Chapter Nine A Marriage Becoming Real
By the time Clara and Sebastian returned to London, the marriage they had negotiated in Lady Winterbourne’s library no longer seemed to exist in quite the same form.
Nothing had been formally altered. There had been no discussion of new terms, no solemn acknowledgment that something essential had changed, and certainly no sensible conversation about what happened after two people who had agreed upon separate rooms began kissing in country-house studies while examining evidence of family fraud.
Yet boundaries were treacherous things once habit began crossing them.
The first alteration concerned breakfast.
Sebastian had always claimed eight o’clock was a civilized hour at which a rational man might begin his day.
Clara considered any hour containing an eight inappropriate for meaningful conversation and habitually appeared at nine, by which time she expected coffee to be hot, toast to remain available and newspapers to have survived Sebastian’s attention.
Within a fortnight of their return, he was arriving at nine too.
Neither mentioned it. On the third morning Clara was already seated when Sebastian entered carrying two newspapers and a book.
“You are late,” she said.
“I live here.”
“You said that before.”
“Then the argument remains sound.”
“You have become repetitive.”
“Marriage does that to a man.”
He placed one newspaper beside her. Clara looked down. The Morning Chronicle. Her preference. Sebastian sat opposite with The Times. She watched him unfold it.
“You went downstairs for these.”
“A heroic expedition.”
“Rawlings usually brings them.”
“He brought the wrong one.”
“For you?”
“For you.”
Clara said nothing. Sebastian looked over the top of his paper.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That has become your least convincing answer.”
She poured coffee. The gesture concealed a smile.
This was how it happened. Not dramatically.
Not through declarations. Through newspapers.
Through Sebastian remembering that she preferred one political correspondent to another and apparently considering the matter important enough to correct before breakfast. The kiss at Bellamere had not been discussed.
That should have made the return to London awkward.
Instead it had made everything more intimate.
Not openly. No one had changed bedrooms. Sebastian still stopped at the bottom of the staircase each evening, wished Clara good night and went toward his own suite.
But now there was a moment before they separated.
A pause. Sometimes no more than a second.
Once his fingers touched hers as he handed back a book, and neither moved quickly enough for the contact to remain accidental.
Clara thought about that for an unreasonable length of time.
She thought about Bellamere more. About Adrian’s letter.
About Sebastian telling her he had intended to court her before Adrian ever proposed.
About twenty-four-year-old Sebastian buying her miniature anonymously, commissioning a portrait and somehow carrying eleven years of feeling without ever demanding anything from her.
Most dangerously, she thought about the kiss.
Not the first ceremonial one in Augusta’s chapel.
The second. The real one. She remembered the pressure of Sebastian’s hands at her waist, the brief loss of his extraordinary self-control and the way he had looked afterward, as though hope were something dangerous enough to frighten him.
Clara understood that feeling now. Hope was much more difficult than certainty.
She had spent years being certain she would never marry.
Then certain this marriage was practical.
Certain Sebastian wanted nothing beyond the arrangement.
Certainty had kept things orderly. Hope made breakfast dangerous.
Sebastian turned a page. Clara reached across and stole the financial section from beneath his hand.
He looked down.
“Did you just take part of my newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“I was reading that.”
“You were reading Parliament.”
“I intended to reach finance.”
“You are too slow.”
He stared at her. Clara opened the sheet.
“I am Duchess of Ashcombe. I believe possession follows proximity.”
“That is not how property law works.”
“It may be how marriage works.”
Something in his face shifted. The joke became suddenly less harmless.
Clara felt it too. She lowered the paper.
Sebastian’s gaze remained on her. Then he said lightly, “Fane would be horrified.” The moment passed.
Mostly. Clara began reading. But underneath the table, where Sebastian could not see, her toes curled inside her slippers.
The second alteration concerned notes. Ashcombe House was large enough that two people might spend an entire day beneath the same roof without meeting unless they deliberately attempted it.
Clara and Sebastian began attempting it through paper.
