Chapter Five The Second Wedding #4
Clara waited. He did not continue. Something almost formed inside her. A suspicion. Not yet. Too fragile. She let it go.
“For a man who claims this marriage costs him very little, you have a remarkable memory.”
Sebastian’s gaze returned to hers.
“I never said it cost me very little.”
Clara realized he was right. She had said that. He had not agreed. Before she could examine the distinction, he stepped back.
“I will leave you to settle.”
“Sebastian.”
He paused.
“Thank you.”
“For the rooms?”
“For remembering.”
His expression softened.
“You are welcome.”
Then he left. Clara stood beside the roses for a long time after the door closed.
Their first dinner as husband and wife was served at eight.
Clara had expected a dining room large enough to make conversation impossible.
Instead Sebastian instructed the servants to lay dinner in a smaller room overlooking the garden.
Only two places. Clara entered and found him already there.
Again. Early. She noticed that now. He rose.
“You found the room?”
“With difficulty. I passed Portugal twice.”
Sebastian blinked.
“The portrait gallery.”
“Yes. One ancestor appears to have conquered Lisbon single-handedly.”
“Great-uncle George.”
“Did he?”
“No. He once spent three months there with the embassy and exaggerated the matter afterward.”
Clara sat.
“I like him already.”
Dinner began formally. Soup. Fish. Wine.
Servants moving silently around them. For the first ten minutes, Clara became acutely aware that she was dining alone with her husband.
Not an acquaintance. Not a duke helping with legal troubles.
Husband. Sebastian seemed similarly conscious.
He asked about Lucy. Clara answered. Silence.
She asked about Vienna. He answered. Silence.
This could become unbearable. Clara set down her fork.
“We are being ridiculous.”
Sebastian looked up.
“I suspected.”
“We have spoken more naturally while discussing fraudulent trusts.”
“Financial crime provides excellent conversation.”
“I refuse to require one at every meal.”
“That seems sensible.”
“What do married people discuss?”
Sebastian considered.
“Other people’s marriages?”
Clara laughed. The tension broke. After that, dinner improved.
Sebastian told her about a Viennese baron who attempted to negotiate an estate boundary while pretending not to understand German whenever the conversation became unfavorable.
Clara described Aunt Marianne’s conviction that Lucy could secure a husband by playing only cheerful pieces at the pianoforte.
“She believes melancholy music discourages proposals.”
“Does it?”
“I have no evidence.”
“Perhaps we should fund a study.”
“With what?”
“The forty thousand pounds.”
Clara stared. Sebastian’s expression remained solemn. Then she laughed.
“You are dreadful.”
“So I have been told.”
The man across from her was not the man she remembered.
Or perhaps he was. Perhaps she had never known him.
At eighteen Sebastian’s reserve had seemed severity because Adrian’s charm made everything quieter appear cold beside it.
Now Clara began to see distinctions. Sebastian listened.
Actually listened. He did not interrupt.
He did not turn every story back toward himself.
His humor arrived slowly, sometimes so dryly she needed a second to recognize it.
When he smiled fully, which happened only twice during dinner, his entire face changed.
Clara found herself wanting to make it happen again.
That was dangerous. After dessert, Sebastian rose.
“There is something I want to show you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Accounts.”
“Much better.”
He led her to the library. The same room in which they had found the settlement. Tonight lamps burned low and the fire had been replenished. Several ledgers waited on the desk. Clara approached.
“What are these?”
“Household accounts. Estate summaries. Rental income. Current expenditure. Staff costs.”
Her attention settled on him.
“Why?”
“Because you should know.”
“Why?”
Sebastian frowned.
“You are Duchess of Ashcombe.”
“That does not usually entitle a wife to her husband’s estate books.”
“It does in this house.”
Clara touched one ledger.
“Most men would consider this private.”
“Most men may conduct their households as they please.”
“And you?”
“I prefer not to discover in ten years that my wife has been kept ignorant of matters affecting her entire life.”
The words landed heavily. Clara thought of her father. Her mother’s money. Adrian. The late duke. Secrets. Protection. Silence. Sebastian continued.
