Chapter Six The Duchess of Ashcombe #3
Clara stared at her.
“That makes no sense.”
“I am forty-eight. I no longer require sense.”
Sebastian decided he would one day have Winterbourne House demolished. Then the orchestra announced a waltz. He looked at Clara. She looked at him. The moment stretched. Sebastian bowed.
“Will you dance?”
Her surprise was slight but visible.
“Yes.”
He offered his hand. Clara placed hers in it.
They had danced together once before. Sebastian remembered everything.
Lady Stanton’s ballroom. Spring 1806. Clara in silver-blue.
Her slipper ribbon breaking halfway through the evening.
The small line between her brows while she attempted to repair it unnoticed.
He had stood between her and the room, pretending to discuss weather while she retied it.
Later he asked her to dance. Not because he required reward.
Because after spending two minutes shielding her from the ballroom, he found he could no longer bear watching someone else take her hand.
She had laughed when he stepped the wrong direction. He had not stepped wrong. He had been looking at her. Now, eleven years later, Clara stood opposite him while the first notes of the waltz rose around them.
“Do you remember?” she asked.
His hand settled at her waist.
“Yes.”
Her brows lifted.
“So do I.”
That surprised him.
“The Stanton ball.”
“Yes.”
“You broke your slipper.”
For once, Clara’s ready answer deserted her.
“You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I remember nearly everything about you. Sebastian guided her into the first turn.
“You were furious.”
“I was mortified.”
“You threatened the slipper.”
“I did not.”
“You said you would burn it.”
Clara laughed.
“I had forgotten that.”
“I had not.”
They turned. The ballroom moved around them.
Sebastian had danced hundreds of times since 1806.
Vienna made dancing almost a professional obligation.
None felt like this. Clara followed beautifully, not because she yielded thoughtlessly but because she understood rhythm.
He could feel the balance of her movement through his hand, the slight pressure of her fingers against his, the trust required to let him guide. He tried not to think about trust.
“So,” Clara said, “you did not marry.”
“No.”
“An astute observation.”
“Do not become annoying.”
“It may be too late.”
She smiled.
“Why?”
He knew what she meant.
“Why did I not marry?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian looked over her shoulder.
“Poor timing.”
Clara laughed.
“Eleven years seems excessive for poor timing.”
“You would be surprised.”
Her smile faded slightly.
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I currently possess.”
She watched him. Sebastian knew he should say more. He could tell her part. There had been someone once. The timing failed. That alone might shift something between them beyond retrieval. He remained silent. Clara’s gaze moved away.
“Did you love someone?”
The question struck hard. Sebastian’s hand tightened fractionally at her waist.
“Yes.”
Clara looked back immediately. He regretted answering.
“Did she marry someone else?”
“Yes.”
That too was true. For three days, officially, Clara had belonged in anticipation to Adrian. Sebastian had treated it as permanent.
“Was she happy?”
“No.”
His voice changed. Clara heard it. Sebastian forced himself to soften.
“Not then.”
The next turn carried them closer. Her eyes searched his.
“Do I know her?”
He nearly laughed.
“Yes.”
Instead he said, “Perhaps.”
“You are very irritating tonight.”
“I have been told marriage progresses rapidly.”
“That joke was mine first.”
“Then I have begun stealing from my wife.”
“Champagne, jokes. What next?”
His gaze fell to her mouth before he could stop it.
Clara noticed. The air changed. Neither spoke.
The dance continued. Around them couples turned beneath chandeliers, silk and black coats moving through candlelight, but Sebastian’s awareness narrowed to Clara’s face, the warmth of her body beneath his hand and the small quickening of her breath.
She knew. Not everything. But enough. Attraction no longer belonged safely beneath their legal arrangement.
It had entered the room. The music ended.
They stopped. Sebastian released her. Too quickly.
Clara’s hand dropped. Something uncertain entered her expression. He hated himself for it.
“Would you like air?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
They left the ballroom. The terrace beyond Halston’s long gallery was nearly empty.
Cool air struck Sebastian’s face as the doors closed behind them, carrying the scent of wet stone and spring leaves.
Rain had stopped earlier, but the balustrade still shone faintly beneath moonlight.
Clara drew her shawl around her shoulders.
Sebastian moved beside her. For several moments they looked out over the dark garden.
Music reached them faintly through the doors.
“You did regret asking me,” Clara said.
Sebastian turned.
“What?”
