Chapter Eight The Brother She Never Saw
“I did.”
For several seconds after the words left him, Sebastian heard nothing except rain striking the windows of Bellamere and the occasional crack of the fire behind Clara.
She stood opposite him in the small sitting room, her hands loosely clasped before her, staring as though he had abruptly begun speaking another language.
Sebastian had imagined telling Clara the truth in several different forms over the years.
None had involved a leaking roof, a storm over Sussex and his wife standing before him in a borrowed bedchamber while he wore no cravat. Perhaps that was fitting.
Nothing about their marriage had occurred in the manner he once imagined. Clara recovered first.
“You commissioned it.”
“Yes.”
“The portrait in the attic.”
“Yes.”
“Of me.”
Sebastian almost smiled.
“That is generally how portraits work.”
“Do not become amusing now.”
“I am not trying to.”
“You are failing.”
He looked away. That was easier than looking at her.
The fire had begun to settle, and one of the logs shifted with a small shower of sparks.
Sebastian crossed to the hearth and adjusted it unnecessarily, because doing something with his hands seemed preferable to standing motionless beneath Clara’s scrutiny.
Behind him she said, “Why?” There it was.
The question he had avoided for eleven years. Sebastian replaced the poker.
“I admired you.”
Silence. Then Clara said, “No.” He turned.
“No?”
“I do not believe you.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Men do not secretly commission portraits of women they merely admire.”
“I cannot speak for all men.”
“I am speaking about you.”
Sebastian folded his arms.
“Perhaps I possessed an unusual enthusiasm for portraiture.”
“You do not.”
“How do you know?”
“I have seen your picture gallery. Half your ancestors look as though you would happily turn them toward the wall.”
He almost laughed. This was becoming impossible. Clara took a step closer.
“You bought the miniature too, didn't you?”
His silence answered. Her eyes widened.
“The charity exhibition.”
“Yes.”
“The anonymous bidder.”
“Yes.”
“You paid twenty-five guineas.”
Sebastian frowned.
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone knew. It became a joke for a week because no one could understand why anyone had paid twenty-five guineas for a miniature that was worth perhaps six.”
“It was for charity.”
For a moment, Clara could find no answer.
“You paid nineteen additional guineas for widows?”
“I am a generous man.”
“You are an appalling liar.”
He looked toward the window. Clara made an exasperated sound.
“Sebastian.”
“What would you like me to say?”
“The truth would be refreshing.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“You admired me.”
“Yes.”
“So greatly that you bought my miniature anonymously, commissioned a larger portrait from it and sent that portrait to Bellamere.”
“When described that way, it does sound somewhat excessive.”
“It sounds deranged.”
“That too.”
Her mouth twitched. Then the humor disappeared.
“Why Bellamere?”
Sebastian hesitated. Because he had imagined bringing her there.
Because Bellamere had been one of the few family properties his father allowed him some control over at twenty-four.
Because when Sebastian imagined marrying Clara Whitcombe, he imagined giving her somewhere gentler than Ashcombe Park and less public than the London house.
He had been young. Foolishly certain. He had believed intention naturally preceded opportunity. Then Adrian proposed.
“The house was partly under my management then,” he said.
“Why?”
“My father considered it too insignificant to interest him.”
“And you?”
“I liked it.”
Clara’s expression softened.
“So did I.”
“I know.”
“You cannot possibly know.”
“You told me yesterday.”
“That is cheating.”
Sebastian almost smiled. Clara did not allow the distraction.
“Why did you want my portrait here?”
He could feel the truth pressing against years of silence. He had already given her too much to retreat gracefully. Perhaps there had never been a graceful version of this conversation.
“Because I thought you might come here one day.”
Clara became very still. Sebastian wished immediately that he had phrased it differently. There was no different phrasing.
“What does that mean?”
He said nothing. Her eyes searched his face. Then understanding began. Not complete. Enough.
“Oh.”
Sebastian turned away.
“Sebastian.”
He walked to the window.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Ask the next question unless you want the answer.”
“I think I do.”
“You may not.”
“That is not your decision.”
“No.”
He knew that. He had known it from the moment he confessed about the portrait. Clara moved closer. He could see her reflection in the dark glass.
“Why did you think I might come to Bellamere?”
Sebastian closed his eyes briefly. Then turned.
“Because I intended to court you.”
The room became silent. Even the storm seemed momentarily distant. Clara stared at him.
“What?”
“At twenty-four, I intended to ask your father for permission to court you.”
