by Sara Bennett
He blinked. “How do you know I didn’t?”
Her mouth fell open. She was about to begin apologising again when he said, “Are you really going to make such a match, Miss Willoughby? I thought you made of sterner stuff.” His voice was almost tender and she felt tears sting her eyes.
This was not good, not good at all. If Monkstead could bring her to tears then she was truly in a bad way.
“The pressure placed upon me has grown too great,” she mumbled, not looking at him. “I have held out as long as I can but my excuses have all run dry. I have been commanded home. They feel it would be beneficial to keep me under their watchful gaze.”
He was frowning, flicking at something on his sleeve. “So there will be no reprieve?” he asked.
“None,” she admitted.
She had enjoyed her stay in Mockingbird Square more than she could ever have imagined, and she had imagined a great deal. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her home, for she did, but out from under her father’s autocratic rule and her mother’s sad looks, she’d blossomed. To return would be worse than if she had never left at all.
“Who is this paragon of virtue you are destined to marry?” Monkstead asked evenly, but his gaze was searching.
“What does it matter what he is called? It’s not as if he would ever be in your circle of acquaintances,” she said with spirit. “My parents are very fond of the man, which is enough for them and which bodes ill for me.” She tried to smile and make a joke of it, but her lips wouldn’t co-operate. Monkstead stared at her and she had the awful sense that he knew everything. Her misery and her hopelessness and her desperate longing not to leave. He stepped closer, looming over her—she’d forgotten how big he was.
“Margaret, I think I am going to have to save you,” he said. And then he bowed and walked away.
She stared after him idiotically, wondering if she had heard him right. Save her? How on earth was that possible? And how dare he presume she needed saving!
No, she must have misheard, or else he was joking with her. Monkstead wasn’t her friend, he had never been her friend. He was a man with a great deal of wealth and self-esteem, and although she enjoyed butting heads with him over his meddling in his neighbours’ lives, she was . . . well she was nothing.
And it was cruel of him to make her hope, because hope was her enemy. She would attend his supper and meet his scandalous sister, and then she would go home and never see him again.
Eleven
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Lavinia clasped her arms about her waist, feeling ill. Her brother Martin had just left and the scene between them had been so vile, so disturbing, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him ever again.
At first he’d angrily refused to answer her questions, but she persisted, bringing up Mrs Chandler’s name. After that he’d begun to explain himself, making excuses, and finally he had admitted the truth. He had been spending her money, her son’s inheritance, because it was important to keep up appearances.
“You don’t understand,” he’d said bitterly. “You were Lady Richmond and you didn’t have to go without.”
As if marrying a fifty year old man at the age of seventeen was her good fortune.
In the end she had told him he was not to have anything more to do with her finances, and she was going to speak to Patrick’s bank so that he was unable to draw any more money.
“Martin,” she had said, as he turned to walk out, his shoulders rigid with fury. “When you came to me at the hospital and told me the rumours about Captain Longhurst. Was that true? Did you really believe that he had been responsible for Patrick’s death?”
He turned to glare at her, but she saw the triumph in his smile. “Longhurst didn’t deserve you. Are you such a fool that you didn’t realise he only wanted the money too? I was watching out for you, Lavinia.”
Was he, she asked herself bleakly when he had gone. Perhaps in his way he was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking of his own future too. That day in the hospital, rushing to Sebastian’s side, she’d believed she would lose him as she had just lost Patrick. If she had blurted out the truth then she and her son would have been socially ostracized. It was true that Martin had saved her from a terrible scandal.
She imagined people turning away from her, whispering behind their hands, telling tales. Being at the centre of such a maelstrom would not be a comfortable thing, it was true, and she had to think of her son. What would have happened when it was known he was not Patrick’s heir? How would Oliver make his way through life with such a burden hanging over him?
And then she remembered how she had abandoned Sebastian in the hospital, refusing to answer his letters, turning her back on him and treating him with cold contempt.
Wasn’t that just as bad? He had done nothing wrong and she had judged him because of her brother’s lies.
Monkstead had told her to talk to him, but Lavinia wondered if there was any point in that. He would never forgive her and she didn’t blame him.
And yet surely he deserved an apology from her? Was she such a coward that she couldn’t admit she had been wrong? When she remembered the look in his eyes as he turned from her . . . He’d believed she deserted him, and he hadn’t known why! For a year she’d thought he understood her reasons, and to know now that he hadn’t was an ache of shame and guilt that refused to go away.
The least she could do was say how sorry she was and try to explain why she turned her back on him, no matter how difficult it might be.
Megan met him at the door as Sebastian set aside his hat and coat. His sister-in-law’s expression was a cross between disapproval and shock, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. She gave a nod toward the closed door to the room to their left, the one where they put callers they didn’t much like.
