He stared at the trembling hand and tried very hard not to think about Estella's voice saying those words.
The carriage slowed. He glanced out the window and saw the Hale townhouse, its windows dim. One lamp burned in an upper room. Charlotte's, perhaps, left on for her return.
Had anyone even noticed she’d been missing?
"We've arrived," he said.
Charlotte looked out the window, then back at him. "You should think about it," she said. "About Estella. She deserves someone who actually likes her, not just someone kind and responsible." She wrinkled her nose. "Kind and responsible is what you want in a governess, not a husband."
Sebastian chose to ignore all this as he helped her down from the carriage.
At the door, a flustered maid appeared, clearly relieved. This, in turn, filled Sebastian with relief. At least someone had noticed she’d been gone. But he still made a note to inquire after Charlotte’s caretakers.
Charlotte turned on the step. "Thank you for bringing me home. Your carriage is very nice." A pause. "You're not as scary as Estella said."
Before he could respond to that, she disappeared inside.
He got back in the carriage and sat in the dark for the ride home and tried not to think about it. About any of it.
“She deserves someone who actually likes her.”
"She’s just a child," he muttered to himself. "She doesn’t know anything."
But apparently she felt confident that he cared for Estella. He frowned down at his left hand. What had given him away?
Did the duchess suspect? More importantly… Did Estella?
He shook off the thought. It hardly mattered. It didn’t change anything. His feelings held no weight when it came to Estella’s marriage prospects.
But then, as if to belie the thought, he heard Charlotte’s voice, blunt and matter-of-fact. “Why don't you marry Estella?”
Because I killed her brother. Because I am the reason she's standing alone at balls and skipping meals and mending gloves that should have been replaced years ago.
Because he had no right to her smiles or her laughter, let alone her hand in marriage.
But Charlotte had asked why don't you marry Estella as though it were the most obvious solution in the world, and for one treacherous moment, Sebastian let himself imagine it.
Estella at his breakfast table, her hair loose, laughing. Estella in the library, curled in the chair by the window with one of her books, looking up when he entered with that smile. The real one. The one he'd seen aimed his way precisely once, in the park, when he'd told her about the duck.
He would keep the estate in perfect order, because she cared about such things. He'd hire whatever tenant farmers she recommended, implement whatever crop rotation she devised. He'd spoil her with gowns and jewels and more sugary treats than she could manage. He’d sit across from her at dinner and listen to her talk about literally anything, and he would find it genuinely fascinating because it was Estella talking. And at night?—
No. He slammed an invisible lid down on his runaway thoughts before he drove himself mad with longing.
But the damage was done, because when he entered his home a little later, it felt emptier than ever before. The house was painfully quiet. His valet had left a lamp burning and a glass of whiskey on the desk, and Sebastian sat in his chair and stared at the drawer of his desk.
His mother's letter had arrived three days ago. He'd read it once and spent every subsequent evening pretending it didn't exist. Truthfully, marriage and heirs had been a topic he’d avoided even before the fire. Of course, then it had been because he’d thought himself too young to think about settling down.
But really, he hadn’t been all that young. And now it was well past time he gave it some thought. He opened the drawer.
My dearest Sebastian,
I hope this finds you well, though I suspect you are not sleeping. I also suspect you are spending entirely too much time on whatever project currently has you in its grip. You are your father's son in this regard, and I say that with love and exasperation in equal measure.
I write with a proposal. Lady Clarissa Whitfield, daughter of Lord and Lady Hawthorn, has recently returned from a year abroad. She is well-bred, sensible, and by all accounts not given to excessive temperament. Her family is excellent. The match would strengthen both estates considerably.
I have taken the liberty of discussing the possibility with her mother, who is amenable. Lady Clarissa is, I understand, equally so. She is aware of your injuries and is not, her mother assures me, of a disposition to be troubled by such things.
Sebastian, it is time to think about the future. I would never suggest that you forget the past, but, my darling boy, it is time to stop punishing yourself for a fire that was not your fault.
