Chapter Seven Bellamere #4
Clara turned. His expression held no defense of his brother.
No attempt to soften the truth. That mattered.
More than she wanted it to. They left Rooke near dusk.
The documents came with them. So did more questions.
The storm arrived after dinner. Not rain.
A proper Sussex storm. Wind struck the house hard enough to rattle windows, while rain swept across the valley in sheets. Mrs. Penrose apologized repeatedly.
“The west roof has been troublesome, Your Grace.”
Clara looked toward the ceiling of her bedchamber. A drop fell. Then another. Then an alarming stream.
“I see.”
Two maids hurried in carrying basins. Mrs. Penrose looked mortified.
“We had it repaired last autumn.”
Clara stepped aside as another leak appeared near the bed.
“You may wish to request a refund.”
Thunder rolled. A maid squeaked. Clara smiled.
“It is only weather.”
Then water began dripping directly through the canopy above the bed. Mrs. Penrose closed her eyes.
“That room is finished.”
Clara laughed.
“Apparently.”
“The blue chamber is being redecorated, and the south rooms are damp.”
“Is there nowhere else?”
Mrs. Penrose hesitated.
“His Grace’s suite has a dressing room with a daybed.”
Clara became very aware of the thunder.
“I see.”
“It is separate from His Grace’s bedchamber.”
“Of course.”
“Entirely separate.”
“Mrs. Penrose.”
The housekeeper flushed.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“I am married to him.”
“Yes.”
“Then I think we may survive adjoining rooms.”
The servants moved Clara’s necessities. Within twenty minutes, she found herself installed in Sebastian’s dressing room while rain battered the windows.
The arrangement was perfectly respectable.
Entirely practical. And somehow more intimate than sharing a carriage all day.
A connecting sitting room lay between the dressing room and Sebastian’s bedchamber.
When Clara entered it later, she found him beside the fire.
His cravat was gone. His collar open. A glass of brandy stood in his hand.
He looked up. For one second neither spoke.
Clara’s pulse shifted. There was something deeply unfair about discovering that Sebastian became more attractive as his clothing became less formal.
He gestured toward the other chair.
“Is your room dry?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The basin near the window appears optimistic.”
“I will speak to Penrose about the roof.”
“She is already taking it as a personal moral failure.”
Sebastian smiled. Clara sat. The fire warmed her immediately. For a while they said nothing. The day had been long. Rooke’s revelations sat heavily between them. Eventually Sebastian spoke.
“My father stole from yours.”
Clara turned her full attention to him.
“Yes.”
He stared into the fire.
“I am sorry.”
“You did not do it.”
“No.”
“You did not know.”
“No.”
“Then stop apologizing for other men.”
His mouth tightened.
“That is difficult when I inherited everything they protected by doing it.”
Clara understood. Ashcombe House. The estates. The title. All preserved partly because scandal had been buried.
“You are trying to correct it.”
“Late.”
“Still.”
Sebastian studied her face.
“You are generous.”
“No. I am practical.”
“That defense is becoming less convincing.”
She smiled faintly. Thunder sounded again. Clara drew her feet closer to the fire. The portrait returned to her mind. She had postponed the question all afternoon. Now there was nowhere for Sebastian to go without appearing absurd.
“Who commissioned the portrait?”
He went still.
“Clara.”
“Do not Clara me.”
“I was not aware your name had become an evasive tactic.”
“It has when you say it like that.”
Sebastian drank from the brandy. She waited. He looked toward the fire.
“Mrs. Penrose may be mistaken.”
“She is not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you knew the portrait existed.”
He turned.
“I saw your face.”
“That is unreliable evidence.”
“I have been married to you for several weeks. I know your face.”
The words hung there. Sebastian’s expression shifted. Clara continued.
“You were not surprised.”
“I was surprised it was still here.”
There. She leaned forward.
“So you did know.”
Sebastian exhaled.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
No answer.
“Was it Adrian’s?”
“No.”
Clara’s pulse began to quicken.
“Then whose?”
Sebastian set down the glass.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because someone commissioned a portrait of me at eighteen, sent it to an estate I had never visited and left it unfinished for eleven years. I think I am entitled to curiosity.”
His jaw tightened.
“You are.”
“Then answer.”
Sebastian rose. Clara stared.
“You cannot escape into your bedchamber.”
“I am not escaping.”
“You stood up.”
“I think better standing.”
“Then think quickly.”
He gave her a look. Clara almost smiled. Almost. The storm pressed against the windows. Sebastian walked to the mantel. His shoulders were tense. Clara watched him. Something had changed. This was no longer merely about the portrait. She knew it. He knew she knew it.
“Sebastian.”
He closed his eyes briefly. Then turned.
“Adrian didn't commission it.”
Clara’s heart thudded.
“I gathered that.”
Sebastian said nothing. She stood now too. The fire burned between them. Not literally. Enough.
“Who did?”
His gaze held hers. For the first time since she had known him, Sebastian Harcourt looked almost defenseless. Clara barely breathed. Then he said quietly,
“I did.”