Page 32

Hyde Park was sunny and almost empty as Sebastian and Emma rode their horses two days later. Most of fashionable London society were at their country estates for the autumn and winter, but some of the ton still remained in the city. Rare couples and groups of people walked gravel paths running among the rolling hills and fields of cut grass.

Trees had started losing their leaves. Wind swept reddish, yellowish, and brownish foliage across the ground. The air was pleasant here—away from the stink of the River Thames, which got horrible over the summer—clear and full of the wet scents of fallen leaves, trees, and grass.

With his stomach squeezing, Sebastian watched the wind play with Emma’s dark curls, teasing them from under her riding hat, which was covered with silk flowers and long feathers. She sat gracefully on the horse in her sidesaddle, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling from the fresh air and exercise.

She was beautiful, well-bred, and kindhearted. She made his life brighter. He could talk to her for hours. She loved horses as much as he did. Could she be any more perfect for him?

She turned to him and beamed, melting his heart all over. Would he lose her as soon as she got her marriage annulled?

Three familiar female figures walked along the path meandering through the grassy areas. Sebastian recognized his mama right away, her frame delicate in her striking bordeaux pelisse and a bonnet with an intricate, high construction of flowers and feathers.

“It’s the duchess,” said Emma.

One other lady was a bit fuller and wore a dark green pelisse, and the third lady, who was dressed in a blue spencer, was clearly younger. They disappeared behind the rosebushes as the path curved and appeared again, and Sebastian realized who they were.

“And the Countess of Whitemouth…with Lady Isabella…” he muttered.

They stopped in front of the three of them. Mama, as always, stood with her back perfectly straight and her face watching Emma coolly. The Countess of Whitemouth looked at Emma with an open disdain. Isabella, the good woman that Sebastian knew she was, threw a quick glance at him but stayed impassive, her face collected under her fashionable pale blue bonnet.

“Ah,” Mama said. “My son and his duchess.”

“Good day,” said the countess. “We were just talking about my daughter’s marriage prospects for the next Season.”

Lady Isabella blushed, and she looked like she wanted to be elsewhere. She had no fault in this. She was pretty enough and nice enough. She just wasn’t for him. And he’d have resented her for the rest of his life if he’d been forced to marry her.

Emma had given him back control over his life. Just as, he supposed, she wanted to be in charge of her own life—something Sir Jasper had completely taken away from her.

But before he could respond to the countess, Emma opened her mouth. “I’m sure Lady Isabella won’t have any struggles with finding a husband.”

All three ladies stared at her.

“Such an agreeable and accomplished lady as you…” she explained. “I’m sure the ton will compete for you, Lady Isabella.”

There was a genuine, broad smile on Emma’s face. Her kindness shone through her, making Sebastian’s body feel light. Isabella smiled back at her. “You’re very kind, Duchess.”

“Your Grace!” came a loud voice behind him, and he turned his head back.

Benedict ran down the path towards him. His long, thin legs flashed as he pumped them, his young face red with the effort.

Sebastian turned the horse around, his chest hard and painful. “What is it, Benedict?”

The footman came to stop before them, put his arms on his knees, and panted. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace… It’s the Duke of Grandhampton…”

Sebastian’s stomach tightened. Grandhampton? Worry for him shot through Sebastian like a lightning bolt.

Mama moved forward. “What happened to the duke?”

“He’s been killed,” panted Benedict, and Sebastian stopped breathing. “Lord Preston sent you the message, Your Grace, asking you to come at once.”

“Killed?” said Sebastian, rather stupidly. How could Grandhampton be killed? He’d always been so powerful, charming, and clever. Killed…it sounded so wrong, just like the sun rising in the west. It couldn’t be.

He blinked, frowning, trying to comprehend his life without the man who had always helped with wise advice, including his recent suggestions about the annulment of Emma’s marriage. His stomach burned with anger, with sadness. No, not him. Please, God, not him!

Benedict let out a sharp exhale. “The message said he was killed last night at the docks. Lord Preston is requesting your presence at Sumhall.”

Emma’s gaze reached him, the support and empathy in her eyes making his heart squeeze.

“I must make haste,” he said, not recognizing his own voice.