Chapter Seven Bellamere
By the time the Ashcombe carriage reached the outskirts of London, Clara had discovered three things about traveling with her husband.
Sebastian disliked unnecessary luggage, considered six horses an entirely reasonable response to a journey that might have been accomplished with four, and possessed an extraordinary ability to read estate correspondence while the carriage pitched over ruts deep enough to rearrange Clara’s internal organs.
She discovered the third quality somewhere beyond Croydon, when the left wheel struck a particularly vicious hollow and Clara’s book flew from her lap.
Sebastian caught it before it reached the floor.
He did not look up from the letter in his other hand. Clara stared at him.
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Catch my book.”
He handed it back.
“It was falling.”
“Yes. I had noticed that part.”
He returned to the letter. Clara waited. Sebastian eventually looked up.
“What?”
“You are very irritating in carriages.”
“I was unaware I had acquired a separate personality for travel.”
“You have. It is extremely efficient.”
“I apologize.”
“You do not.”
“No.”
Clara looked out of the window to hide her smile.
London had gradually fallen behind them, brick and smoke giving way to villages, hedgerows and the wet green fields of Surrey.
The morning had begun bright enough, but by noon the sky had thickened into gray and a fine rain streaked the carriage windows.
Bellamere lay near the Sussex Downs, sufficiently distant that Sebastian had planned the journey with an overnight stop only if weather demanded it.
The weather appeared determined to demand everything.
Clara settled deeper into the corner. Across from her, Sebastian returned to his papers.
She watched him instead. That had become a problem.
Before their marriage, Sebastian’s presence had been easy to understand.
He was the Duke of Ashcombe, Adrian’s elder brother and the man attempting to untangle a financial wrong done to Clara’s family.
Then he became her husband. That should have made matters clearer.
It had not. Marriage had transformed Sebastian into a collection of contradictions.
A duke who knew the price of coal. A man who remembered her preference for yellow roses but claimed to have no particular reason for doing so.
A husband who gave her access to every household account yet guarded his own feelings with the determination of a government cipher clerk.
A man who had nearly kissed her on a terrace and then retreated as though desire itself constituted a breach of contract.
Clara had spent the days since Halston’s ball attempting not to think about that moment.
She had failed. Spectacularly. She remembered the way Sebastian had looked at her before he bent toward her.
There had been nothing dutiful in his expression.
Nothing administrative. Nothing remotely convenient.
Then the footman appeared, Sebastian stepped away and the moment vanished.
The following morning he assured her he had not regretted it. That should have been sufficient.
Instead it had made her more curious. Clara opened her book. Read half a page. Looked at Sebastian again. He lowered the letter.
“You are staring.”
“I am thinking.”
“At my face?”
“Your face is unfortunately in the direction of my thoughts.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“Would you prefer I sit elsewhere?”
“There is nowhere else.”
“A design flaw.”
“Clearly.”
He folded the letter.
“Are you worried about Bellamere?”
The question caught her.
“A little.”
“Why?”
Clara looked down at the book.
“I do not know.”
That was not entirely true. Bellamere had occupied her thoughts since the blue Cowper volume yielded the settlement fragment.
At first the property had been only a name attached to money.
Then came Adrian’s will. Her mother’s marriage portion.
Matthew Rooke. Eleven years of secrecy. Now Bellamere felt almost personal despite Clara never having seen it.
“It is strange,” she said. “To discover that a place one has never visited may have shaped one’s life.”
Sebastian watched her.
“Yes.”
“If my mother’s money was tied to Bellamere, then Papa’s financial difficulties were not simply bad judgment.”
“No.”
“He has blamed himself for years.”
“I know.”
“He should not have.”
“Not entirely.”
Clara looked at him sharply.
“You think he bears some responsibility?”
“I think your father trusted mine when prudence might have advised greater caution.”
“That sounds very ducal.”
“It was intended to sound fair.”
She considered.
“Perhaps.”
Sebastian leaned back.
“My father had a talent for making people believe refusal would be foolish.”
“You did not like him.”
It was not a question. Sebastian’s gaze moved toward the rain-streaked window.
