“Call me Mary,” she said, appropriating his earlier words with a smile. “If I’m to be your mother.”
“I’d rather you were my aunt.”
The words came out as his words so often did, clipped and hard. But he heard the accidental insult in them. “Not that I mean… Of course, I wish for you and my father…”
Her smile was strangely sad. “I know what you mean.”
She put down her knitting. Sebastian fought the urge to flee.
“If you love her as these last few months have convinced me you do, then…then perhaps youshouldgo to her.”
“You said—shesaid—”
“I know.” She sighed, her smile sad again. “You hurt her, Sebastian. You treated her so wretchedly, as though…as though she was disposable. You used her husband—”
“No.” He could defend himself from that, at least. “No. Not like she thought.”
Because he’dmeantit when he said her husband, so full of life, would surely have wanted her to keep on living. He’d meant every word of that.
Lady Pemberthy’s—Mary’s—lips pressed together as she considered him. Whether she believed him or not, he wasn’t sure. She probably didn’t. And yet still…still she thought he might have a chance? Still she’d risk her beloved niece to him?
He felt hot all over, glancing towards the window again as though for a drink of fresh air, as though to dive through it andrun… It was impossible to stay still. She was a day’s ride away, barely even that…
“Do I have your blessing?” The words were hoarse, as though he’d swallowed fire. He oughtn’t to be staring at Madelaine’s aunt like this, like a madman, savage with hope.
He took a breath. Loosened his fingers and went to sit down.
“Mary,Mother, do I have your blessing?”
Her eyes shimmered at being addressed so. But… “I don’t know.” She said it like a cracked vase; something ready to fall apart in his hands. “I don’t know, Sebastian… I don’t know if I do the right thing sending you to her. But her letters… She tries to write as though she is cheerful, but I—” She picked at her knitting, wrapping a thread of yarn around her finger, winding it tight. “She won’t come to you, whatever she might feel. She is so scared of being hurt. If you had any idea what she went through when…when…”
“When Alfred died.”
She nodded, letting out a breath as she unspooled the yarn from her finger. But she held the thread tight. A lifeline. One word, one cut from the Fates, would untether his soul. If she said no…
“To be hurt again… It is life and death for her. Whatever you do, don’t—don’t hurt her.”
Could he promise that?
Just seeing him again would cause her pain. He knew that.
But he was a cruel man, wasn’t he? He was a hard man; he was cruel enough to hurt her while there was hope…
While there was hope, he would make demands. He would get the truth. Because if she loved him… Despite all her words, her rejections, he hadn’t yet abandoned hope.
Yes…he admitted it…he was vain enough to hope; he’d seen secrets in her eyes; he lay awake and tortured himself siftingthrough memories for the faintest shards, a word, a look, a breath…
“I will go to her tomorrow.”
One last throw of the dice. One last gamble. This was the only victory he cared for.
His mother-to-be listened, wretched, saying nothing.
“I will go to her tomorrow. And then I will know.”
His hope, his life, hung in the balance.
He left the house before dawn.
