Sebastian had sent a note ahead asking the valet to leave out the razor along with the other items for his bath. He must make haste. The Christmastide season was always full of commitments, including dinner parties, holiday gatherings, and many other sorts of affairs Sebastian was obligated to attend. Most of them put him on edge. The Markhams’ event would be no different. Lord Markham would no doubt ask for his vote for the upcoming Reform bill in Parliament, a subject Sebastian was more than tired of discussing. He’d made his thoughts quite clear on the subject. He was a Whig and would vote with the Whigs. Markham refused to take his answer as final.
But the parties and the bill weren’t what truly had Sebastian in the devil’s own mood tonight. He could handle those insignificant bothers deftly enough. No. Tonight he was in a rotten temper because Lord Hazelton—that unmitigated arse—had had the temerity to ask Sebastian about his wife. His least favorite subject.
“How is the duchess?” Hazelton had drawled in a fake-innocent voice as if he hadn’t the faintest clue what a sore subject the duchess was for Sebastian. “Seems as if Society has been missing her for a bit. She’s not ill again, is she?”
It was longer than ‘a bit’ and they both bloody well knew it. It had been two years. Two years and three months, to be precise, but who was keeping count? Regardless, it would be a frigid day in Hades before Sebastian let a fool like Hazelton see that he’d been affected by his words.
“She’s well,” Sebastian had answered smoothly. Clearly, he’d used the excuse that Veronica was ill one too many times. “I’ll have to speak with my lady about gracing London’s ballrooms more often.”
Hazelton knew it was a damn lie. The entire ton knew Veronica had left Sebastian. Or at least the rumor mill had been correct when it reported that she’d packed her trunks only two months after their enormous July wedding and left for their country estate in Essex. Noticeably without her husband, with whom she’d appeared to be so in love only days prior.
No one had seen her since. Least of all, Sebastian. But he had it on good authority from his closest friend and Veronica’s brother, Justin Whitmoreland, that she was, in fact, alive and well, if still nursing a huge grudge against her husband. A grudge Sebastian wholeheartedly returned. But he’d be damned before he admitted to the ton that at the age of eight and twenty, he’d been left by his wife. Instead, he’d done what any good nobleman would do under the same circumstances and acted as if nothing was amiss. Her Grace merely preferred the countryside as far as Sebastian was concerned, and he needn’t explain that to a bloody soul. How he would explain that he hadn’t produced an heir and never would, was a different matter entirely, and one that he refused to dwell on for long. Whenever the disturbing thought arrived on the doorstep of his mind, he ignored it completely, preferring instead to toss himself into his work, his boxing matches, or Parliamentary proceedings. Anything to take his mind off the fact that not only had he failed as a husband, but he also would never be a father.
Justin helped a great deal in perpetuating the illness story, and between the two of them they’d managed to, if not convince anyone that Her Grace was in the countryside for reasons other than an unhappy marriage, at least generate enough doubt that no one had asked Sebastian directly for the truth…until Hazelton’s little venture today.
And of course that arse hadn’t left it at that. “Excellent,” Hazelton had replied. “So, Her Grace will be at our Twelfth Night ball next month? She’s missed the last two, I seem to recall.”
The statement had been followed by a sly smile, one Sebastian had wanted to knock off Hazelton’s face with his fist. That was the reason Sebastian had lost his damn mind and instead of making some excuse, had said, “We’ll be there,” before stalking past Hazelton, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
The entire ride home, Sebastian had slapped his leather gloves against his thigh, damning himself for a fool for allowing Hazelton to get to him. Of course they wouldn’t be there. His duchess wouldn’t even speak to him, let alone attend a ball with him and pretend to be happy. Damn. Damn. Damn. He’d eventually have to make his excuses to Hazelton. He couldn’t say she was ill again, could he? No. He’d need to invent a new excuse this time.
