Chapter Eleven The Man Who Finally Asked #3
He crossed the distance between them. Not hurriedly. That mattered. His hands came to her waist, but even then he paused.
“May I kiss you?”
Clara stared at him. Then began laughing. His brows drew together.
“I am attempting to improve.”
“You are.”
“Is that a yes?”
She placed both hands against his chest.
“Yes.”
He kissed her. Not like Bellamere. That kiss had carried revelation, anger and eleven years of restrained feeling breaking through all at once.
This one was slower. Certain. Sebastian touched her face first, his thumb brushing lightly along her cheek before his mouth found hers.
Clara closed her eyes. There was no urgency now because neither was about to disappear.
That changed everything. She could feel the deliberate care in him and, beneath it, desire no longer hidden behind duty.
Clara moved closer, sliding her arms around his neck, and Sebastian made a low sound that warmed her from the inside.
He kissed her again. And again. Not endlessly.
Enough. Long enough for Clara to understand the difference between being wanted and being chosen.
Sebastian had wanted her for eleven years.
Now he was allowing her to choose him back.
When they finally separated, his forehead rested against hers.
Neither spoke immediately. Clara’s fingers remained tangled at the back of his collar. Sebastian’s hands stayed at her waist.
“This is very improper for Lady Winterbourne’s drawing room,” she murmured.
“I am beginning to dislike this house.”
“No, you are not.”
“No.”
Clara smiled. Sebastian looked at her. Something in his gaze had changed. No caution now. Or less of it. Still restraint. She loved that too. Not because restraint meant distance. Because now she understood what lay beneath it.
“I love you,” she said.
Sebastian stopped breathing. Clara had not planned the declaration. Perhaps that was why it felt right. His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, emotion had stripped away every ducal layer.
“Clara.”
“I thought you might appreciate directness.”
“I do.”
“You are not using it.”
He laughed once, almost helplessly.
“I love you.”
Simple. No adornment. Exactly Sebastian. Clara’s throat tightened.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I had already chosen you. It would have been awkward otherwise.”
He kissed her again. This one contained laughter.
It might have been her favorite. Lady Winterbourne returned twenty minutes later.
She opened the door without knocking, stopped and took in the scene.
Clara sat beside Sebastian on the sofa. Too close for strangers.
Not quite scandalously close for married people. Augusta’s expression became unbearable.
“No.”
She had not said anything yet.
“I know what you are going to say.”
“I doubt it.”
“You are going to look pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“That counts.”
Sebastian stood.
“Augusta.”
She looked at him.
“Have you improved?”
“Marginally.”
“Excellent. I dislike radical reform.”
Clara laughed. Augusta turned to her.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you going home?”
Clara looked at Sebastian. He did not answer for her. That alone made her smile.
“Yes.”
Augusta nodded.
“When?”
Clara considered.
“After tea.”
Sebastian looked surprised.
“You want tea?”
“I have spent two days in emotional turmoil. I am not leaving before cake.”
Augusta looked delighted.
“Now that is good judgment.”
So they had tea. All of them. The women reappeared gradually, pretending not to know why Sebastian had stayed for nearly an hour. Arabella failed worst. She looked between Clara and Sebastian.
“You have reconciled.”
Augusta sighed.
“Subtlety remains beyond you.”
“I was not attempting it.”
Beatrice smiled so widely Clara could not be annoyed.
Cecily simply looked at her. That quiet understanding passed between them.
You decided. Clara nodded. Yes. No one made speeches.
No one celebrated loudly. That too felt right.
Winterbourne House absorbed happiness as naturally as it absorbed trouble.
An hour later Clara went upstairs to collect her case.
It remained almost exactly as she had left it.
She looked around the blue room. This room had held her before the wedding.
Then after the argument. Perhaps that was what places like Winterbourne House were for. Not last chances.
Safe intervals between one life and the next. Augusta appeared at the doorway.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain?”
Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
Augusta studied her. Then nodded.
“Good.”
She kissed Clara’s cheek.
“Do not disappear now you are happy.”
“I won't.”
“Women are terrible for that.”
“Men too.”
“Men are terrible for everything.”
Clara laughed. Downstairs, Sebastian waited in the hall. Of course he did. Early even when there was nowhere to be early for. He took Clara’s case. She looked at him.
“You have servants.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you carrying that?”
“Because I want to.”
Clara smiled. A tiny thing. Choice expressed through luggage. Apparently this marriage would be built from such details. Outside, the carriage stood beneath a bright afternoon sky. Sebastian opened the door. Clara stopped before entering. He looked at her.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
She glanced toward Winterbourne House. Then back at him.
“I want one thing understood.”
“Anything.”
“I am not returning because you came to fetch me.”
Sebastian’s expression softened.
“I know.”
“I am not being reclaimed.”
“No.”
“I am not returning because Ashcombe House is my duty.”
“No.”
Clara placed one hand in his.
“I am going home with my husband.”
The words affected him visibly. His fingers closed around hers.
“Yes.”
She stepped into the carriage. Sebastian followed. The door shut. As they turned toward Grosvenor Square, Clara looked at him across the narrow space. Then moved from the opposite seat to sit beside him. Sebastian’s brows lifted.
“Our carriage arrangements have changed?”
“Apparently.”
He took her hand. Clara let him. London moved past the windows.
Nothing outside had altered. The same streets.
The same houses. The same society waiting to tell stories about them.
But for once Clara did not care what story anyone else preferred.
Eleven years ago, men had made choices around her and called the result fate.
Now she had security, money, Bellamere, a title and the ability to walk away from all but herself.
And with every alternative genuinely open, Clara had chosen Sebastian.
Not the duke. Not the Harcourt name. Not protection. The man who remembered yellow roses.
The man who listened. The man who had finally learned to ask.
Beside her, Sebastian lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her fingers.
Clara smiled. This time, when they arrived at Ashcombe House, she would not be entering as the woman a duke had married to solve a problem.
She would be going home because she wanted to.
And Sebastian, perhaps for the first time in his life, had learned that love did not mean deciding where someone belonged.
It meant asking. Then trusting the answer.