her for standing before him while he promised, in a voice low and clear, to forsake all others.
There would be no others. She had agreed to that.
So had he. The realization moved through her slowly.
Marriage of convenience sounded clean when described by solicitors.
It felt less simple with Sebastian’s hand around hers.
Clara repeated the vows. Her voice remained steady.
Mostly. When she said his name, Sebastian’s gaze changed again.
The ring came next. A plain gold band. Not elaborate.
Not a family jewel. Clara was grateful. Sebastian slid it onto her finger.
His thumb touched her knuckle. The contact lasted no more than a second.
Still, Clara felt it afterward. The clergyman pronounced them husband and wife.
Duke and Duchess of Ashcombe. The title sounded impossible. Behind them someone sniffed.
Probably Beatrice. Possibly Sir Edmund. Then came the moment Clara had not considered in sufficient detail.
Sebastian was expected to kiss her. Of course he was.
He looked at her. Not presumptuously. Questioning.
That made it worse. Or better. Clara was not sure.
She inclined her head slightly. Sebastian bent.
His hand touched her elbow. Then his mouth met hers.
The kiss was not passionate. But neither was it ceremonial.
Warm. Careful. Long enough that Clara became aware of the pressure of his fingers through her sleeve.
Long enough for something low in her stomach to tighten.
Long enough that when he moved away, she wished he had not done so quite yet.
The thought shocked her. Sebastian looked equally unsettled.
Only his eyes betrayed it. Then Augusta began applauding.
The chapel dissolved into laughter. Clara turned.
Arabella was openly wiping tears and denying it.
Beatrice had not bothered to deny hers. Cecily smiled.
Sophia looked pleased despite herself. Eliza stood very still, hands folded before her, expression soft. Sir Edmund kissed Clara’s cheek.
“My darling.”
His voice broke. Clara hugged him. For one moment she was simply his daughter.
Then she looked back at Sebastian. Her husband.
The word did not yet fit. But perhaps it would.
Augusta’s wedding breakfast occupied the smaller dining room and, despite her repeated insistence that the gathering was modest, included enough food to support a minor diplomatic conference.
There were cold meats, salmon, pastries, fruit, eggs, breads, preserves and champagne.
“Who drinks champagne before noon?” Clara asked.
Augusta handed her a glass.
“Duchesses.”
“I have been one for twelve minutes.”
“You must begin somewhere.”
Sebastian stood beside Clara.
“I am told the condition progresses rapidly.”
She looked at him. The line echoed their conversation from Brook Street. He remembered. Something warm moved through her.
“Then there is no hope for me.”
“Very little.”
They smiled. The morning changed after that.
Not into ease exactly. Something lighter.
Perhaps because the frightening part was done.
They were married. No solicitor could undo the fact.
No missing document mattered to its validity.
No messenger would arrive declaring the bridegroom gone.
Sebastian remained beside her. When people approached, he introduced her as his wife.
Not Miss Whitcombe. Not Clara. The Duchess of Ashcombe.
She heard the title repeated so often that it began to sound almost believable.
The intimate gathering should have remained private.
Naturally, London knew before breakfast ended.
The first proof arrived in the form of Lady Davenham.
Clara saw Augusta’s expression when Hargreaves announced her.
“You invited her?”
“No.”
“Then why is she here?”
“Because she has the instincts of a bloodhound and fewer scruples.”
Lady Davenham entered wearing lilac silk, breathless with congratulations and entirely unapologetic about arriving uninvited.
“My dear Clara.”
She kissed the air near Clara’s cheek.
“Or should I say Your Grace? How extraordinary. How absolutely extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“I had no idea.”
“That was deliberate.”
Lady Davenham laughed as though Clara had made a joke. Behind her came the Duchess of Halford, Lady Jersey’s cousin Mrs. Montrose and two other women Clara suspected had simply attached themselves to the carriage after hearing the news. Augusta closed her eyes briefly.
“The gates have fallen.”