Chapter Eight The Brother She Never Saw #2
Sebastian understood. Adrian had already taken enough from her. Now the truth threatened to contaminate what little she had preserved of her younger self. Clara pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“I thought you were indifferent.”
“I was not.”
“I thought Adrian loved me.”
Sebastian said nothing. She looked up.
“Did he?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“You knew him.”
“That does not mean I knew what he felt.”
“Did he ever speak about me?”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He was pleased.”
“With me?”
“With the engagement.”
The distinction mattered. Clara heard it.
Her face paled slightly. Sebastian hated Adrian then.
Not abstractly. Not as the dead brother whose debts and cowardice he was cleaning up.
Personally. Violently. For taking a young woman’s trust and turning it into a contest she never knew she had entered.
But he did not know that was what happened.
Not yet. He refused to convict even Adrian without proof.
“Clara, we do not know.”
“No.”
“Do not rewrite everything tonight.”
“How can I not?”
“Because you have learned too much in one day already.”
Her attention settled on him.
“And you have decided what I am capable of hearing?”
“No.”
“It sounds very much like it.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“That you are tired.”
“I am not.”
“You have traveled half Sussex, discovered your mother’s money was stolen, learned Adrian helped conceal part of the fraud and found an unfinished portrait commissioned by the brother you later married.”
When he listed it that way, even Sebastian thought the day sounded excessive. Clara’s mouth twitched despite herself.
“That is annoyingly persuasive.”
“I try.”
She looked at him. The humor disappeared.
“You wanted me.”
The words were quiet. Sebastian felt them physically.
“Yes.”
“Before Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He should not answer. Clara waited. Sebastian had spent eleven years not answering.
“Enough.”
“That is evasive.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to commission a portrait?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to defy your father?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to marry me?”
His control tightened.
“That question belongs to the present.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
Clara rose. Sebastian watched her cross the space between them. One step. Then another. He should move. He did not. She stopped directly before him.
“Did you stop?”
His throat tightened.
“Stop what?”
“Wanting me.”
The question was too direct. Too dangerous. Sebastian looked down at her. Clara’s face was open in a way he had rarely seen. Not vulnerable exactly. Searching. He could lie. He had done enough of that by omission.
“No.”
Her breath changed. The storm pressed against the windows. Sebastian heard nothing else. Clara lifted her hand. Touched his coat. Barely. Then rose onto her toes. He knew what she intended. He wanted it. God, he wanted it. Her mouth was almost against his when he caught her gently by the shoulders.
“Clara.”
She stopped. Confusion entered her eyes. Sebastian stepped back. The hurt came immediately. He saw it.
“No.”
She pulled away.
“Of course.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“What else could it mean?”
“You have just learned—”
“Do not.”
“Clara.”
“I said do not.”
Anger replaced hurt. Better. He could withstand anger.
“I am not an invalid.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
“I am not.”
“You almost kissed me yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight I try to kiss you and suddenly I am too emotionally fragile to understand what I am doing?”
A muscle moved briefly along Sebastian’s jaw.
“That is not fair.”
“No? It feels remarkably fair from here.”
“You discovered ten minutes ago that I intended to court you before Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“And that he may have known.”
“Yes.”
“You are upset.”
“I am furious.”
“Exactly.”
“With him. Not you.”
Sebastian struggled for restraint.
“I will not take advantage of that.”
Her expression hardened.
“You think kissing me would be taking advantage.”
“Tonight? Perhaps.”
“Then yesterday?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“You did not know.”
“Know what?”
“That I—”
He stopped. Clara’s eyes sharpened.
“That you what?”
Sebastian could not finish. Not because the truth had changed.
Because saying it now would transform everything.
That I loved you. That I still do. That every boundary I have kept since the wedding exists because I am terrified you will mistake gratitude for love and wake one day realizing I allowed it.
He could not put that burden on her tonight. Clara gave a short laugh without humor.
“Exactly.”
She turned.
“Clara.”
“I am tired.”
He closed his eyes. Of course she was. She crossed toward the adjoining dressing room. At the door she stopped.
“I do not require pity, Sebastian.”
He stared.
“Pity?”
“That is what restraint becomes when it is constantly imposed for someone else’s good.”
“That is not what this is.”
“Then perhaps one day you will explain what it is.”
