Chapter Ten The Wrong Woman #2
“If she believes the choices are staying out of duty or leaving with your approval, you have omitted a third possibility.”
Sebastian already knew what it was. Staying because he loved her.
Because he wanted her. Because she might choose the same.
He hated hope. It made rational men reckless.
The ball at Lady Penhurst’s had been arranged weeks earlier to mark the end of a successful charitable subscription campaign, but London had apparently decided it was also an unofficial celebration of the resolution of the Bellamere affair.
Clara discovered this within four minutes of entering.
People congratulated her. Not only on recovering the funds.
On everything. Her marriage. Her title. Her appearance.
Her ability to have survived the scandal of eleven years earlier and somehow emerged with a duke.
Clara found the entire transformation exhausting.
She entered beside Sebastian, her hand resting formally on his arm.
The gesture would appear intimate to anyone watching.
It felt like theater. Sebastian had spoken little in the carriage.
So had she. He looked magnificent in black and silver, which Clara resented because she would have preferred him to look disappointing.
Instead he looked exactly like what he was.
The Duke of Ashcombe. Her husband. For perhaps another six weeks.
The thought hurt so she buried it. Lady Penhurst welcomed them effusively.
“My dear Duchess, how wonderful. We are all so pleased.”
Clara smiled.
“How kind.”
“And Ashcombe. You must be tremendously relieved.”
Sebastian glanced at Clara.
“Yes.”
Only that. The answer carried more than Lady Penhurst understood.
Clara did. She looked away. The ballroom was already crowded.
Music filled the air. Clara recognized half the people who once ignored her.
Now they approached. Lady Fenmore praised her gown.
Mrs. Montrose asked whether Bellamere would become their principal country residence.
Lord Henley declared the whole legal affair “terribly romantic,” which Clara thought demonstrated alarming ignorance of both law and romance.
She answered everyone politely. Sebastian remained near her longer than necessary.
Perhaps from duty. She refused to wonder.
Eventually Lord Nicholas Gresham approached.
His smile was warm.
“Your Grace.”
“Nicholas.”
“May I congratulate you?”
“On Bellamere?”
“On surviving solicitors.”
“That is the greater achievement.”
He laughed. Sebastian stood a few feet away speaking with Lord Mercer. Nicholas followed her gaze. Then looked back.
“You appear less happy than a woman who has just recovered forty thousand pounds.”
Clara smiled.
“You are very observant.”
“Widowhood encourages it.”
“Does it?”
“One learns which questions not to ask.”
“That sounds useful.”
“Exceptionally.”
He did not ask. Clara appreciated him for it. A woman nearby laughed loudly. Clara turned. Lady Marbury stood with two younger women. Clara knew her slightly. Not enough to like her. Lady Marbury approached.
“My dear Duchess.”
“Lady Marbury.”
“What a triumph this has all been.”
Clara had begun to dislike that word.
“I am glad the matter is resolved.”
“And to think how differently everything might have turned out.”
Clara’s smile cooled.
“How?”
Lady Marbury seemed delighted to explain.
“Well, forgive me, but we all remember the old confusion.”
“What confusion?”
“Poor Adrian.”
Clara’s entire body tightened. Sebastian was still speaking to Mercer. She could feel his presence without looking. Lady Marbury lowered her voice only enough to make the insult more intimate.
“Everyone wondered whether he had chosen the wrong bride.”
Clara looked directly at her.
“What do you mean?”
The woman hesitated. She had expected Clara to understand and spare her the indecency of explaining. Clara did not. Lady Marbury smiled awkwardly.
“Well, there were whispers at the time. Some thought he had mistaken his attachment or that perhaps the Whitcombe connection was not quite right. You were all so young.”
Clara’s gaze hardened.
“The wrong bride.”
Lady Marbury rushed onward.
“Not you personally, of course. Only that everyone assumed something must have been wrong for him to disappear so suddenly.”
There it was. Again. Eleven years reduced to the same suspicion. Something wrong with Clara. Even after Adrian’s letter. Even after the money. Even after everything. Clara opened her mouth. Sebastian spoke first.
“Clara was never the wrong woman.”
The room nearest them quieted. Not entirely. Enough. Clara turned. Sebastian had left Mercer. He stood beside her now, his face calm in the dangerous way she recognized. Lady Marbury flushed.
“Ashcombe, I did not mean—”
“My brother simply proposed to her before the right man did.”