“No.”
Clara waited. He rarely spoke about the late duke.
She knew enough of him from memory to understand why.
The old Duke of Ashcombe had been impressive in the way monuments were impressive: large, expensive and designed to make everyone nearby feel smaller.
Adrian had feared disappointing him. Sebastian had seemed incapable of fear.
At eighteen, Clara had mistaken that for coldness.
Now she wondered whether it had been armor.
“What was he like as a father?” she asked.
Sebastian’s mouth tightened.
“Demanding.”
“That is diplomatic.”
“I spent years in Vienna.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It answers more than you think.”
Clara closed her book.
“You are very good at not answering questions.”
“So you have mentioned.”
“Repeatedly.”
“I remember.”
Of course he did. Sebastian remembered everything. That thought returned too easily. The carriage lurched. This time Clara caught her own book.
“Improving,” Sebastian said.
“Marriage is educational.”
“So I am discovering.”
They smiled. Then the rain became heavier. Within twenty minutes the countryside disappeared behind a silver curtain. The carriage slowed. Voices sounded outside. Sebastian glanced toward the roof.
“That is not promising.”
The carriage stopped. A footman descended. Several minutes passed before the door opened and Rawlings, Sebastian’s traveling servant, appeared beneath an umbrella.
“Apologies, Your Grace. The road ahead is flooding near the bridge. The coachman recommends waiting.”
“For how long?”
“An hour perhaps. Possibly more.”
Sebastian looked at Clara.
“There is an inn half a mile back.”
“I saw it.”
“We may as well be warm while the road decides whether to remain a road.”
Clara nodded.
“Agreed.”
The carriage turned. The King’s Arms was respectable, crowded and completely unprepared for a duke.
Clara knew this because the innkeeper went pale when Sebastian introduced himself.
Within three minutes, half the staff appeared to have been informed, two maids began polishing things that did not require polishing, and a stable boy dropped a bucket in the yard.
Sebastian watched the commotion with resignation.
“This is why I dislike giving my name.”
Clara removed her damp gloves.
“You might have called yourself Mr. Smith.”
“I do not look like a Smith.”
“What does a Smith look like?”
“Less damp.”
She laughed. The innkeeper hurried toward them.
“Your Grace, Your Grace, we have a private room prepared.”
“One will be sufficient.”
The man’s face collapsed. Clara noticed. Sebastian did too.
“What?”
The innkeeper swallowed.
“There is only one private sitting room available, Your Grace. We have a coaching party from Brighton and a family traveling to London, and the other parlor has already been taken.”
Sebastian looked at Clara. She raised her brows.
“One room?”
“For sitting,” Sebastian said.
“An important distinction.”
The innkeeper looked confused. Sebastian ignored him.
“One room is fine.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The room proved small but comfortable, with a fire already burning and two windows overlooking the rain-soaked yard. A table had been laid near the hearth. Clara crossed immediately toward the warmth.
“My feet are wet.”
Sebastian removed his gloves.
“I shall inform Parliament.”
“I am certain they will act.”
“They rarely do.”
The door closed. For the first time since leaving London, they were entirely alone.
Not ballroom alone. Not Ashcombe House alone with servants perpetually nearby.
Actually alone. Clara became aware of it.
Sebastian appeared not to. He removed his traveling coat and draped it over a chair.
Then his formal coat followed. Clara looked away.
Immediately. Ridiculously. He was still entirely respectable.
Waistcoat. Shirt. Cravat. Nothing remotely scandalous.
Yet without the structured dark coat that always seemed part of his public identity, Sebastian looked different.
Less duke. More man. His shoulders appeared broader.
His shirtsleeves pulled slightly when he reached toward the fire.
Clara looked at the window. Rain. Very interesting.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
Sebastian turned. Clara continued staring outside.
“You said your feet were wet.”
“My feet are cold. The rest of me is perfectly satisfactory.”
Silence. Then:
“I see.”
She looked at him. He was trying not to smile.
“Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Sebastian laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised both of them. Clara stared. He recovered.
“That phrase belongs to Fane.”
“I shall return it.”
“You should.”