Chapter Six The Duchess of Ashcombe #2
Sebastian watched Lady Davenham attempt to decide whether this was admirable or vulgar.
That had become a common reaction. Society understood duchesses who commissioned gowns, patronized musicians, attended Almack’s and managed influence through dinner invitations.
A duchess who could identify inflated coal charges created confusion.
Sebastian enjoyed the confusion immensely.
Mrs. Montrose asked, “Do you find the transition difficult?” Clara’s brows lifted.
“From Miss Whitcombe to duchess?”
“Yes.”
“Doors open more quickly.”
A few women laughed. Clara continued.
“Otherwise, people remain much the same.”
Sebastian heard the edge beneath it. They did.
People who ignored Clara six months ago now courted her friendship.
Women who once whispered about her broken engagement sent invitations.
Gentlemen who had scarcely acknowledged her at assemblies suddenly discovered she possessed wit.
The transformation infuriated him. Clara seemed less surprised.
Perhaps because she had understood society long before he had.
Lady Fenmore began discussing the forthcoming Halston ball.
Sebastian should have left. Instead he remained until the callers did.
When the final carriage departed, Clara sank back against the sofa.
“You deliberately abandoned me to them.”
“I entered halfway through.”
“Then remained silent while Lady Fenmore planned our ballroom.”
“I was fascinated.”
“You were useless.”
“Also true.”
Clara studied him for a moment.
“Do you know what she wanted?”
“A ball.”
“She wanted us to hold it three days before Lady Crossley’s because they are feuding over an orchestra.”
The remark caught Sebastian unprepared.
“Why?”
“I have decided not to ask.”
“That seems wise.”
Clara rose and carried her cup toward the tray.
“She invited us to Halston’s tonight.”
“We were already invited.”
“Yes, but apparently the invitation has improved since yesterday.”
Sebastian’s mouth tightened. Clara noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That expression again.”
“What expression?”
“The one where you object to something but have not yet decided whether you are entitled to.”
He looked at her. She knew him too quickly.
“I dislike people treating you differently because of the title.”
Clara set down the cup.
“They treated me differently before the title too.”
“That does not make it less offensive.”
“No.”
She studied him.
“But it makes it predictable.”
Sebastian crossed toward the window.
“I saw Lady Fenmore ignore you at Davenham’s musicale.”
Clara blinked.
“You noticed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The simplest questions remained the most dangerous.
“Because I was there.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He turned. Clara waited. Sebastian chose safety.
“I notice poor manners.”
The answer disappointed her. He saw it. Again.
Something had happened repeatedly since the wedding.
Clara would ask a question that came too close to the truth, Sebastian would retreat behind a reasonable answer and something in her face would close.
He knew he was creating distance. He also knew the alternative.
He was not ready to tell her that Lady Fenmore’s behavior had angered him because he had noticed nearly every person who ignored Clara for eleven years.
Not from vigilance. From jealousy. From habit.
From loving a woman he had no right to love.
Clara turned away.
“We should attend tonight.”
“We shall.”
“Lady Winterbourne will be there.”
“I suspected.”
“She claims Lord Halston’s balls have deteriorated since his second marriage.”
“Augusta claims most things have deteriorated.”
“She may be right.”
Sebastian smiled faintly. By evening, he would discover exactly how right she was.
Lord Halston’s ballroom glittered with enough candlelight to illuminate half of Mayfair.
Mirrors ran between tall windows, doubling chandeliers and dancers until the room appeared larger than architecture could reasonably allow.
The orchestra occupied a raised gallery at one end, while banks of hothouse flowers lined the walls and the scent of roses mixed with perfume, wax and warm air.
Clara entered on Sebastian’s arm. Conversation shifted.
He felt it. So did she. Not silence. Nothing so crude.
But attention moved. The Duchess of Ashcombe had become an object of considerable interest.
Clara wore deep blue silk with silver embroidery and Cecily’s pearl drops at her ears.
Her hair was arranged higher than usual, a few dark curls left loose near her temples, and Sebastian had spent most of the carriage journey looking determinedly out of the opposite window.
It had not helped. She rested her gloved hand lightly on his arm.
The contact was proper. Entirely public. He felt every finger.
“Do stop looking grim,” she murmured.
“I am not.”
“You look as though Halston has personally insulted Derbyshire.”
“I dislike crowds.”
“You attended Congress balls in Vienna.”
“Diplomacy requires suffering.”
“And marriage?”
“Apparently also.”
Clara smiled. Sebastian’s chest tightened. Lady Winterbourne appeared before he could say anything else. She wore silver-gray and diamonds and looked like a woman who had come to inspect civilization for weaknesses.
