Katy Cooper - Lord Sebastian's Wife

“My lord is in a great hurry,” his gentleman, Ned, observed.

“Hold your tongue and find me a boatman,” Sebastian said, frowning at him. The last thing he wanted or needed was a clack-tongued fool yammering in his ear.

Muttering, Ned shoved his way through the crowd at the bottom of the stairs. He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared, bounding like hound to Sebastian’s side. “I have found the man, my lord. But it will cost you.”

“Everything costs me,” Sebastian said. “Lead on.”

The tide was with them, lending speed to the return journey. Pulling his short gown around him, Sebastian slouched in his end of the boat, listening with half an ear to the boatman’s shouts and curses, and to the abuse offered in reply. He hated London—hated the river, hated Court, hated the filthy, crowded streets. With the whole of his soul, he wanted to be home at Benbury, quietly filling his empty coffers by enlarging his flocks of sheep. But it was not the latent wealth of Benbury’s fields he longed for; it was for the house itself, set behind its low walls, girdled by green gardens, a place of peace.

He scowled and the boatman rowed harder. There had never been peace where Beatrice was; Benbury would not be the sanctuary he had longed for.

The trip back to Coleville House was shorter than the trip away, and not only because he had been driven by the tide. He dreaded the coming interview with Lord Wednesfield, knowing that the earl would be displeased at the change in plans—if he was not outright angry. And what to tell him? That his elder daughter, in defiance of everything she had been taught, had made a marriage for herself the instant she crossed the threshold into womanhood? The earl would knock the teeth out of Sebastian’s head for his presumption. And Sebastian would deserve it.

The boat pulled up at the landing by Coleville House. Climbing out, Sebastian mounted the steps that led into the garden, his thoughts still turning like a whirligig. Could he not simply say he preferred Beatrice to Cecilia? It had once been true enough.

The slap of Ned’s shoes on the stone-flagged path disrupted Sebastian’s thoughts. “He took all my money, my lord. I shall need more,” Ned said at his shoulder.

He did not turn to look at Ned. “Not one penny more. You will not need it at Benbury.”

“Benbury, my lord? We are leaving London?”

“Tomorrow or the day after. Friday at the latest. You will need to make the arrangements.”

“Aye, my lord. As you wish.”

In the hall, the steward told Sebastian that the earl and countess had withdrawn to the solar above when they returned to Coleville House. Brushing off the man’s offer to announce him, Sebastian crossed the hall to the stairs behind the dais that led to the solar. Though he dreaded the coming interview with the earl, he dreaded waiting for it more. He took the stairs two at a time. Once he set things in motion, they would be beyond his power to stop.

In the solar, the earl and countess sat side by side in the heavy chairs set beside open windows. The countess was busy with stitchery while the earl sat with his chin sunk on his breast and his hands folded on his stomach, apparently lost in thought and far from the room.

Sebastian bowed and said, “My lord, I should like to speak to you. For your ears alone.”

The earl lifted his head and looked at Sebastian, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. His stare lasted only a moment, but it was long enough to make Sebastian feel as if the old man had seen into the dark depths of his soul. He repressed the urge to look away, the stronger urge to squirm like a boy. At the edge of his vision, the countess set down her needlework and frowned at him.

“Do you wish this audience now?” the earl asked, his hands still folded over his stomach.

Sebastian swallowed. “Yes, my lord, an it please you.”

“This is in aid of what?”

“My betrothal to your daughter.”

The earl’s eyes opened at that, his face smoothing into the mask of amiable neutrality that he wore at Court. Did he suspect what was afoot? How could he? Yet he clearly thought something was odd.

“Walk with me.” The earl stood and put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, as full of vigor as he had been full of lassitude only a moment before. His fingers gripped Sebastian, the pressure uncomfortable through the thick layers of gown, doublet and shirt. Without the padding those fingers would have bruised him. Was the earl reminding him not to displease him? Or was this his ordinary response to dread? Sebastian had known the earl his whole life, but he could not answer his own questions.

He waited to speak until they were in the garden, filled to the tops of its walls with the long golden light of late afternoon. The gray shadows of oncoming dusk gathered softly under the plants that stood in solitary knots. None too soon, the endless day moved toward its close.

“What of your betrothal to my daughter?” the earl asked, releasing his shoulder.

Sebastian turned to face him. “I wish to marry your daughter Beatrice, not your daughter Cecilia.”

The earl’s brows lifted. “What is this?”

“I prefer Beatrice to Cecilia. Now that she is a widow, I am free to follow that preference.”

Without so much as a flicker of change in his expression, the earl clouted Sebastian in the ear. Sebastian staggered, more from surprise than from the strength of the blow, though it still made his head ring.

“My lord?”

“That is for taking me for a fool.”

Sebastian rubbed his ear. “I do not understand, my lord.”

The earl cuffed him again, the harder blow knocking Sebastian back a step. Anger shot him forward, but he caught himself before he raised a hand against Wednesfield. Not only did the earl outrank him, but he had acted as a father to Sebastian for many years. He had earned the right to chastise Sebastian, even if it was with his hands.