The first note arrived while Clara was receiving Mrs. Pritchard and her three daughters.
A footman entered carrying a folded square upon a silver tray.
Clara apologized and opened it beneath the interested gaze of all four women.
The message contained only one line. Fane has found another Bellamere receipt.
Do not agree to anything tiresome before I return. Clara smiled. Mrs. Pritchard noticed.
“Good news, Your Grace?”
“My husband believes I may accidentally agree to something tiresome.”
“How very thoughtful.”
“Indeed.”
Clara turned the page and wrote beneath Sebastian’s line.
Then come home before Lady Ralston persuades me to chair her committee.
She folded the paper and returned it to the footman.
An hour later another note arrived. Under no circumstances accept.
She has already asked me for money. Clara laughed aloud.
That was how it began. Afterward there were messages about estate accounts, dinner times, callers and books.
Your aunt is here. Which one? The frightening one.
That does not narrow it sufficiently. Or: You moved my correspondence.
I improved it. I can no longer find anything.
Exactly. Sebastian began leaving books on Clara’s desk.
Never with romantic inscriptions. That would have been too obvious.
Instead there would be a narrow slip of paper between the pages.
You complained that the Ashcombe library lacked this.
Or: You said the author was impossible to find.
The first time it happened, Clara carried the book directly to his study.
Sebastian was standing behind the desk with Fane.
Neither man looked surprised when she entered without being announced.
That itself marked a change. Fane glanced toward the door.
“I remember when duchesses knocked.”
Clara placed the book on Sebastian’s desk.
“I remember when solicitors knew their place.”
Fane looked delighted. Sebastian did not even look up from the document he was reading.
“What have you reorganized now?”
“Your expectations.”
“Those were already in disorder.”
She tapped the book.
“You found it.”
Sebastian glanced down.
“Apparently.”
“In Edinburgh.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I asked.”
“Sebastian.”
He looked at her.
“You mentioned it.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“I remember things.”
Clara knew. That was the problem. Fane looked between them.
“I could leave.”
“No,” Sebastian said.
“Yes,” Clara said.
Fane rose immediately.
“I shall obey the duchess. She appears more dangerous.”
Sebastian waited until the door closed.
“You have intimidated my solicitor.”
“He enjoys it.”
“That is probably true.”
Clara lifted the book.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
She should have left. Instead she remained. Sebastian looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That answer again.”
Clara walked around the desk.
“Your correspondence really was badly arranged.”
“It was arranged chronologically.”
“Which means you had to remember dates instead of subjects.”
“I remember dates.”
“Other people have lives.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved. She had reached for one bundle of letters when his hand closed gently around her wrist. Not tightly.
Just enough. Clara stopped. The room changed.
They looked at each other. Sebastian’s thumb rested over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse beat directly beneath it.
He felt it. She knew because his gaze lowered for a moment.
Then returned to her face. Neither mentioned Bellamere.
Neither needed to. Clara should have withdrawn.
She did not. Sebastian’s fingers loosened slowly.
“You are interfering with government papers.”
“These are estate leases.”
“The principle stands.”
His voice was lower. Clara smiled faintly.
“Coward.”
Sebastian’s brows lifted. Then she walked away before discovering whether he would challenge the accusation.
London, meanwhile, had decided their marriage was romantic.
Clara learned this at the theatre. They attended Drury Lane with Lady Winterbourne, Cecily and Beatrice, though society appeared less interested in the performance than in whether the Duke and Duchess of Ashcombe would behave like two people who regretted marrying one another.
Apparently they did not. The box provided an excellent view of the stage and an even better view of half the audience observing them. Clara pretended not to notice.
She wore dark green silk, a pearl comb in her hair and the diamond bracelet Sebastian’s mother once owned, which he had handed to her that afternoon with the awkwardness of a man offering evidence in court.
“It belongs with the title,” he had said.
Clara examined the bracelet.
“Not with the woman?”
Sebastian looked almost alarmed.
“With whichever woman holds the title.”
“That was safer.”
“I thought so.”