“My dears.”
“Augusta.”
She kissed Clara’s cheek. Then looked at Sebastian.
“You brought her.”
“She is my wife.”
“Precisely why I feared you might keep her home.”
Clara laughed. Sebastian said, “I am standing here.”
“Yes.”
Augusta took Clara’s arm.
“Come. Cecily wants to see you, and Arabella has already offended a baronet.”
“That did not take long.”
“She arrived early.”
Sebastian watched Augusta lead Clara toward the far side of the ballroom.
He should speak to Halston. Several men had already approached him.
Estate matters. Parliament. Vienna. Adrian’s death.
Sebastian answered all of them. Part of his attention remained with Clara.
He saw her greet Cecily. Saw Arabella say something that made her laugh.
Saw Sophia join them. Then saw a man approach.
Lord Nicholas Gresham. Sebastian knew him moderately well.
Gresham was thirty-six, widowed, handsome, comfortably wealthy and possessed of an easy manner that made women trust him and men forgive him for it.
He bowed to Clara. She smiled. Gresham said something. Clara laughed. Sebastian stopped listening to the gentleman beside him.
“Ashcombe?”
He looked back. Lord Mercer was waiting.
“Forgive me.”
Mercer followed his gaze.
“Ah.”
Sebastian’s expression cooled.
“Ah what?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Mercer hid a smile. The orchestra began a country dance.
Sebastian looked across the room again. Nicholas Gresham was offering Clara his hand.
She accepted. Something unpleasant tightened beneath Sebastian’s ribs.
He had no right. That was the first fact.
Clara was his wife legally, but their agreement had granted him no claim over her feelings beyond the respect necessary to preserve appearances.
They had not discussed dancing with others because reasonable adults did not require legal clauses covering quadrilles.
Second fact. Nicholas Gresham was harmless.
More than harmless. He was decent. Sebastian had once considered him one of the few men in London he trusted not to mistreat a woman.
This did not improve matters. Third fact.
Clara looked happy. That should have improved matters.
It did not. Gresham’s hand touched hers.
They joined the set. Sebastian watched. He hated himself almost immediately.
There was no impropriety. No flirtation beyond what a dance permitted.
But when the figure brought Gresham close enough to place a hand briefly at Clara’s waist, Sebastian’s entire body went rigid.
“Remarkable.”
Augusta’s voice appeared beside him. He did not turn.
“What?”
“You have become younger by eleven years in under thirty seconds.”
Sebastian looked at her then. She was holding champagne.
“You should not sneak up on people.”
“I walked directly toward you.”
“I was distracted.”
“I know.”
Her gaze moved to the dance.
“Lord Gresham is charming.”
“So I am told.”
“Handsome.”
“Possibly.”
“Rich.”
“Augusta.”
“Widowed.”
Sebastian took the glass from her hand and drank it. She looked delighted.
“That was mine.”
“I needed it.”
“You agreed to separate rooms, not separate sanity.”
He gave her a warning look. Augusta ignored it.
“You could ask Clara to dance.”
“She is already dancing.”
“After.”
“I am aware of how balls function.”
“One wondered.”
Sebastian looked toward Clara again. Nicholas said something. She smiled up at him. The jealousy became almost comically immediate. Augusta observed him.
“You know, possession is very unattractive in a man.”
“I am not possessive.”
“No. You merely look ready to purchase Lord Gresham’s estate and evict him.”
Sebastian exhaled.
“I know I have no right.”
Augusta’s expression softened.
“That is not the same as having no feeling.”
He said nothing. The dance ended. Nicholas escorted Clara back. Sebastian remained where he was because crossing the ballroom too quickly would prove Augusta right. Clara reached them. Her cheeks were flushed.
“You stole Lady Winterbourne’s champagne.”
“So she claims.”
“I saw you.”
“Then there is no defense.”
Nicholas bowed.
“Ashcombe.”
“Grey.”
“The duchess dances beautifully.”
Sebastian’s answer came too quickly.
“I know.”
Clara looked at him. Nicholas smiled.
“I shall leave before I accidentally begin an argument.”
“Coward,” Clara said.
“Experienced widower.”
He bowed again and departed. Augusta murmured, “I like him.” Sebastian glared. She smiled. Clara glanced between them.
“What have I missed?”
“Nothing,” Sebastian said.
“Jealousy,” Augusta said.
Sebastian went still. Clara’s eyes widened. Augusta drank from a new glass a passing footman had provided.
“I meant Halston’s orchids. They are jealous of the roses.”