Chapter Eleven The Man Who Finally Asked #2
For the first time in her life, safety and choice existed independently of the same man.
That meant whatever she decided about Sebastian could belong entirely to desire.
Clara closed her eyes. What did she want?
Not what was prudent. Not what repaired scandal.
Not what saved her father. What did she want?
Ashcombe House came immediately. Not the title.
The house. Breakfast at nine. Notes delivered between rooms. Sebastian standing at the library desk while pretending her reorganizing annoyed him.
Dinner when he was late and she waited because she wanted him across the table.
The sound of his footsteps outside her sitting room.
The yellow roses. The newspaper. Books left on her desk.
The way he listened when she explained household accounts as though those accounts mattered because she did.
She wanted Bellamere. But she wanted to take Sebastian there.
Wanted to complain about the leaking roof while he pretended the repair estimate offended him personally.
Wanted to argue about paint. Wanted to grow old enough to become ridiculous together.
The thought made her laugh. Then cry. Only briefly.
Clara wiped her eyes impatiently. Love, it turned out, was extremely inconvenient.
More inconvenient still, she understood Sebastian better now.
His mistakes had not come from indifference.
They came from fear. Fear of controlling her.
Fear of trapping her. Fear of becoming his father.
He had tried so hard not to make demands that he had turned desire into silence.
That did not excuse him. But it explained him.
The question became simpler. Could he learn?
Could she trust him to ask rather than decide?
Clara already knew the answer. He had begun.
At the end of their argument, he asked where she wanted to go. He had not followed.
Had not commanded. Had not sent letters.
She had expected one by breakfast. Nothing came.
By noon she expected a solicitor, a carriage, flowers, some awkward attempt at persuasion.
Nothing. Sebastian was doing exactly what she had demanded.
He was waiting. The realization warmed and hurt simultaneously.
Of all the impossible things she had ever asked him to do, nothing might be hardest. He did not come that day.
Nor the next morning. Clara knew because she listened for every carriage.
This became embarrassing by eleven. At half past twelve she was sitting with Eleanor and Eliza in the drawing room when Hargreaves entered.
“The Duke of Ashcombe has called, my lady.”
Clara’s heart leapt. Augusta, seated near the fire, looked at her. Not at Hargreaves. At Clara.
“Would you like to receive him?”
There. The question. Clara appreciated it.
“Yes.”
Augusta stood. The others did too. Arabella, who had been reading near the window, looked deeply disappointed.
“Must we all leave?”
“Yes,” Augusta said.
“I can become invisible.”
“No.”
“I have practiced.”
“Out.”
Arabella sighed. The room emptied. Clara remained beside the fireplace. Her hands felt cold. Augusta paused at the door.
“Do you want me nearby?”
Clara thought.
“No.”
“Good.”
She left. For several seconds Clara was alone. Then the door opened. Sebastian entered. He looked exactly like himself. That was somehow overwhelming. Dark coat. Serious face. No grand gesture. No flowers. No solicitor. Only Sebastian. He stopped several feet inside the room.
“Clara.”
“Sebastian.”
Neither moved. He looked tired. Not theatrically. As though he had not slept well. Clara suspected she looked similar.
“May I sit?”
The question touched her.
“Yes.”
He took the chair opposite. Not beside her. Another choice. Clara sat. Silence stretched. Sebastian did not fill it. That was new too. Eventually he said, “I nearly came yesterday.”
“I wondered.”
“I decided that would be coming because I could not tolerate waiting rather than because you were ready.”
Clara’s chest tightened.
“So you did nothing.”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Appalling.”
She laughed. Sebastian smiled. The tension eased fractionally. Then his expression became serious.
“I have spent half my life deciding what is best for you.”
Clara said nothing.
“I thought honor required it. Sometimes I thought love required it. I was wrong.”
She listened.
“I cannot undo those decisions.”
“No.”
“I cannot give you back the years when you should have known the truth.”
“No.”
“But I can stop repeating them.”
Clara’s throat tightened. Sebastian leaned forward slightly.
“So I am not going to ask whether you will come home.”
She stared.
“Not yet.”
“All right.”
“I am going to ask something else.”
He drew a breath.
“What do you want?”
The question entered the room quietly. No legal condition. No expectation. What do you want? Clara looked at him. It was astonishing how difficult the answer became when someone genuinely offered to accept it. Sebastian waited. Did not prompt. Did not interpret her silence. Clara folded her hands.
