“I’m not speaking of Justin,” Mama replied, lifting her chin and giving her daughter the arched-brow stare Veronica hadn’t seen since she was a girl and had sneaked out of the house to swim in the pond at Whitmore Manor in the middle of the night.
Veronica’s nostrils flared. She lifted her chin, too. There was no use pretending any longer. “What if he refuses?” she reasoned, plucking absently at her dark-green skirts.
Mama’s arched-brow stare remained firmly in place. “He may be a scoundrel, darling, but he’s not a complete beast. How can he refuse the request of a dying man?”
It was on the tip of Veronica’s tongue to ask Mama if she would ask him. Mama was already on her way to London to ask Justin the same question. She could easily stop by Edgefield’s town house and ask him as well. After all, he wouldn’t deny his mother-in-law, would he?
Veronica immediately frowned. Probably. She wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t a beast. But even if she had the nerve to ask Mama to intervene, Veronica knew she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it. No. She would have to deal with him on her own. He was her problem. Not Mama’s.
“Very well,” Veronica said, with a sigh. “I’ll be there.”
“And?” Mama prodded, allowing her dark brow to drop back into place over her intensely dark eye.
Veronica shook her head in as nonchalant a manner as she dared and purposely didn’t meet Mama’s gaze. “And I’ll do my best to get him to come as well,” she promised, having absolutely no clue how she would accomplish such a feat.
“It’s not a request, darling,” Mama said in the voice that Veronica had only heard a few times in her life. One that clearly indicated her mother expected complete obedience.
“If he refuses, I cannot very well abduct him and bring him to Whitmore Manor in shackles.” Frustration tinged Veronica’s voice.
“I don’t particularly care how you get him there,” Mama replied with the hint of a smile before deftly lifting the teacup and taking a small, polite sip. She set the cup aside and stood. “Now, I’m off to rest before dinner.”
Pressing her hand to her ribs, Veronica watched her mother go. Trepidation and nausea congealed in Veronica’s middle. She’d been dreading a moment like this for two years. The two years it had been since she’d told her husband to go to hell, since she’d packed her belongings and left their London town house. Since she’d made it clear she intended to go to their country estate and expected him to give her fair warning before he ever came to the property, so she’d have ample time to vacate. In the entire two years, she’d never once received a letter from him, he’d never once come to visit, and she’d neither seen nor heard from him. Precisely how she preferred it.
But Grandpapa had always adored that arse, Edgefield. Her grandfather called him a young scalawag. Grandfather always saw the best in people. He’d been blinded by Sebastian’s charm, had liked him since he was a child, coming to visit Justin on breaks from Eton. The two boys had been thick as thieves their whole lives…one of the many reasons that when it had come time to marry, Veronica had looked no further than her own older brother’s best friend, Sebastian Sinclair, the Duke of Edgefield.
He’d fooled everyone, not just Grandpapa. In fact, she’d been the biggest fool of all.
But Grandpapa was special to her, and he was dying. She’d always been his favorite. The entire family knew it. When she was a little girl, he’d sneaked her favorite lemon cakes from the grand balls thrown at Whitmore Manor. He’d taken her driving in his curricle, allowing her to hold the reins as soon as they were out of Mama’s eyesight. He’d taught her how to shoot a rifle and had been her first partner when she learned the waltz. Her entire life, Grandpapa had always been there for her with a bit of wit and wisdom when she’d been feeling down or needed a shoulder to lean on. She loved him immeasurably. Yes. Veronica would do anything for her beloved grandfather…even ask her awful, cheating husband to come to one last Christmastide house party and pretend to be happy.
Veronica stood and stared out the windows across the meadow behind the estate. An enormous oak tree stood tall and proud, not far from the window, its branches stark against the gray winter sky. When she and Sebastian had first married and he’d brought her here, it had been summer. The tree had been full of lush leaves, and she’d loved the unobstructed view of it from this room. She’d pictured them there…herself, Sebastian, and children…four of them. The same number Mama had. All with dark hair like both of their parents. Though hopefully at least one would inherit his father’s unforgettable green eyes. She had seen them all there, in her mind’s eye, under the shade of the grand tree, talking and laughing, laying on a soft quilt, warmed by the sun, watching the clouds peeking through the branches. A happy family. All she’d ever wanted. Now, given the circumstances, there was little chance she would ever be a mother.
Veronica swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. The memory was painful. She wanted to erase it from her mind. And yet…she still insisted on taking callers in this room and she never asked for the curtains to be drawn. Clearly, she was a glutton for punishment.
She took a deep breath to clear her head of impossible fantasies, then she turned swiftly toward the door and marched from the room. She would ask Mary, her maid, to pack her trunk immediately. Veronica would leave for London tomorrow as well. But her mission differed from her mother’s. Veronica was going to town to convince the man she never wanted to see again to come to Christmastide at Whitmore Manor and pretend to be half of a loving, happy couple for the better part of a sennight. The thought sickened her. And the next thought sickened her even more. How in the world would she get him to agree to it?
Chapter Two
London, The Duke of Edgefield’s Town House, the next evening
Sebastian Sinclair, The Duke of Edgefield, stomped up the curving marble staircase and into his bedchamber. He ripped off his cravat and tossed the thing on the sapphire blue satin coverlet that enveloped his bed. “Chadwick,” he called, already impatient that his valet wasn’t waiting for him.
The door to his wardrobe flew open and Chadwick came hurrying out of the smaller adjoining room. “Your Grace,” Chadwick said, bowing. “Forgive me. I didn’t know precisely when you’d return. I—”
“Come help me off with this coat. I must be at the Markhams’ affair within the hour. The bloody Parliamentary session ran long at Westminster tonight.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The man sprinted forth and began helping Sebastian remove his coat, while Sebastian made quick work of the buttons on his shirt.
Sebastian frowned to himself. He shouldn’t have been so curt and demanding of Chadwick. Sebastian had been in the devil’s own mood lately—oh, who was he kidding? He’d been in the devil’s own mood for over two years now—but he shouldn’t take it out on the hapless valet.
Sebastian allowed the man to pull off his coat, then he took a seat on the padded bench in front of the bed while Chadwick kneeled before him to remove his boots.
“I’ll wear the black tonight,” Sebastian said offhandedly. “Is my bath prepared?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Chadwick hastened to assure him.
After his boots and stockings had been removed, Sebastian dismissed the man. Then he pulled off his breeches and tossed them atop the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room toward the smaller room opposite his wardrobe. He purposely avoided looking at the east door that led from his bedchamber. That was the one that led to…her room. Antipathy coiled in his belly. He couldn’t stand to even think of her name.
The moment Sebastian pushed open the door to the bathing chamber, his tight shoulders relaxed. Steam filled the room, and across the space, a full tub awaited him. Next to the copper tub was a small wooden table where a fluffy towel, a bar of soap in a small dish, and a straight razor sat. Normally, he’d ask Chadwick to shave him, but it was more efficient this way.