She closed the door. Sebastian remained beside the fire.
The storm continued outside. He had done the honorable thing.
It felt remarkably like failure. Morning arrived clear and cold.
The storm had blown itself east, leaving the Downs washed beneath a pale blue sky.
Clara was already at breakfast when Sebastian entered. She looked rested. He knew better.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Polite. He hated it. Mrs. Penrose poured coffee.
Clara asked about the roof. Mrs. Penrose explained that two men had gone up to inspect the damage.
Sebastian discussed timber. Clara discussed plaster.
Neither mentioned the previous night. By nine they were in Adrian’s old study.
The room occupied the eastern corner of Bellamere and had apparently been used only during his occasional visits.
Papers remained in several drawers, though most were mundane.
Estate rents. Repairs. Correspondence about horses.
Sebastian worked at the desk. Clara examined a cabinet near the window. Their conversation remained practical.
“Anything?”
“No.”
“Here?”
“Receipts.”
“Useful?”
“Only if you are concerned Adrian overpaid for claret.”
Sebastian looked up.
“Did he?”
“Appallingly.”
“Burn the evidence.”
Clara almost smiled. Almost. They continued. By eleven, Sebastian had found nothing relevant. Frustration built. The missing ledger had to have been kept somewhere. Rooke believed Adrian possessed it. Lionel had visited. The final will had changed. Someone knew. Clara knelt beside a lower cabinet.
“This drawer will not close.”
Sebastian glanced over.
“Force it.”
“I thought dukes employed people to say more intelligent things.”
“They are expensive.”
She pulled the drawer out. Stopped.
“What?”
Clara ran her fingers along the interior.
“The depth is wrong.”
Sebastian crossed toward her. She looked up.
“The cabinet is deeper than the drawer.”
He crouched beside her. Together they examined the space.
There was a narrow panel at the rear. Sebastian pressed it.
Nothing. Clara reached around the edge. A click sounded.
The false back opened. Inside lay a packet of letters.
Neither moved. Then Clara reached in. The paper was tied with faded blue ribbon.
Sebastian recognized Adrian’s handwriting on the first envelope.
His stomach tightened. Clara saw the name.
Her name. Miss Clara Whitcombe. Brook Street.
London. The envelope had never been sealed.
Her fingers trembled. Sebastian noticed.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“Stay.”
He remained. She untied the ribbon. The letter was dated eleven years earlier.
Four days after Adrian disappeared. Clara unfolded it.
Sebastian looked away. He had no right to read it unless she asked.
For several minutes the room remained silent.
Then Clara made a sound. Small. Not quite a gasp.
Sebastian turned. Her face had gone white.
“What?”
She held out the page.
“Read it.”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
Sebastian took the letter. Adrian’s handwriting was hurried.
The first lines were an apology. A poor one.
He wrote that he had no defense for leaving.
That Clara deserved an explanation he had been too ashamed to give.
Then Sebastian reached the middle. His vision narrowed.
Adrian had known. Not every detail. Enough.
He had realized Sebastian intended to approach Sir Edmund.
Their father had told him during an argument.
Adrian had been angry. Jealous. Tired of being the younger son who inherited none of the responsibility and received none of the respect. Then he had seen Clara.
Beautiful. Admired. Wanted by Sebastian.
And Adrian had decided, in his own words, that he wished “for once to win something Sebastian had already chosen.” Sebastian stopped reading.
Rage rose so swiftly he had to put the letter down.
Clara sat motionless. He forced himself to continue.
Adrian wrote that he had expected the satisfaction to last. Instead Clara trusted him.
She spoke about their future as though it were real.
She asked about houses and children and whether his mother’s rose garden might be restored.
The closer the wedding came, the more Adrian understood what he had done.
He had not merely competed with Sebastian.
He had taken Clara’s future into the competition.
He had intended to confess. Each day he postponed it.
Then three days before the wedding he fled.
Cowardice was the word Adrian used. Not confusion.
Not fear. Cowardice. He wrote that Clara deserved a man who chose her for herself rather than because another man wanted her first. He wrote that he intended to return and explain everything.
He never sent the letter. Sebastian lowered the page.
The silence afterward felt enormous. Clara stared at the floor.
“He knew.”
Sebastian’s voice was rough.
“Yes.”
“I should have told him.”