Chapter Ten The Wrong Woman #3
“He told me that if I publicly challenged the Harcourt account of Adrian’s disappearance, he would call in several obligations immediately and make it known that Sir Edmund had mismanaged the Whitcombe settlement.”
Clara’s face went white. Sebastian hated reliving it.
“I believed him.”
“You should have told Papa.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“Instead?”
“I left.”
Silence. Clara looked at him as though something inside her had broken open.
“You left because you thought that protected us.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian heard the answer now. He heard how terrible it sounded. Clara stepped away. He continued because stopping would be cowardice again.
“I intended it to be temporary.”
“Of course.”
“I thought once I understood the finances—”
“Of course.”
“Clara.”
“No. Continue. This is extraordinary.”
Anger entered her voice. Good. He deserved it.
“I went abroad. I tried to investigate through estate accounts.”
“And did you?”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
“I returned twice intending to speak to you.”
Her head snapped up.
“Twice?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The following year. Then after my mother died.”
“And each time?”
“I decided reopening the scandal would do more harm than good.”
Clara laughed. Not with amusement.
“You decided.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“The man who knew I had spent years waiting for an explanation decided I would be better without another one.”
The truth of it landed fully. Sebastian closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Clara began pacing. Adrian had done the same. Not precisely. But close enough. Every man deciding what Clara could bear. What Clara should know. What future Clara ought to have.
“I loved you,” Sebastian said quietly.
She stopped.
“I thought love meant staying away if my presence endangered you.”
Clara turned. There were tears in her eyes now, but anger held them.
“Do not use love to make that noble.”
He went still.
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“You are telling me you sacrificed yourself.”
“I am telling you I was wrong.”
That stopped her. Sebastian stepped closer.
“I was wrong.”
The words caught Clara unprepared.
“I thought distance protected you. I thought silence prevented greater damage. I thought giving you freedom now would prove that this marriage was not another obligation forced upon you.”
Her face changed. The afternoon conversation. Fane. Separate households. Everything connected. Sebastian continued.
“I love you enough to let you leave.”
Clara looked almost furious at the sentence.
“Do you hear yourself?”
He stopped.
“What?”
“You still think love is deciding for me.”
The words hit harder than any accusation. Clara’s voice trembled now.
“Adrian left because he decided I deserved better than being used in his rivalry. Your father hid everything because he decided truth would damage the family. Papa concealed the money because he decided worry would hurt me. You stayed away because you decided your presence was dangerous. And now you prepare a separate household because you decide freedom is what I need.”
Sebastian could not speak. Clara’s eyes filled.
“I am tired of being protected by men who never think to ask whether I wish to be protected.”
The room became utterly silent. There it was.
The central truth. Sebastian felt years of justification collapse under it.
He had believed himself different from Adrian.
Different from his father. In intention, perhaps.
Not in method. He too had withheld. Decided.
Managed. Protected. Loved Clara without trusting her with the truth of that love.
“I am sorry.”
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
The word was not refusal. It was exhaustion.
“Do not apologize yet.”
He waited. She drew a breath.
“I need to know what is mine before you tell me what you are sorry for.”
Sebastian understood. Choice. At last.
“What do you want?”
Clara stared. He had never asked the question so plainly. Not during the proposal. Not after Bellamere. Not after the kiss. What do you want? Her expression crumpled for one brief second. Then steadied.
“I do not know.”
Sebastian nodded. The answer hurt. But it was hers.
“All right.”
“I cannot think here.”
“Then I will leave.”
“No.”
He stopped. Clara looked around the library.
“Ashcombe House makes me your wife before it allows me to be anything else.”
He understood.
“Winterbourne.”
“Yes.”
He wanted to object. Every instinct screamed against letting her walk away tonight. Not because he thought she would leave permanently. Because he did not know. And uncertainty was unbearable. Then Sebastian remembered what she had just taught him. Ask. Do not decide.
“Do you want to go to Augusta?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I do not know.”
“All right.”
Clara looked surprised. He forced himself not to fill the silence. At last she said, “I am not leaving you.” Hope struck hard. She continued.
“I am leaving the house for a little while because I need to know what I think when I am not surrounded by your servants, your title, your family portraits and the consequences of everything the Harcourts have done.”
Sebastian nodded.
“I understand.”
“I do not think you do.”
“Probably not entirely.”
A faint, unwilling smile touched her mouth. It vanished quickly. Sebastian crossed to the bell.
“Shall I have the carriage brought?”
Clara looked at him.
“Yes.”
He rang. The gesture nearly broke him. Five minutes later, Clara went upstairs to collect what she needed.
Sebastian remained in the library. He did not follow.
That was the first act of love he had ever offered her that did not contain a decision on her behalf.
It felt like helplessness. Perhaps that was what trust always felt like at first. When Clara returned, she wore a traveling cloak and carried one small bag.
Sebastian walked with her to the hall. The servants had been instructed discreetly.
No one stared. The carriage waited outside.
Rain had begun again. Clara stopped beneath the portico. Sebastian stood beside her. For one second he wanted to touch her. He did not.
“Good night, Clara.”
She looked at him. Not Your Grace. Not Ashcombe. Clara.
“Good night, Sebastian.”
She stepped into the carriage. The door closed.
Sebastian remained beneath the lamps while it pulled away.
He watched until the carriage disappeared at the end of the square.
Then he went back inside. Ashcombe House seemed enormous.
Silent. Exactly as it had before Clara arrived.
Sebastian had once believed that was what order felt like.
Now he knew better. It felt like absence.