“My lord! I have not deserved this.”

“For lying to me, you deserve it. For telling me stupid lies, you deserve it more,” the earl said, his mouth hard. “Now, tell me the truth and have done with this foolishness.”

He should have known he would not escape without confessing the true story of the betrothal. “I beg of you, my lord, do not strike me again until you have heard the whole of it.”

The earl nodded, his mouth a white-edged line, his brows pulled down over the bridge of his nose in a frown. He was not angry, not yet. Sebastian said a quick prayer for forgiveness, and then explained what had happened on that long ago Twelfth Night.

“Why do I only learn of this now?” the earl asked softly.

“My lord, when we made the promise, I did not think it a binding one. John has shown me it does bind us both.” As it always had. But he could not say that to the earl. “When you betrothed Beatrice to Lord Manners, I knew it could not be.” When Beatrice had told him Manners had offered for her, he had known the Twelfth Night promise had meant nothing to her. She would never have let a man go so far as to offer for her if she had considered herself promised. And he had also known that he meant nothing to her. “We were foolish children.”

“Not children enough,” the earl said shortly. He sighed. “Are you certain of this?”

“My lord, I am not certain of anything. But I now believe we made a binding promise and because of that, Beatrice is my wife in the eyes of canon law.”

“What, then, do you need of me? She is your wife, with or without my blessing.” The earl’s voice was flat with displeasure.

“But not in the eyes of the world. I do not want to do anything that will shame either of us. For that, we must have a betrothal and a wedding, as if we are not married at all. And witnesses to our marriage will ease my mind.”

“And if I have no care for the easiness of your mind? What will you do then?”

“I shall take Beatrice to live with me at Benbury, as my wife, with you or without you, my lord. She will have no dower rights nor will she have a jointure. Should I die before her, she will be left penniless, but so be it. I cannot fight you.” He clamped his mouth shut, waiting for the storm to break over his head.

Sebastian met the earl’s cold, black stare steadily, his stomach churning.

Wednesfield nodded, the confrontation of his gaze easing into thoughtfulness. “I shall tell you something I have never told another man. If you speak of this, I will deny it.” He looked past Sebastian, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I did not want to give Beatrice to Manners, but I could think of no reason to refuse him. When she asked for the marriage, I permitted it. After it was done and—I learned more truly what kind of man Manners was, I swore that I would never again allow a daughter of mine to marry a man I did not trust.” His gaze sharpened and returned to Sebastian. “You think me a softhearted fool for that, I doubt me not. Marriage is about alliances, you will say.”

“My lord, I have confessed that I pledged myself to your daughter for no better reason than affection. How shall I call you softhearted?”

“A neat answer,” Wednesfield said, his grin flashing briefly. “But think on this. Why should I trust a man as an ally when I will not trust him as a son-in-law? But that is not my point.” He reached out and gripped the collar of Sebastian’s short gown. “I have known you from a pup, Benbury, but if you had not outfaced me as you did just now, I should not allow you to take Beatrice away. I should not think you man enough to marry her.” He let go of Sebastian’s gown.

And if Wednesfield had refused him, he would be free. No, the voice deep in his mind said with hard certainty. Regardless of what anyone said or did, he and Beatrice had yoked themselves together for life. In ignorance, he had abjured that promise once. He could not do it a second time.

The earl smiled, cold yielding to his customary warmth. “However, I do not oppose you, so there is no need to pursue this. I give you my blessing right gladly. But I will not discuss the legalities tonight.” His smile widened. “See me tomorrow, before noon, and we will hammer out a contract to please us both.”

At some sodden point Beatrice’s tears became sleep. Sleep led to dreams that made her jerk awake, sitting up in bed. Her hands were cold and shaking, but when she raised them to her face, she was sweating. The dream tried to return to her; she caught a glimpse of hands and thought she smelled cloves and decay. She crossed herself to ward off the nightmare and climbed down from the bed. Maybe the dream clung to the coverlet; maybe if she prayed, she would be safe.

She did not kneel. Even if prayer would wipe her mind clean of every memory of Thomas, she could not pray. Her heart turned to stone, her soul was as dry as the desert. She was lost, far beyond the reach of God’s love, if not his wrath.

Besides, it grew late. Soon the family would come together to sup in the solar. If she wanted to eat before dawn, she must join them. Her eyes were gritty and swollen from her weeping. She needed to bathe them to ease the swelling and soothe the soreness. Evidence of tears would make her mother curious; curiosity would lead to sharp questions, though the questions would be meant kindly. Her heart and soul were too raw to endure much probing.

There was a ewer of water and a bowl on the table against the wall. Had Cecilia done this? Perhaps. Beatrice filled the bowl half-full of water and bent to rinse her face and eyes. The water, smelling faintly of lavender and roses, was cool on her hot skin and the scent, evoking memories of happier days in the garden at Wednesfield, eased her wounded soul. She dipped her hands into the water over and over again, splashing her face until she could smell nothing else.