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Formality was another mask she hid behind.
“Lady Richmond,” he corrected himself patiently. “I have something I need to tell you. The reason why I was at the theatre . . .”
Her eyes flew to his, only to retreat again. “Captain, I don’t think I want to know about your visit to the theatre with your-your companion. I wish you every happiness with her. I know we once had reason to be close, but that time is passed. I allowed you into my home today to remind you of that. Please do not visit me again.”
He frowned. It took him a moment to hear what she was saying, to digest it. Did he believe it? He blinked away the pain and took note of her unease, the way her eyes flickered from his, the way her fingers plucked at her skirt. She could be uncomfortable in his company for the reaso
n she had just outlined. And yet, if she was truly indifferent to him, why mention Mrs Chandler? And despite her saying she wished him happy, he did not believe her.
“My companion?” he repeated.
She straightened her shoulders, and he could see the tension in her neck. There was a pulse beating there, and he wanted to lean forward and press his lips to it, run his tongue over her warm creamy skin. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her with the disinterest she seemed to crave.
“The way you live your life is nothing to do with me,” she went on, again not looking at him. “We are near enough to strangers.”
That made him angry. So they were strangers? Was that what she had told herself when she didn’t come to visit him in the hospital or return his letters? It still hurt.
“My visit today has nothing to do with you and me, Lavinia. I’m not asking you to revisit old times. I am here about Patrick’s money. Your son’s inheritance. Your brother is spending it hand over fist. That is what I’ve come to tell you. At the rate he is going through Patrick’s money there will be none left by the time Oliver is of age.”
She was staring at him now, her eyes wide in her horrified face. “Martin is what?”
“My brother heard the story from someone who knows your brother, and when he told me I decided to test the theory for myself,” Sebastian said. “I asked around. Martin is gambling, he spends most nights at the tables, and he has a mistress called Mrs Chandler. A very expensive mistress. I believe he’s recently bought himself a matching pair of greys to pull his new phaeton.” He paused and his voice dropped. “You are very pale, Lavinia. Would you like me to ring for some restorative?”
She shook her head, her lips almost white as the words tumbled from them. “Martin wouldn’t . . . I don’t believe . . .” And yet he saw the growing belief in her dark eyes, and the fury. Her cheeks turned from white to pink and she stood up, marching back and forth in front of him, so angry he wondered if she would combust.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, enjoying the view, as the Ice Maiden turned to fire.
“How dare he?” she breathed.
“Because he’s greedy and he can,” Sebastian replied evenly. “I suppose in a way it’s understandable. All his life he’s been told he’s a blue blooded aristocrat and he should have the means to flaunt it, and suddenly he has the means.”
Lavinia stopped in front of him, staring down at him. Sebastian knew that a gentleman would rise to his feet, but he was enjoying her transformation far too much to care. “That woman at the theatre,” she said, with suddenly understanding.
“His mistress, Mrs Chandler. Yes. I spoke to her.”
“Why would she care about me or Oliver?” Lavinia retorted, dark eyes flashing. “She’s getting what she wants from Martin.”
“One doesn’t have to have breeding to have a conscience,” he responded coolly.
Her teeth worried her lip and he felt himself go hard at the thought of what he wanted to do to her mouth. It felt like only yesterday he’d had that right. Their assignations had gone on for months before she was declared with child and Patrick had put a stop to them.
“I trusted Martin,” she admitted. “Or perhaps I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Understandable,” he replied. “And are you thinking straight now?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“Do you need my help?”
Her surprised gaze flew to his. For a moment he thought she would agree but then she shook her head. “I think I need to deal with Martin myself. If I am going to make my own way in this world then I need to face up to my family. I have let myself be persuaded and manipulated long enough.”
Lavinia had married Patrick when she was only seventeen, and in many ways Martin had simply stepped into his authoritative shoes. She was right, Sebastian decided, she needed to take control of her own life. No matter what had once been between them and how hurt he felt about that, he admired her strength. He was proud of her.
“You are capable of anything if you put your mind to it,” he said gruffly. “We both know that, Lavinia.”
Her eyes grew soft, full of emotion. “Sebastian . . .” For a moment he thought she was going to say something meaningful. She hesitated, lifting her hand, and he held his breath, wanting her to touch him. Desperate for the contact.
And then her fingers brushed against his jaw and she took a step closer, her soft curves pressed to his hard muscle. His control was shaky. It was a long time since he had held a woman, this woman. His woman.