“To dance.”
“No.”
“You released me as though I had caught fire.”
“I did not.”
“You very nearly did.”
He exhaled.
“Clara.”
She looked at him.
“Have I done something wrong?”
The question shocked him.
“No.”
“Then what?”
He struggled. How did one explain that the difficulty was not lack of desire but the opposite?
Their agreement stood between them precisely because he had insisted it would protect her.
No expectation of intimacy. No obligation.
He had meant every word. Now he wanted to kiss her so badly his entire body felt organized around the restraint.
“You have done nothing.”
“Sebastian.”
He turned away. The terrace suddenly felt too narrow. Clara stepped closer.
“I am not eighteen.”
“I know.”
“Then do not speak to me as though you are protecting me from information.”
He looked at her sharply. The words struck an old wound. She continued.
“If you do not want this marriage to become anything beyond the agreement, say so.”
His control nearly failed.
“That is not what I want.”
Clara went still. Sebastian heard what he had said. The truth existed now. Not complete. But unmistakable. Her voice lowered.
“What do you want?”
You. The answer came instantly. He could not say it.
Not yet. Instead he looked at her. Clara’s lips parted slightly.
He moved before reason fully intervened.
One step. That was all. But now they stood close enough that he could see the pulse at the base of her throat.
Clara did not retreat. Sebastian lifted one hand.
Stopped. Then touched a loose curl near her temple.
Barely. His knuckles brushed her skin. Her eyes closed for half a second.
He was lost. He bent toward her. Clara lifted her face. No legal obligation. No chapel.
No witnesses. No reason except desire. Their mouths were an inch apart when the terrace door opened.
“Your Grace?”
Sebastian stepped back so abruptly his hand dropped. A footman stood in the doorway, mortified.
“Forgive me. Lord Halston wished to know whether you would join him in the card room.”
Sebastian wanted to throw Lord Halston into the ornamental lake.
“Tell him later.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The footman vanished. Silence. Clara looked at Sebastian. The moment had broken. Worse, Sebastian had retreated too quickly again. He saw the interpretation form in her face. Regret. She thought he regretted it.
“Clara—”
“We should go in.”
“No.”
She gave him a small polite smile.
“I am cold.”
He had no right to stop her. That was the entire problem.
Sebastian held the door. Clara passed him.
The scent of her perfume lingered after she disappeared into the gallery.
He remained on the terrace for several seconds.
Idiot. He had almost kissed her. Then reacted as though the desire itself violated the contract.
Perhaps it did. Not because he wanted her.
Because she did not yet know enough to understand what accepting him might mean.
She did not know he had loved her before Adrian.
Did not know how long the feeling had lasted.
Did not know that their marriage of convenience was convenient only for her.
For Sebastian, it was an exercise in surviving proximity to everything he had once wanted.
He returned to the ballroom. Clara did not dance again.
Neither did he. Peter Fane arrived at Ashcombe House shortly after breakfast the next morning.
Clara was still upstairs. Sebastian was grateful.
He had slept badly and had no desire to discover whether she intended to discuss the terrace.
Or worse, avoid it. Fane entered the library carrying a new bundle of papers.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning.”
“I assume the ball was successful.”
“Leave.”
“I have information.”
Sebastian gestured toward the desk.
“Then become useful.”
Fane sat.
“We traced several of Adrian’s private withdrawals.”
Sebastian’s attention sharpened immediately.
“Bellamere?”
“Partly.”
Fane spread the records.
“Over the past two years, Adrian made repeated payments to an individual identified only as M.R.”
“How much?”
“Initially small amounts. Two hundred. Five hundred. Then larger.”
“The total?”
“Nearly six thousand pounds.”
Sebastian frowned.
“For what?”
“No notation.”
“Blackmail?”
“Possibly.”
“Debt?”
“Possibly.”
“You have developed an unhealthy affection for that word.”
“I am a solicitor.”
Sebastian examined the entries. M.R. Payments from different accounts. Two transfers associated indirectly with Bellamere rents.
“Did Adrian visit Sussex?”
“At least three times last year.”
Sebastian looked up.
“He told me he was in Bath.”
“Apparently not.”
A knock came at the door. Clara entered before Sebastian could answer. She wore a morning gown of soft blue and carried several letters. Her gaze met his. For one brief second, the terrace returned. Then she looked toward Fane.
“Mr. Fane.”
He rose.
“Your Grace.”