Sebastian had seen the carriage outside and assumed one of Mark’s business clients was here. “Who is it?” he asked, trying to look interested. The truth was he just wanted to go upstairs to his room and lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
Since yesterday, when he had told Lavinia about her brother, and the truth about Patrick, he’d felt out of sorts. He was still angry with her for accepting what Martin said and not giving him a chance to refute the lies. In her heart she had believed him capable of the worst of crimes. All this time he had kept silent about what Patrick had tried to do to him, to spare her the added pain. Despite everything, he had paid her that consideration.
She hadn’t deserved it.
He felt as if he was grieving. Even though he’d lost her long ago, he’d still had hope. When he found her hiding at Monkstead’s, when he had seen how things were, there had remained a tiny kernel of hope in his heart. That she would welcome him back into her arms and her bed, and that they could make a life together. Now he wasn’t sure if the woman he had dreamed of existed, or whether she had been a fantasy he had constructed. The real Lavinia was not the warm and loving woman he had held in his arms, she was false and cold hearted.
“The visitor is for you,” Megan answered, rolling her eyes. “I tried to send her away but she flatly refused to go.”
Sebastian frowned. “She?”
As he said it he heard a sound from inside the door. The high pitched voice of a child. Despite everything he’d been telling himself his heart thumped with one last foolish hope. Lavinia? He reached to open the door but Megan leaned closer.
“Be careful, Sebastian.”
Lavinia was seated on the sofa with her back to him. It was her, and he found himself unable to move, as he took in the scene. The little boy was on the carpet in front of the unlit fireplace, where another female was fussing about him. It was her frowning face that turned toward him.
“My lady,” she muttered a warning.
Lavinia turned her head and then stood up so quickly she swayed. Sebastian knew he looked wrung out from all that had happened between them over past days but so did she. Her pallor and the shadows under her eyes gave him encourag
ement, because would a false woman with a cold heart care at all?
“Lady Richmond,” he said, his voice flat. His gaze went back to the child. It was the first time he had seen Oliver since he was tiny, and he seemed much changed. The boy had dark hair and blue eyes, and there was a familiarity to his features that made him think his son looked very much like him. Oliver was smiling.
Sebastian came closer, as if drawn despite himself, and the boy clambered to his feet with the aid of his nurse, and toddled toward him. When he reached out his hand, Oliver clung to it, and then began bouncing slightly on his plump legs as if this was a game. Chuckling to himself, he looked up at Sebastian, expecting him to join in.
“Why are you here?” he sounded gruff. His heart felt as if it was swollen in his chest, but he refused to feed it any more of his foolish hopes that she was here for him.
“I spoke to Martin,” her voice was different from her usual chilly reserve. She sounded shaky and uncertain. “He admitted everything. I should have known, I should have . . .” She stopped and spoke to the other female. “Thank you, Mary. Will you wait in the coach now? I won’t be long.”
The sour faced woman nodded and reached for Oliver.
“Leave him,” Sebastian said sharply.
Surprised, Mary looked at Lavinia for instruction. Lavinia nodded, and somewhat reluctantly the woman left the room.
Oliver looked up at Sebastian again, this time his expression a bit doubtful, and then turned his head to his mother, as if to ask if everything was all right. Lavinia smiled and held out her hands, and he toddled back over to her. She lifted him onto her lap, bending her head to nuzzle the soft skin at his neck.
Sebastian found himself watching them, and despite his determination not to hope, there were so many questions running through his head they made him dizzy. Was she here to say goodbye? Surely it was cruel to bring his son to see him after a year apart, and then leave forever? But then Lavinia had been cruel before—she had cut him off completely after Patrick died, giving him no chance to refute Martin’s lies.
“What do you want, Lavinia?” he said and he knew he sounded unwelcoming and didn’t care.
Her dark eyes flicked toward him and away again. She looked awkward, as if she wasn’t at all sure of her welcome.
“I came to explain,” she said, and then chewed her lip, as if choosing her words. He waited, giving her no help because he feared that if he opened his mouth he would blurt out the truth. That he still loved her. But when she began to speak her words weren’t what he had been expecting.
“When I learned that Patrick had died at Waterloo, I was shocked, of course, but I was also relieved.” She swallowed. “I was glad, Sebastian, because it meant we could be together. And then when I heard you were seriously injured, I felt as if I was being punished for my own wicked thoughts. Surely no wife wishes her husband dead so that she can be with another man? Not the sort of wife I thought I was, anyway.”
“Thoughts are not deeds, Lavinia,” he said. “You did nothing wrong.”
“When Martin told me about the rumours, I should have realised you would never have done such a thing, but I was thinking of myself. My own sense of guilt. It made it easier for me to believe him. I know I should have known you would never do such a thing, Sebastian. I should have looked beyond my own guilt and at least spoken to you. Written to you. But I didn’t, and now I am so sorry.”
“Yes, you should have,” he agreed. “If I’d known you had come to the hospital I would have forced my way back into your life. Insisted you see me.”
She said nothing in response, but he saw her hands tremble as she smoothed Oliver’s collar.
