Chapter Nine A Marriage Becoming Real #2
She had worn it anyway. Now, during the interval, Sebastian’s hand rested briefly at the small of Clara’s back as he guided her behind two chairs.
Perfectly ordinary. Appropriate. Necessary perhaps.
He removed it almost immediately. Clara felt the touch for the rest of the evening.
Lady Winterbourne noticed. Naturally. She noticed everything.
At supper afterward, Cecily leaned toward Clara.
“London thinks you are desperately in love.”
Clara nearly dropped her spoon.
“What?”
Beatrice smiled.
“You had not heard?”
“No.”
Arabella, who had joined them after the theatre, looked disappointed.
“I heard yesterday.”
“Why would anyone think that?”
Every woman at the table stared. Clara looked around.
“What?”
Cecily began kindly.
“Sebastian watches you.”
“He has eyes.”
“Constantly,” Arabella added.
“He is my husband.”
“Precisely.”
Clara turned to Augusta.
“Say something useful.”
Augusta sipped wine.
“I am enjoying myself.”
Beatrice leaned forward.
“Lord Henley told Mama that Ashcombe nearly glared Nicholas Gresham through a wall at Halston’s ball.”
Clara’s heart gave a foolish leap.
“Nonsense.”
“Lord Henley used the word murderous.”
“Lord Henley exaggerates.”
“Only when sober,” Arabella said.
Clara refused to smile. Cecily’s expression gentled.
“They are probably wrong about some details.”
“Thank you.”
“But not all.”
Clara looked down at her plate. The idea that society believed them in love should have amused her.
Instead it touched something tender. Because the story was not entirely absurd anymore.
That was what frightened her. They were not in love.
Not necessarily. Sebastian had wanted her once.
Perhaps still did. He had said he had never stopped.
But wanting and loving were not the same.
And Clara? She did not know what she felt.
She only knew she waited for him before dinner now.
Knew which days his Parliamentary correspondence irritated him.
Knew he disliked overcooked asparagus and never remembered to order new gloves until the old ones were nearly ruined.
She knew the sound of his footsteps outside her sitting room.
Knew when he was tired by the way he loosened his cravat after dinner.
Knew his smile appeared first at one corner.
Knew she wanted him near her. That last fact seemed particularly inconvenient.
Lady Winterbourne caught her eye. Unlike the others, she did not tease.
Clara understood the invitation. Later, while the other women argued over whether Beatrice’s fiancé had behaved badly at Almack’s, Augusta drew Clara toward the smaller drawing room. The door closed.
“You may stop looking alarmed.”
“I am not alarmed.”
“You look as though someone has announced an invasion.”
Clara crossed toward the fire.
“They are being ridiculous.”
“Frequently.”
“About Sebastian.”
Augusta said nothing. Clara turned.
“You too?”
“I have said nothing.”
“You are thinking loudly.”
“Fane’s phrase?”
“Apparently everyone uses it now.”
Augusta sat.
“Do you know what Sebastian wants?”
Clara frowned.
“To resolve Bellamere.”
Augusta looked at her.
“That was not what I asked.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“He wants the family accounts corrected.”
“And after Bellamere?”
Silence. Clara stared at the fire. The question was simple. She had no answer. Augusta watched her.
“Exactly.”
“He has not said.”
“No.”
“Perhaps because there is nothing to say.”
Augusta’s expression softened.
“Do you believe that?”
Clara wanted to. It would be easier. But then there was the portrait. The miniature. The kiss. Eleven years.
“No.”
“Then what frightens you?”
Clara looked sharply at her.
“I did not say I was frightened.”
“You did not need to.”
Clara sat opposite.
“I do not want to misunderstand.”
“That is sensible.”
“I have misunderstood men before.”
“That is unavoidable.”
“I misunderstood Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“And Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
Clara’s voice lowered.
“For eleven years I thought he barely noticed me.”
Augusta’s face changed.
“Yet he did.”
“Yes.”
“That should tell you something.”
“It tells me what he felt then.”
“And now?”
“I don't know.”
Augusta leaned back.
“Then ask.”
Clara almost laughed.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Most things are simple. They are simply not easy.”
Clara looked toward the door.
“If I ask and discover this marriage means less to him than it has begun to mean to me—”
She stopped. Too late. Augusta’s eyes sharpened. Clara looked away. There it was. The admission. Not love. Not yet. But something far beyond convenience. Augusta did not pounce. That was why Clara trusted her. Instead she said quietly, “Then at least you would know.” Clara folded her hands.
“Perhaps after Bellamere.”
Augusta’s expression became sad.
“That phrase is doing a great deal of work in this marriage.”