He ground his teeth as he lowered himself into the bath. Two years was a long time for a wife to hide in the countryside. Perhaps he’d finally be forced to write to that shrew he’d married and tell her he’d be coming for a visit. That would prompt her to vacate the countryside. She had to be getting bored out there all alone in that giant house. Still, it didn’t guarantee she’d come to London, and it certainly didn’t mean she’d attend any events with him.
Hazelton wasn’t the only one talking, however. That fool was simply the only one who had the impudence to confront Sebastian. He’d heard the rumors. London was abuzz, wondering at the long absence of the Duchess of Edgefield. The unlovable duke. That’s what they were calling him. Would he eventually be forced to admit his wife had left him? That perhaps she’d never even loved him. Just like his mother.
These were the thoughts that rambled through Sebastian’s mind as he began soaping himself up. He nearly growled as he dunked the soap into the hot water and lathered himself thoroughly.
Christmas Day was next week. Once again, he’d be alone for the blasted holiday. Well, not alone precisely, but not with any semblance of a proper family either. He couldn’t even spend Christmastide at his closest friend’s house in the country because that family included her. That irked him even more. Before he’d married Veronica, his family had been…Veronica’s family. Or Justin’s at least, which, of course, was the same family. Sebastian had thought he’d married the girl next door, instead he’d married a woman who believed the worst of him. Just like his mother. Damn it. He’d never been so wrong about something in his life.
He’d spent Christmastide with Justin’s family for years after his own father had died. The viper who’d given birth to him had long ago stopped even pretending to want to spend the holiday with him. She spent the Season in Bath with friends. But for the last two years, unable to spend the holiday with the Whitmorelands, Sebastian had been forced to call upon his next closest friend, Selby. And while Selby was a loyal friend and a fine chap, his family just wasn’t the same as the Whitmorelands. They didn’t joke with each other, or play games competitively, or open their gifts the morning of Christmas Eve for no other reason besides blatant impatience. No. The Selbys weren’t the Whitmorelands, and they never would be.
Regardless, Sebastian would spend the blasted week at Selby’s, trying to fight off his friend’s overly affectionate—and often inebriated—Aunt Minnie and having to speak in an overly loud voice to Selby’s Uncle Teddy, who was significantly hard of hearing.
A sharp rap at the door to the bath chamber pulled Sebastian from his thoughts. “Yes,” he called, more than a little peeved that his bath was being interrupted.
Hawthorne, his butler, pushed open the door and strode inside. The man stood at attention, staring directly at the marble wall in front of him.
“Yes, Hawthorne,” Sebastian shot out. “What is so bloody important that it couldn’t wait until I’m dressed?”
Hawthorne’s blue eyes remained trained on the wall, but his jaw flinched. “It’s Her Grace,” he said in a voice that sounded like a man who sorely regretted having to proclaim this information. “She’s in the silver drawing room and she demands to speak with you immediately.”
If a small dragon had flown into the bathing chamber and dropped a bar of soap directly in front of his face, causing a splash, Sebastian couldn’t have been more surprised. “Her Grace?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and drawing out the words into a long, confused question, more trying to reconcile the thought in his brain than truly asking the man to repeat himself.
“Her Grace,” Hawthorne repeated, painfully. “The Duchess of Edgefield.”
“My wife?” Sebastian clarified, his eyes still narrowed. All the words were English, yet they still made little sense.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hawthorne answered. “And I wouldn’t have bothered you under such conditions, however, she…” the poor man trailed off, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
Sebastian arched a brow. “She insisted, did she, Hawthorne?”
“Quite emphatically, Your Grace,” Hawthorne replied with a definite nod.
“It’s all right, Hawthorne.” Sebastian rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I know precisely how demanding she can be.”
The butler’s only reply was another blank-faced nod.
Sebastian continued soaping his arms and chest. Hmm. This was interesting. Veronica was here. He hadn’t spoken to the woman in over two years, and she was here, demanding he speak to her. Which could only mean one thing…she wanted something from him. That was interesting.
