Chapter Ten The Wrong Woman
Sebastian knew something was wrong before Clara said a word.
He had returned from his meeting with Fane shortly before dinner expecting to find her in the smaller drawing room, because Clara had developed the habit of waiting there with a book whenever he was late.
Instead the room was empty. Her shawl did not lie across the back of the chair, no newspaper had been folded beside the fire, and the little writing desk near the window remained undisturbed.
Nothing about the absence should have alarmed him.
It did. By the time he reached the dining room, Clara was already seated.
That was worse. She wore dark blue silk and looked as composed as she had on the morning they married.
Her hair was arranged neatly, her expression calm, and the formal perfection of the scene made Sebastian feel as though someone had removed three weeks of intimacy from the house while he was elsewhere. He stopped beside his chair.
“You started without me.”
Clara looked up.
“No. I was waiting.”
The words were correct. The tone was not.
Sebastian sat. A footman served soup. For several minutes they discussed nothing.
The silence did not resemble their early married awkwardness.
Then, they had been two people attempting to discover how to speak naturally across a table.
Now they knew perfectly well how to speak.
Clara was choosing not to. Sebastian endured until the servants withdrew after the second course.
“What happened?”
Clara glanced at him.
“Today?”
“Between breakfast and now.”
“Several things.”
“Clara.”
Her fingers paused against the stem of her wineglass. Sebastian saw it then. Not anger. Hurt. His entire body tightened.
“What did I do?”
She gave him a faint smile.
“An efficient question.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
He waited. Clara looked toward the candle between them.
“I came to your study this afternoon.”
Sebastian’s stomach dropped. He knew before she continued.
“You were with Mr. Fane.”
“Yes.”
“I heard enough.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Clara.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
“There is every need if you heard only part of the conversation.”
“I heard you ask how easily I might establish a separate household.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. So she had heard the worst possible fragment.
“I can explain.”
“I am sure.”
The politeness frightened him. He leaned forward.
“The papers settling Bellamere are almost complete.”
“Yes.”
“The recovered funds will be transferred directly to you.”
“Yes.”
“Once that happens, your financial position changes entirely.”
Clara’s expression did not move.
“You no longer need me.”
He heard the sentence only after he said it. The instant it left him, Sebastian knew it was wrong. Not factually. Emotionally. Catastrophically. Clara went still. He tried to correct it.
“That is not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What did you mean?”
“That you no longer need to remain married because of the financial problem.”
The silence that followed was worse. Sebastian heard himself and wanted the words back. Clara lowered her gaze.
“I see.”
“You do not.”
“I think I do.”
“No. You heard me badly because I explained badly.”
Her smile was small and painfully dignified.
“Then explain well.”
Sebastian struggled. The problem was simple in his mind and impossible in language.
He loved her. Therefore he must not trap her.
Every day since Bellamere had made that more urgent, not less.
Clara had married him because her father was at risk, because the trust clause required speed, because forty thousand pounds and Bellamere stood between her family and ruin.
Now those pressures were disappearing. If she remained after that, Sebastian needed to know she did so because she wanted him.
Not because he had made leaving complicated.
“I asked Fane about a separate household because I want every choice open to you.”
Clara’s face tightened.
“Every choice.”
“Yes.”
“You thought it important to prepare for my departure before asking whether I wished to depart.”
Sebastian stopped. The accusation landed directly.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“When the settlement was complete.”
“After Mr. Fane had prepared everything.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
He heard the echo of their proposal. Administrative convenience. What had once amused her now hurt. Sebastian stood.
“Clara, I am not trying to send you away.”
She looked up.
“Then what are you trying to do?”
“Make certain you know you are free.”
“Free of what?”
He stared. The question was devastating because he had no safe answer. Free of me. Free of obligation. Free of a marriage you entered under pressure. Clara saw his hesitation. Something in her expression closed.
“Of course.”
“Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I mean before I have managed to say it.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“You have managed several things perfectly well.”
“That you no longer need me,” she said. “That your purpose in marrying me has been achieved. That I may establish a separate household whenever convenient.”
Sebastian’s control frayed.