He sat down beside her and his son began to speak to him, babbling important sounds as if he was joining in the conversation. He was captivated, reaching out a finger for Oliver to cling to as he responded. “You should have. But you had just lost your husband and given birth to your son, and then there was me. You are a strong woman, Lavinia, but even you must have struggled.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “My life was a shambles. And Martin swooped in and took control, and I just let him.”
Sebastian put his other hand on Oliver’s head, feeling his downy soft hair. Lavinia took a quick, anxious breath.
“I have been to Patrick’s bank, and Martin will no longer be able to dip his fingers into what was never his. I am sure my mother will disown me but I don’t care. I find I don’t care nearly as much as I thought I would. All the things I believed to be important don’t seem to matter anymore, not when I know that having them means I cannot have you.”
Startled, he met her eyes.
“I love you, Sebastian, but I can understand why you may never forgive me.”
It took him a moment to take in what she had said, to see the truth in her dark eyes. It was so much more than he had ever expected.
“You love me?” he repeated.
She nodded jerkily. “I never stopped.”
His mouth curved up. “I feel the same.”
“When we could no longer meet I thought my heart would break,” she gasped. “I wish I had told you then how I felt, but . . .”
“You were in an impossible position,” he murmured, accepting the truth. “We both were.”
He reached over to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She was a little untidy again. Sebastian decided he liked her like this, vulnerable and warm and very unlike the Ice Maiden. “What do you want from me?” he asked her.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Just you.”
“Lavinia,” he began, searching for words. “I thought marrying you would be enough for me, but now I know it isn’t. As much as I love you and want you, I don’t see how we can live a lie. And it will always be a lie. Oliver is my son, and I want to tell the world he is my son. Is that selfish of me? Probably. But I can’t live the lie Patrick would have lived. I’m not him. I’m sorry if it seems as if I am setting you an unreasonable choice.”
But he was giving her a choice and now it was up to her to make that decision.
“I don’t care about that. I don’t care about any of it. I want the world to know Oliver is your son even if it means we will be outcasts from Society.” She searched his face a little desperately. “But I will understand if you do not want to be an outcast, Sebastian. We can . . . we can still see each other, and you can see Oliver, and we can go on as before.” A tear ran down her cheek and plopped onto Oliver’s skin, making his eyes go big and round with surprise.
Sebastian rubbed his thumb over her cheek, brushing away the tears that followed. She was willing to be a pariah for him and as far as Sebastian was concerned, he had never cared much for the rules of Society. He was a soldier at heart and as such he was willing to find a way to win this war.
He was about to tell her so when he heard the front door bang and his brother’s voice, followed by Megan hushing him. The idea came to him right then, and suddenly he knew what he was going to do.
“I need to speak to my brother,” he said, getting to his feet.
She looked distraught, moving as if to rise too. He knew then she was planning to leave.
“Don’t go,” he said, making it sound more like an order than a request. Adding a softer, “Please?”
With a nod she subsided back onto the sofa.
Outside Mark and Megan were close, heads together, and his brother looked up at him with startled blue eyes. “What is going on, Sebastian?”
He wanted to tell them everything but first he needed to ask his brother a favour. As he spoke Mark listened, and although at first he seemed inclined to argue, his expression changed to interest and then agreement.
“You are willing to do this?” his brother asked. “You want to do it?”
“Yes, I do. I think it is the perfect solution.”
Megan sighed. “Are you sure, Sebastian?”
“Very sure.”
When he returned to the room Lavinia was anxiously waiting. She looked as if she was prep
ared for the worst but he didn’t give her time to speak it.
“How would you feel about taking a ship to America? You and me and Oliver? Mark is opening an office there for our importing business and he needs someone to take it on. No one there will know us, Lavinia. Or care! We can make a new start, you and me and Oliver, and leave the past behind us.”
She stared back at him and he came to take her hands in his, squeezing them when she seemed too taken aback to respond.
“I know it is a big step. I’ll understand if you stay no,” he went on, beginning to fear that it was indeed too much to ask. Lavinia had lived all her life in a small insular world with rigid rules, and the only time she had broken those rules was with him. How could he now expect her to turn her back on her life and travel across the world with him, despite her claims to love him and want him?
She shook her head and his heart sank.
“I understand,” he repeated, but she wouldn’t let him finish. She flung herself against his chest, making Oliver squeak in protest.
“Yes,” she said. “I agree. Yes, we will go. We will travel to America and make a new life there, and we will be together. Yes, please, Sebastian, oh yes.”
He just held her, feeling her warm soft body against his, letting himself enjoy this moment he had never thought he would have. The future suddenly seemed bright and wonderful, and he couldn’t wait to take that first step.
Epilogue
Six months later, at sea
Sebastian’s sea sickness lasted for a full week, but Lavinia was glad to see him standing on deck this morning, looking almost himself. She clung to the railing at his side, feeling more alive than she had in years, and smiled up at him.
They were starting out on their new life, an adventure she had never expected, and they were together.
They had been married in a quiet private ceremony five months ago, and since then she had been busy divesting herself of what remained of her life as Lady Richmond. From now on she was simply Mrs Longhurst.