“You will have your own accounts, naturally. The household allowance will be transferred quarterly. Mrs. Linton will provide all expenditure summaries. If you wish changes, make them.”
“You are giving me authority?”
“Yes.”
“Entirely?”
“Within reason.”
Clara raised a brow.
“Define reason.”
“I knew that was dangerous.”
She almost smiled. Sebastian leaned one hip against the desk.
“The household is yours as much as mine.”
“Sebastian.”
He looked at her.
“I do not want you to feel obliged to give me some performance of duchess because we married for legal convenience.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“You are my wife, not an ornament I've acquired.”
The words settled somewhere deep. Clara looked away.
No one had ever spoken to her quite like that.
At eighteen, marriage had meant becoming part of someone else’s future.
Adrian’s wife. Adrian’s household. Adrian’s family.
Sebastian seemed to be offering something different.
Partnership. The idea frightened her more than dependence might have.
Dependence could be resisted. Partnership required trust. Clara closed the ledger.
“I should go upstairs.”
Sebastian straightened.
“Of course.”
They left the library together. At the foot of the main staircase, they stopped.
The house had gone quiet. Most servants had withdrawn.
Lamplight pooled across marble and carpet.
Clara became suddenly aware of what happened next.
Separate rooms. They had agreed. Nothing had changed.
Still, saying good night to her husband on her wedding night felt strange. Sebastian seemed aware too.
“I hope the rooms are comfortable.”
“They are.”
“If you need anything, Mrs. Linton—”
“Sebastian.”
He stopped. Clara held the banister.
“I wanted to thank you properly.”
“For what?”
“This morning.”
He looked at her.
“With the Duchess of Halford.”
Understanding crossed his face.
“That required no thanks.”
“It did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She smiled faintly.
“You are very poor at accepting gratitude.”
“I have had limited practice.”
Clara’s smile faded.
“You said I was never the embarrassment.”
“You were not.”
“No one from your family has ever said that.”
Sebastian went still.
“I know.”
“Why now?”
“Because it was true.”
“That is not what I mean.”
He looked toward the darkened hall. Clara continued.
“You said you should have done it before.”
“I should have.”
“Eleven years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you?”
The question stood between them. Sebastian’s face changed. Only slightly. But Clara saw it. Something old moved there. Regret. Anger. Perhaps guilt. He looked back at her.
“I cannot answer that tonight.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both.”
Clara’s fingers tightened around the banister.
“Why?”
“Because the answer involves things I do not yet understand well enough to explain without doing more harm than good.”
She studied him. There was no evasive charm in him. No Adrian-like attempt to smile away discomfort. Sebastian looked genuinely troubled. That made patience easier. Not easy. But possible.
“All right.”
He seemed surprised.
“That is all?”
“You said you cannot answer tonight.”
“Yes.”
“I shall ask again tomorrow.”
A slow smile appeared.
“You are relentless.”
“I manage accounts.”
“So you do.”
Clara turned toward the stairs.
“Good night, Sebastian.”
He bowed slightly.
“Good night, Clara.”
She climbed. Halfway up, she looked back.
Sebastian remained where she had left him.
Watching. Not possessively. Not expectantly.
Simply there. For one strange moment, Clara thought of the chapel.
His hand around hers. Forsaking all others.
Then the carriage. Yellow roses. A remembered complaint about street noise.
Eleven years of details she had forgotten and he had somehow kept.
Clara continued upstairs. Inside her bedchamber, the fire had been banked and candles lit.
Her wedding gown lay folded across a chair.
Yellow roses scented the room. She removed the borrowed pearl earrings and placed them carefully in their box.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
Duchess of Ashcombe. Wife to Sebastian Harcourt.
The woman Lord Adrian Harcourt had abandoned had married his brother.
That was the story London would tell. Clara suspected already that it was not going to be the important one.
Because for the first time in eleven years, a Harcourt had not made her feel discarded, tolerated or inconvenient.
Sebastian had made her feel considered. And that, Clara discovered as she touched the gold band on her finger, was considerably more dangerous.