Chapter 13

13

Hyde Park wassunny 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.

“I’m coming with you,” Emma said.

They galloped through the streets of London towards Sumhall, winding between the carriages and pedestrians, some of whom shrieked as the two riders flashed by them. It must have taken them fifteen minutes or so, and the news was slowly sinking in. Sebastian’s stomach was twisting with anger, with the unfairness of the loss of someone so young and so loved.

They ran into Sumhall, and Sebastian was immediately shown to the study while Emma was led to the sitting room.

Sebastian entered the study, where Preston stood by the fireplace, supporting himself with one arm lying on the stonework, staring at the fire. A letter was clutched in his other hand.

“Preston,” said Sebastian, closing the door behind him.

Preston looked at him, his eyes glistening, deep lines of sorrow around his mouth. He was pale, grayish even.

“Is it true?” asked Sebastian, slowly walking to Preston.

Preston exhaled sharply and stood straight.

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

Sebastian squeezed his shoulder. “I am ever so sorry. What happened?”

Preston shook his head slightly. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I never wanted this. I was always supposed to be the spare. I do not want to be duke.”

Sebastian knew exactly how that felt.

“But how is it your fault?” he asked.

Preston showed him to a seat near the writing desk. The room seemed to reflect the somber mood—the long, thick purple curtains were almost fully drawn, casting the room in semidarkness. Shelves with books covered one wall opposite the fireplace, while the other two walls were decorated with oil paintings. On the sideboard, a globe stood next to piles of papers and folders and a round tray with a carafe of transparent liquid.

“Gin?” Preston asked as he went to the sideboard.

“If you’re having any,” said Sebastian.

“Of course I’m having gin,” mumbled Preston as he poured the drink into a carved glass for Sebastian. He handed him the glass, took another one, still full, from the desk and drank it in one go. Sebastian followed his friend’s example, the alcohol burning the back of his throat.

“We argued last night,” said Preston as he laid the letter on the desk and leaned against it.

“What about?”

“What have we been arguing about for months now?”

“Ah…” said Sebastian.

He remembered the argument. Notorious ton rake, the Duke of Grandhampton had shown a consistent interest in Miss Penelope Beckett. Though to anyone else it likely appeared nothing more than an attempt at seduction, something he was famous for, he had confessed to his brother that he actually wanted to marry her.

“That fortune hunter,” muttered Preston, pouring himself and Sebastian two more drinks. “She led him on. She was never interested in him, only his money. He was too blind to see it. So we argued. Again. I was supposed to go with him to Portside, to see him box. But he went alone because he couldn’t stand my company.”

He handed Sebastian the glass.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault, Preston,” said Sebastian, accepting the glass.

“Had I been there, had I gone with him, had it not been for Miss Beckett, he wouldn’t have died!” roared Preston. “We’ve always bickered, but I never wanted any harm to come to my brother.”

Preston threw back the contents of his glass while Sebastian only sipped his. “It cannot be that simple. You cannot take this blame on yourself.”

“I can. And I must. Had I insisted on going with Spencer like I had wanted to, I might have protected him. He was beaten to death.”

Sebastian sat upright. “What? During the match?”

“No. By thugs. Probably for money. Who knows… The coroner sent us his things…the bloodied handkerchief with his initials. His pocket watch.” Preston’s face distorted in a mask of grief and pain, and he cried.

Sebastian stood up and wrapped his arm around his best friend, his own heart breaking for Grandhampton.

Later that night, back at home, he and Emma lay in bed, and she was cuddled in the crook of his arm. He inhaled the clean, feminine scent of her hair, his lips pressed to her head, reveling in her warmth. She was alive. He was alive. That was already so much to be thankful for.

“I think I will go to see my parents tomorrow, Sebastian,” she said. “If you can spare me. I’d rather go and collect Papa’s copy of my marriage contract myself. Besides, I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

The thought of her being away tore him apart. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he’d go with her, but he couldn’t leave the Seatons in this time of tragedy. And she was right, they needed the contract for the annulment. Her father had refused to send it to Sebastian’s solicitor by post, thinking it too valuable of a document and concerned that it may be lost.

There was nothing Sebastian wouldn’t do for her, even if it meant she was better off without him.

“Will you be back, Emma?” he asked her, swallowing the pain and the fear.

“Of course I will.”

He wished he could be certain she would. He made sure to satisfy her every sexual need, but what if she didn’t need him beyond that and she’d see that while she was away?

But he wouldn’t lock her in another prison. “Go, darling. I’ll send four footmen to accompany you and protect you. And I’ll count the days until you return to me.”