Her lips parted. Sebastian continued because stopping would only make the confession worse.
“I had already spoken to mine.”
“Your father knew?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He objected.”
Clara blinked.
“Of course he did.”
Despite everything, Sebastian nearly smiled.
“That was approximately my response.”
“Why?”
“The Whitcombes were respectable but not wealthy enough for his ambitions.”
“I see.”
“He had ideas involving an heiress.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I have forgotten.”
The words caught Clara unprepared.
“You forgot the woman your father wanted you to marry?”
“I was not interested in her.”
“Apparently.”
The word carried something he could not identify. She turned away and walked slowly toward the fire. Sebastian watched her.
“I told him I intended to proceed anyway.”
She stopped.
“You defied him?”
“I intended to.”
“Over me?”
“Yes.”
The single word changed the air again. Clara looked down at her hands. Sebastian had never seen her without an answer for so long. At last she said, “I thought you disliked me.” He stared.
“What?”
“At eighteen.”
“Why?”
“You hardly spoke to me.”
Sebastian almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
“I was attempting not to make a fool of myself.”
“You succeeded magnificently. I thought you were cold.”
“I was terrified.”
Clara turned.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“Frequently.”
Her expression became incredulous.
“Why?”
“Because you talked to me.”
She laughed. Sebastian felt the old, familiar tightening in his chest. Exactly that. That laugh. Eleven years ago he had arranged entire evenings around the possibility of hearing it.
“I do not understand,” Clara said.
“There is not much to understand.”
“There is everything to understand.”
She began walking slowly, as though movement helped her think.
“You intended to court me.”
“Yes.”
“You had spoken to your father.”
“Yes.”
“You bought my miniature.”
“Yes.”
“And commissioned that portrait.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Shortly before Adrian proposed.”
Clara stopped. The name changed everything. Sebastian knew it would.
“When exactly?”
He remembered the date. Of course he did.
“Two weeks before.”
Clara stared.
“Two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“And then Adrian proposed.”
“Yes.”
“Three weeks before you intended to approach Papa?”
“Approximately.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Approximately?”
“I intended to speak to him after the Stanton ball.”
Clara went still.
“The ball where my slipper broke.”
“Yes.”
“You danced with me.”
“Yes.”
“I remember.”
“So do I.”
She looked at him for a long time.
“What happened?”
“Adrian proposed before I did.”
“And you simply withdrew?”
“What else should I have done?”
“Tell me.”
“You had accepted him.”
“You might have said something.”
“To what purpose?”
“I do not know.”
“Neither did I.”
His voice hardened despite himself.
“You were engaged to my brother. Whatever I wanted ceased to matter.”
Clara looked away. Sebastian regretted the sharpness. He lowered his voice.
“I thought you were happy.”
“I thought I was.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I saw you.”
He remembered too much. Clara with Adrian at Hyde Park.
Clara smiling across Lady Stanton’s drawing room.
Clara wearing the bracelet Adrian gave her.
Every glimpse had been self-inflicted punishment.
Sebastian had withdrawn from society because watching them together became intolerable, and because his father had watched him watching. Clara’s brow furrowed.
“You disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“I remember asking Adrian where you were.”
Sebastian’s chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
“That you had estate business.”
“Partly true.”
“I thought you were avoiding me because you disapproved of the engagement.”
“I was avoiding you because I approved of your right to choose it.”
Clara’s attention fixed on him.
“That is a very Sebastian answer.”
“I do not know what that means.”
“Honorable and maddening.”
He almost smiled. She did not. Instead she asked the question he had feared since the moment the conversation began.
“Did Adrian know?”
Sebastian went still.
“I don't know.”
“You never told him?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
The question landed harder. Sebastian looked toward the fire.
“Possibly.”
Clara’s face changed.
“Sebastian.”
“My father knew.”
“And Adrian spoke to him.”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Frequently.”
“So Adrian might have known.”
“Yes.”
The word tasted bitter. Sebastian had considered the possibility before.
Years ago. He had rejected it because accepting it required believing Adrian capable of proposing to Clara partly to defeat him.
Adrian had been competitive. Reckless. Frequently selfish.
But that? Sebastian had not wanted to believe it. Clara sank into the chair.
“This is absurd.”
“I know.”
“My entire memory of that year is becoming unreliable.”
“No.”
She looked up sharply.
“It is.”
“Your memory is yours. The facts around it were incomplete.”
“That is almost worse.”