in peace.”
Cecilia frowned. “Are you certain of this?”
“Yes. Grant me peace, I beg of you.”
“Very well. I do not like it, but if that is what you want.” She still frowned, eyes sharp with worry.
“It is. Go, Ceci. Please.”
After unlacing Beatrice, Ceci left. Beatrice lifted the edge of her bodice and untied her busk lace. She pulled the busk out and laid it beside her on the bed. It was a good one, made of ivory and carved with saints and animals, flowers and plants. Thomas had given it to her; she hated it.
She rolled away from it and curled herself into a ball, letting the tears fall once more.
Chapter Two
T he Earl and Countess of Wednesfield had left for Coleville House by the time Sebastian reached Westminster. Cursing his luck under his breath, he dropped a few coins into the usher’s outstretched hand and returned to the water stairs. Please God the tide had not turned. Otherwise he would be trapped here for an hour or more, if not all night.
“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.