The legal problem progressed faster than Clara’s courage.
Three days after the theatre, Peter Fane arrived at Ashcombe House shortly before noon with information concerning Lionel Harcourt.
Sebastian was in the library. Clara joined them.
No one questioned whether she belonged in the conversation anymore.
Another change. Fane spread several documents across the desk.
“Lionel visited Adrian’s private solicitor two days before the final will was executed.”
Sebastian looked up.
“Proof?”
“Entry ledger.”
“Why?”
“Not recorded.”
Clara leaned over the page.
“And Adrian?”
“Present.”
Sebastian’s expression hardened at the edges.
“Together?”
“Yes.”
Fane withdrew another paper.
“There is more. Lionel told Sedgewick yesterday that Adrian changed the Bellamere bequest because Miss Whitcombe—that is, Her Grace—would be well provided for through marriage to you.”
Silence. Clara stared. Sebastian understood first.
“What date does the disputed Bellamere page bear?”
“Five weeks before Adrian died.”
“And when did I propose to Clara?”
“After Adrian’s death.”
Fane nodded.
“So Lionel referred to a marriage that did not exist and had not been proposed when Adrian supposedly used it as his reason.”
Clara felt cold.
“He knew.”
Sebastian’s face became hard.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That,” Fane said, “is what I would like to hear him explain.”
Sebastian was already reaching for his coat. Clara caught his sleeve.
“You are going now.”
“Yes.”
“I am coming.”
“No.”
She stared. Sebastian stopped. Fane looked fascinated. Clara’s brows rose.
“Would you like to try that again?”
Sebastian exhaled.
“You do not need to come.”
“That is different.”
“Yes.”
“I am coming.”
“Clara.”
“It is my money, my father’s property and my former fiancé’s will.”
Sebastian looked at Fane. The solicitor studied the ceiling. Sebastian muttered something under his breath. Clara smiled.
“Good. We agree.”
Lionel received them at his rooms in St. James’s. He appeared neither surprised nor alarmed. That disturbed Clara. He was elegantly dressed and perfectly composed, though some tension entered his face when he saw Fane accompanying them.
“Ashcombe. Your Grace.”
Clara inclined her head.
“Mr. Harcourt.”
Lionel offered refreshments. Nobody accepted. Sebastian remained standing.
“You told Sedgewick that Adrian removed Clara from the will because she would be provided for through marriage to me.”
Lionel’s expression changed only fractionally.
“I may have said something to that effect.”
“That would be interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian signed the will before I proposed.”
Silence. Lionel recovered quickly.
“Then I misspoke.”
“No.”
Sebastian’s voice remained calm. Clara had learned this was when he was most dangerous. Lionel looked toward her.
“Perhaps Adrian anticipated the possibility.”
“How?” Clara asked.
Lionel hesitated. She continued.
“Sebastian was in Vienna. Adrian and I had not spoken in eleven years. Upon what possible basis would anyone anticipate our marriage?”
Lionel’s politeness thinned.
“I cannot speak for Adrian’s assumptions.”
“You appear very willing to speak for his decisions.”
Sebastian glanced at her. Something like pride flickered in his eyes. Clara liked it too much. Lionel moved toward the fireplace.
“This is becoming unnecessarily accusatory.”
“Then provide a simple explanation,” Sebastian said.
Lionel turned. For the first time, irritation showed.
“You want simplicity? Fine. Adrian intended to return money his father should never have touched.”
Clara went still. Sebastian did too. Lionel realized immediately he had said too much. Clara spoke first.
“So you knew.”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Did Adrian tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lionel paced once.
“Because he was frightened.”
“Of scandal?”
“Of destroying the family.”
Sebastian’s face hardened.
“The family survived worse than truth.”
“You say that because you inherited everything.”
Sebastian stepped closer.
“I inherited responsibility for what was done.”
“And you intend to publicize it?”
“If necessary.”
Lionel stared.
“Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes.”
“Your father used funds improperly. Adrian helped conceal some transfers. If this becomes public, every Harcourt transaction for twenty years will be questioned.”
“Then perhaps they should be.”
Clara looked at him. That answer mattered. Not because of money. Because Sebastian did not hesitate. Lionel gave an incredulous laugh.
“You would damage the dukedom for this?”
Sebastian’s expression did not change.
“For truth?”
“For forty thousand pounds.”
Clara stiffened. Sebastian became very still. Then his voice lowered.
“You will not reduce what happened to a sum on a page.”
Lionel’s mouth tightened.
“My father may have stolen from the Whitcombes. My brother may have concealed it. Clara bore financial and personal consequences from both men for eleven years. If correcting that damages the Harcourt name, then the name deserves the damage.”