Chapter Five The Second Wedding #3
Within fifteen minutes, Winterbourne House contained more guests than the ceremony had.
Clara should have hated it. Instead she watched almost clinically as gossip transformed into congratulations.
People who had spent eleven years referring to her as the abandoned Miss Whitcombe now seemed fascinated by the possibility that she had somehow triumphed.
The bride Lord Adrian Harcourt refused had married his elder brother.
A duke. Not merely a duke. The Duke of Ashcombe.
Clara could almost hear the story rewriting itself.
One woman called it romantic. Another daring.
A third whispered that perhaps Clara had always preferred Sebastian.
That nearly made her laugh. Then the Duchess of Halford approached. She was a formidable woman in her sixties who had perfected the art of insult by wrapping it in admiration.
“My dear,” she said to Clara, “you have certainly surprised us all.”
“So I gather.”
“And Ashcombe.” Her gaze moved to Sebastian. “How very gallant of you.”
Clara felt something in Sebastian change. Only slightly.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
The duchess smiled.
“Oh, nothing unkind. We all remember the unfortunate business with poor Adrian.”
Clara’s spine stiffened. Sebastian’s expression became unreadable. Lady Halford continued.
“Of course, one never knew quite what happened. Such an embarrassment for everyone.”
Sebastian set down his glass.
“Miss Whitcombe was never the embarrassment in that old story.”
The words were quiet. That made them more powerful. Lady Halford blinked. Clara did too. Sebastian looked directly at the older woman.
“My brother broke his word and allowed a young woman to bear the consequences of his silence. Whatever embarrassment existed belonged to the Harcourt family, not to her.”
Conversation nearby faltered. Not entirely. Enough. The duchess recovered.
“My dear Ashcombe, I meant no offense.”
“I am sure you did not.”
His tone said otherwise. Clara could not move. Eleven years. No Harcourt had said it. Not publicly. Not privately. Adrian never had. The old duke certainly had not. And Sebastian had just done so in a crowded room full of people who would repeat every word before dinner. He turned to Clara.
“Would you like more champagne?”
Such an ordinary question. She stared at him.
“No.”
Then, because her voice sounded strange, she added, “Thank you.” Sebastian’s gaze lingered.
He knew the words had affected her. He did not mention them.
That somehow affected her more. They left Winterbourne House shortly after one.
Ashcombe’s carriage waited at the door. Clara paused beneath the portico.
This was the moment. Her home changed here.
A married woman left one household and entered another.
The simplicity of the fact unsettled her.
Sir Edmund stood behind her. Clara turned. He embraced her again.
“You will come tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Or I shall come to you.”
“Yes.”
His eyes looked suspiciously bright. Clara smiled.
“Papa, I am moving fifteen minutes away, not emigrating.”
“Still.”
“I will continue managing the accounts.”
“Sebastian may object.”
“I should like to see him try.”
Behind her, Sebastian said dryly, “I have no intention of beginning married life with certain defeat.” Sir Edmund laughed. Something eased. Lucy threw her arms around Clara.
“You are a duchess.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Do you feel different?”
“No.”
Arabella called from the doorway, “Give it twenty minutes.” Augusta glared.
Clara laughed and stepped into the carriage.
Sebastian followed. The door closed. For the first time that day, they were alone.
Not entirely alone, Clara thought. A coachman and two footmen existed beyond the carriage.
Still. Private enough. Sebastian sat opposite her.
The distance felt very formal after the kiss. Clara looked out of the window.
“So.”
“So,” he repeated.
“We are married.”
“I noticed.”
She glanced at him.
“You remain remarkably calm.”
“I have discovered panic rarely improves a carriage journey.”
“Are you panicking?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His mouth curved.
“Perhaps slightly.”
Clara laughed. The carriage moved. London passed around them. Shops. Carriages. Street vendors. Gentlemen on horseback. Nothing looked different. Yet everything had. Clara looked down at the ring. Sebastian noticed.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“I can have it adjusted.”
“It is fine.”
Silence returned. Not uncomfortable. Not quite. Clara looked at him.
“You defended me.”
He did not pretend ignorance.
“Yes.”
“You did not have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No.”
He met her gaze.
“I thought I did.”
Clara looked away. She wanted to say thank you. The words felt insufficient. So she waited. Ashcombe House came into view. The carriage turned into Grosvenor Square. Clara’s stomach tightened again. Sebastian saw.
“Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“Probably.”
“That is reassuring.”
