He'd pushed her away. And through his silence he'd let his mother's arrangements proceed because it was easier than facing the truth. And now Estella—brave, stubborn, extraordinary Estella—no doubt believed that the man she'd kissed on a terrace and waltzed with under candlelight and asked to meet in a moonlit garden…had an understanding with another woman the entire time.
23
The Duchess of Ashworth's butler was a man of admirable composure. He was also, Sebastian only now realized—a man of considerable size.
As Sebastian was taller than most, he found himself nose to nose with the immovable man, his path inside thoroughly blocked.
"I need to see Miss Hale," Sebastian said. Again.
The butler blinked, unmoved. "My lord, the hour is?—"
"I'm aware of the hour," he shot back.
"Her Grace is not yet receiving?—"
"I'll wait." Sebastian crossed his arms and leveled the man with his fiercest glare.
He meant he’d wait inside, of course. And he had every intention of raising his voice until the whole household woke—particularly Estella.
He was already stepping past the butler and into the entrance hall when the duchess's voice carried down the staircase.
"Dawson, who on earth is—" She appeared on the landing, wrapped in a morning robe of deep burgundy, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes found him and her mouth thinned.
"Lord Blackwood." She descended the stairs with deliberate slowness. "It is far too early for a social call."
"I need to see Estella." He sounded desperate, and he found he did not care. He was desperate. Why hide it?
Her eyes narrowed. "Miss Hale is unavailable."
He flinched. He'd expected resistance. The duchess was nothing if not protective. But the flatness of her tone, the way she positioned herself at the base of the stairs as though physically blocking his path, told him this was more than protocol.
She was furious with him.
"Your Grace?—"
"She went home in my carriage last night looking as though someone had died." The duchess's voice was low and controlled, and all the more devastating for it. "She said she was unwell, and she couldn't meet my eyes, and she left without another word. So I'll ask you plainly, Lord Blackwood. What did you do?"
The accusation was earned. Every syllable of it. He stood in the duchess's entrance hall in yesterday's rumpled coat and took the blow. "I was a fool," he said.
"You've been a fool for quite some time." The duchess folded her arms. "And if you've come here to explain yourself with more talk of guilt and obligation, or to tell that girl one more time that your feelings are merely fraternal, I will have Dawson remove you from the premises, and I assure you he is more capable than he appears."
Behind him, Dawson cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was, in fact, quite capable.
Sebastian exhaled sharply in frustration. "That's not what I've come to say."
"Then what? What could you possibly say to her that would justify?—"
"I love her."
The words filled the entrance hall. They were blunt and graceless and too loud for the hour, and they rang with a certainty that surprised even him.
The duchess went still.
"I love her," he said again, quieter this time but no less certain. "I've loved her since before I knew what to call it. And I've spent two years telling myself I didn't, and it was the most spectacular lie I've ever managed. And I'm done with it."
Silence. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Dawson had apparently found something fascinating to study on the ceiling.
The duchess regarded him. Her expression didn't soften, exactly, but it shifted. "And the Whitfield girl?"