“I want honesty.”
He nodded.
“Always.”
“Yes.”
“Even when the truth is inconvenient.”
“Yes.”
“Especially then.”
“Agreed.”
She looked at him more directly.
“I do not want you protecting me with silence.”
“I understand.”
“No. I want you to promise.”
Sebastian’s expression changed.
“I promise.”
“If something threatens me, tell me.”
“Yes.”
“If you think I am making a mistake, tell me.”
“I suspect that will occur frequently.”
Clara’s mouth twitched.
“So do I.”
He almost smiled.
“If you disagree with me, disagree.”
“Gladly.”
“But do not decide what I can bear.”
Sebastian’s face became solemn.
“I won't.”
Clara believed he meant it. That mattered more than certainty he would never fail. Promises between human beings were not guarantees of perfection. They were agreements about effort. She continued.
“I want partnership.”
Sebastian waited.
“I want Bellamere to remain mine.”
“It will.”
“But I do not want it to become somewhere I am sent whenever our marriage becomes inconvenient.”
His expression tightened.
“It never will.”
“I want Ashcombe House to become ours.”
Something changed in his face. Clara felt it. Not ownership. Hope. She went on before losing courage.
“I do not want to be a guest in your life.”
“You are not.”
“I want the estate accounts because my judgment matters, not because you are being generous.”
“It does matter.”
“I want you to disagree when you think I am wrong.”
Sebastian looked almost amused.
“That seems dangerous.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
Clara leaned back.
“I want the work I do to be treated as work.”
“Yes.”
“Not as something charming your wife occupies herself with.”
“Yes.”
“I want my father helped when he asks, not rescued behind his back.”
Sebastian winced.
“Agreed.”
“And I want to keep going to Winterbourne House.”
“Clara.”
She lifted her brows.
“I have never objected.”
“I know. I wanted one easy condition.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. Clara felt something loosen inside her. This. She wanted this. Not merely grand feeling. The ability to say difficult things and still make one another laugh before the conversation ended. Sebastian’s smile faded slowly.
“Anything else?”
Her eyes returned to Sebastian.
“Yes.”
His expression sharpened.
“I want you to stop assuming that because I can leave, I want to.”
Sebastian went completely still. Clara’s heart pounded. She continued.
“Freedom matters to me.”
“Yes.”
“But freedom is not the same thing as distance.”
“No.”
“I needed to know I could choose.”
He did not move.
“And now?”
Clara looked down for one second. Then back at him.
“Now I can.”
Sebastian’s face changed so openly that for a moment he looked younger. Not twenty-four. Simply unguarded. Clara loved him most perhaps when he forgot to hide. She had given her answers. Now it was his turn.
“What do you want?”
Sebastian seemed startled.
“I asked you.”
“I answered.”
“You did.”
“Now you.”
His throat moved. Clara waited. No rescue.
No hints. He would have to say it. At last Sebastian stood.
Clara’s pulse accelerated. He did not approach immediately.
Instead he walked toward the fireplace, then stopped as if realizing that movement itself had become another form of avoidance. He turned back.
“You.”
The single word struck harder than any speech might have. Clara stared. Sebastian took one step toward her.
“You. I wanted you before my brother did. I wanted you when you hated our name. I wanted you when you walked into my house determined not to owe me anything.”
Her eyes filled. He continued.
“I want you when you reorganize my correspondence and then deny doing it.”
“I never denied it.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“I want you when you steal my newspapers.”
“They arrive at my breakfast table.”
“They are mine first.”
“Debatable.”
Sebastian’s smile deepened briefly. Then his expression became serious again.
“I want you when you're furious with me, which appears inconveniently often. I want you when you are laughing at Augusta. I want you at Bellamere arguing with roofers. I want you across the breakfast table. I want to hear you in my library and know you have moved something I needed.”
Clara laughed through tears. Sebastian came closer.
“I want you when there is no debt, no disputed will and no practical reason left for you to stay.”
The room seemed very quiet. His voice lowered.
“But wanting you does not entitle me to you.”
There. The growth she needed. Not surrender. Not self-denial. Respect. Clara stood.
“No.”
Sebastian’s face went still. For one wicked second she let him misunderstand. Then she continued.
“Fortunately, I am capable of choosing.”
His breath left him. Clara stepped closer.
“I choose you.”
Sebastian did not move. Perhaps because he did not trust what he had heard. Clara smiled.
“You may react.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Sebastian.”