He leaned slightly forward.
“If anything is uncomfortable, say so.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Anything.”
“You make marriage sound like an estate inspection.”
“I am better at estate inspections.”
“I suspected as much.”
The carriage stopped. A footman opened the door.
Sebastian stepped down and turned. He offered his hand.
Clara placed hers in it. For one second, looking down at him from the carriage, she thought of everything the gesture represented.
Not a rescue. Not ownership. Simply assistance.
She stepped down. The front doors of Ashcombe House stood open.
The entire household had assembled. Clara froze. Sebastian followed her gaze.
“I did not arrange this.”
“No?”
“No.”
The butler stood first. Behind him the housekeeper. Footmen. Maids. Kitchen staff. Grooms. Even two scullery maids visible at the back. Clara whispered, “Good God.” Sebastian leaned slightly nearer.
“You may run.”
“Tempting.”
“But they will catch us.”
“Us?”
“I am married now. I share consequences.”
That made her laugh. They entered together. The butler bowed.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Your Grace. Clara nearly looked behind her. The housekeeper stepped forward.
“Mrs. Linton, Your Grace.”
A substantial ring of keys hung at her waist. Clara recognized immediately what they represented.
Household authority. Traditionally, those keys would belong eventually to the mistress.
To her. The thought was absurd. She had spent years managing Brook Street with an economy that bordered on warfare.
Ashcombe House employed more servants than some villages possessed inhabitants. Mrs. Linton curtsied.
“We are honored to welcome you.”
“Thank you.”
Clara’s voice remained steady. Around them servants bowed and curtsied.
Some faces looked warm. Others curious. A few startled.
She knew what they were thinking. Everyone did.
Miss Whitcombe. The abandoned bride. Now their duchess.
Sebastian stood beside her without impatience.
One by one, Clara greeted the senior servants.
She repeated names. Asked how long they had served.
Thanked them. Sebastian watched. By the end, Mrs. Linton’s reserve had softened slightly.
“Would Your Grace like to see your rooms?”
“Yes, please.”
Clara turned. Sebastian remained where he was.
“You are not coming?”
The question escaped before she thought about it. Something flickered in his eyes.
“If you wish.”
“It seems efficient.”
“Administrative convenience again?”
Clara smiled.
“Precisely.”
He followed. Her suite occupied the quieter rear portion of the first floor.
Mrs. Linton opened the door. Clara stopped.
The rooms were beautiful. Not ostentatious.
Comfortable. A sitting room first, decorated in pale green and cream, with shelves for books and a writing desk near the window.
Beyond lay the bedchamber, its curtains embroidered with small vines, and through another door a dressing room.
Clara crossed toward the windows. A garden spread below.
Not the square. The private rear garden.
Spring trees. Gravel walks. No constant carriages. No street noise. She turned.
“This suite was prepared for me?”
Sebastian nodded.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This week.”
“Why this one?”
“It seemed suitable.”
Clara looked toward the window.
“Because it overlooks the garden?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know I would prefer that?”
Sebastian paused.
“You dislike street noise.”
She stared.
“Do I?”
“You did.”
“When?”
Another pause.
“Eleven years ago.”
Clara’s heart gave one strange beat.
“I told you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“At Ashcombe Park. You were given a room above the carriage court and complained at breakfast that every horse in Derbyshire had personally conspired against your sleep.”
Clara remembered. Barely. A house party.
Summer. She had forgotten the conversation entirely.
Sebastian had not. Before she could respond, Mrs. Linton opened the bedchamber door fully.
Yellow roses stood on the dressing table.
Clara stopped again. Her favorite. She looked at Sebastian. He knew immediately what she meant.
“You remembered those too?”
“Yes.”
Clara stared at the flowers.
“Eleven years.”
Sebastian’s expression became guarded.
“You once said yellow roses looked happier than red ones.”
“I did?”
“At Lady Stanton’s.”
Memory moved. A garden. Summer. Perhaps. She looked back at him.
“How much do you remember?”
The question came out softer than she intended. Sebastian held her gaze.
“Enough.”
Nothing more. Mrs. Linton, perhaps sensing something private, retreated.
“I shall send Mrs. Hale to assist Your Grace with unpacking.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed. Clara and Sebastian remained alone. The yellow roses stood between them in silence. Clara touched one petal.
“Did Adrian ever tell you these things?”
Sebastian’s face changed.
“No.”
“Then why do you know them?”
He looked toward the window.
“We spent time in the same company.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”