Silence. Clara stopped breathing. Sebastian looked at Lady Marbury. Not at Clara. His voice remained even.
“There was never anything wrong with Miss Whitcombe. There was something wrong with the men who failed to treat her honestly.”
Lady Marbury stared. Several people nearby had heard.
By tomorrow all London would. Clara barely cared.
The only words she heard were the first ones.
The right man. Sebastian. He had called himself the right man.
Almost. His face changed when he finally looked at her.
Something exposed itself there. Too much.
He knew it. Clara saw the retreat begin.
“Excuse me.”
He bowed. Then walked away. Clara stared after him.
Nicholas Gresham quietly took one step back.
Lady Marbury mumbled something about finding her daughter.
Clara heard none of it. She watched Sebastian cross the ballroom and disappear through a side door.
The right man. Her heart pounded. Anger came immediately after hope.
No. He would not do this. He would not offer her freedom in private and near-confession in public.
She would not spend another night trying to interpret what a Harcourt meant.
Clara turned to Augusta, who had appeared at some point beside the orchestra.
Their eyes met. Augusta lifted one brow. Clara said, “We are leaving.” Augusta looked delighted.
“Excellent.”
Sebastian reached Ashcombe House before Clara because he abandoned the ball almost immediately and took the first carriage available.
Cowardice, he thought bitterly, was apparently hereditary too.
He went straight to the library. He did not remove his coat.
He poured brandy and did not drink it. For fifteen minutes he stood at the window overlooking Grosvenor Square and replayed the sentence he had spoken.
My brother simply proposed to her before the right man did.
It was almost everything. Not enough. Always not enough.
He heard the carriage outside. His body tightened.
A few minutes later, footsteps crossed the hall.
Then the library door opened. Clara entered. She had removed her gloves but not her cloak. Her face was composed. Her eyes were not.
“Close the door,” Sebastian said.
She did. Neither spoke. Clara crossed toward the center of the room.
“What did you mean?”
Sebastian knew exactly what she referred to.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He looked away.
“That Lady Marbury was wrong.”
“I know that.”
“That Adrian’s failure had nothing to do with you.”
“I know that too.”
Clara’s voice sharpened.
“What did you mean by the right man?”
Sebastian’s heart pounded. This was the moment. He could retreat. No. He had done enough of that. Clara waited. Sebastian set down the untouched brandy.
“I meant me.”
Silence. Clara stared. He forced himself to continue.
“I was the man who intended to court you.”
“I know.”
“I was also the man who should have done more when Adrian left.”
“We discussed that.”
“No. We discussed pieces.”
Her face changed. Sebastian walked toward the fire.
“If you want the whole truth, I will give it to you.”
“I have wanted the whole truth for eleven years.”
The words cut. He nodded.
“Yes.”
He removed the miniature from his coat pocket. Clara stared.
“You brought it?”
“I took it from the gallery yesterday.”
He placed it on the desk.
“I bought this because I was in love with you.”
Clara went completely still. There. Said. No disguise. No legal language. No softened version. Sebastian looked directly at her.
“At twenty-four, I was in love with you.”
Her lips parted. He continued.
“I had been for months before Adrian proposed.”
“Sebastian—”
“No. Let me finish before I lose whatever courage remains.”
Clara fell silent.
“I spoke to my father. He objected. I intended to proceed anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You know that part.”
“Yes.”
“What you do not know is what happened after Adrian left.”
Her expression changed. Sebastian looked toward the fire.
“I came back to London.”
“When?”
“Two days after the wedding should have taken place.”
Clara stared.
“You were here?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you had already gone abroad.”
“Not yet.”
“What happened?”
“I intended to come to you.”
Her face went pale. Sebastian continued.
“I went to my father first.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted the family to make a public statement.”
Clara said nothing.
“I wanted Adrian’s responsibility acknowledged. I wanted every suggestion that you had caused the broken engagement contradicted.”
“What did your father say?”
Sebastian laughed once without humor.
“That I would do nothing.”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
“And you listened?”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“That was when he told me about your father’s money.”
Clara froze.
“My mother’s settlement?”
“I did not understand the full details. He said Sir Edmund had lost money through an investment with him and that your family’s position was considerably weaker than anyone knew.”
For a moment, Clara could find no answer.
“He threatened Papa.”
“Yes.”
“How?”