“I did not say I wanted that.”
“You did not say you wanted anything else.”
He went silent. There it was. The truth he kept refusing to give her.
Clara waited. Sebastian wanted to say it.
He almost did. Then fear intervened. Not fear that she would reject him.
He could survive that. Fear that she would accept because of gratitude, confusion or the emotional momentum of everything they had discovered.
He had already spent years making decisions for Clara because he believed he was protecting her.
He did not recognize the irony yet. He only knew he could not bear to make love into another obligation she had to repay.
Clara read his silence as something else. She stood. Her posture was perfect. Duchess of Ashcombe. Not Clara at breakfast stealing his newspapers. Not the woman who kissed him at Bellamere. The duchess.
“If you wish us to live separately after the Season, I will comply.”
Sebastian felt the words like a blow.
“What?”
“It is what we discussed before the wedding.”
“No.”
Her brows lifted.
“No?”
“I mean—yes. It was discussed. But I did not say that is what I wish.”
“You are arranging it.”
“I am ensuring it is possible.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“How considerate.”
He heard the pain.
“Clara.”
“You need not worry. I shall not make a scene.”
“That is not what I am worried about.”
“I will remain until the end of the Season. That avoids speculation and gives Papa time to settle Whitcombe.”
Sebastian stared. She was planning it now. Actually planning departure. His chest tightened so sharply he could barely breathe.
“That is what you want?”
Clara looked at him. For one instant, something vulnerable appeared. Then it vanished.
“If it is what you want.”
Sebastian heard only the first half. If. Conditional. He had spent years expecting Clara to choose anyone but him. The old instinct returned. She wanted freedom. He must give it. He forced himself to nod.
“If that is your decision.”
Clara’s face went pale. There it was. Agreement. Confirmation. Another Harcourt telling her she could go. She inclined her head.
“Then we understand one another.”
No, Sebastian thought. They understood nothing.
But the servants were returning. And Clara had already become untouchably composed.
Dinner resumed. They discussed weather. The Halston ball.
Sir Edmund’s health. It was unbearable. For the next three days, Ashcombe House became polite.
Sebastian had never before understood how terrible politeness could be.
Clara still appeared at breakfast, but she no longer waited if he was late.
She returned his newspaper untouched. The notes stopped.
His correspondence remained exactly where he left it.
At dinner she was warm enough to prevent servants noticing anything and distant enough to make every course feel endless.
He hated it. He hated himself more. Twice he went to her sitting room intending to explain.
Twice he stopped outside. He did not know what explanation could undo the central fact: he had offered her freedom because he loved her and she had interpreted freedom as evidence he did not.
The simplest solution would be to tell her everything.
Sebastian had spent eleven years avoiding simple solutions.
It was becoming a family tradition. Fane noticed the change on the second morning.
“You look worse than before your wedding.”
Sebastian signed a document without reading it.
“Thank you.”
“Has Her Grace seen the settlement papers?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She will.”
Fane looked at him. Sebastian continued writing. The solicitor waited. Eventually Sebastian dropped the pen.
“What?”
“You asked me to prepare information about a separate household.”
“Yes.”
“I assume she learned of it.”
Sebastian looked sharply at him. Fane sighed.
“You have the subtlety of artillery.”
“She overheard.”
“Ah.”
“She thinks I want her to leave.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then tell her.”
Sebastian stared. Fane removed his spectacles.
“This is why I prefer property disputes. Land rarely requires emotional clarity.”
“She may want to leave.”
“Has she said so?”
“She said she would.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Sebastian rubbed a hand across his face.
“She said she would if I wanted it.”
Fane stared. Then put his spectacles back on.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Peter.”
“I am considering whether confidentiality permits me to tell a duke he is an idiot.”
“It does not.”
“A pity.”
Sebastian stood.
“She married me because she had no practical alternative.”
“Initially.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
“She must be able to choose afterward.”
“Certainly.”
“Then why does everyone speak as though giving her a choice is wrong?”
Fane’s expression became unexpectedly gentle.
“Because you are offering the choice without telling her what she is choosing between.”
Sebastian went still. Fane gathered his papers.