“Ivy!”
Octavia burst into the room only seconds after Sebastian left, her gaze taking everything in. She was instantly standing in front of her, the same spot Sebastian had just vacated, wrapping her hands around Ivy’s waist and holding her tightly.
The sobs came then, full all-body sobs that poured out from inside her, making her shudder.
“What happened?” Octavia asked.
Ivy’s throat was thick. Too thick to talk, certainly. She just shook her head.
“Did he—did he tell you how he felt?” Octavia said.
Ivy was about to nod her head when she realized the truth of it. He hadn’t. He hadn’t told her he loved her. He’d suggested marriage as the most convenient way for them to be respectable again. A convenient way for them to continue their sexual liaison, she supposed.
If he tired of her—when he tired of her—was he thinking he’d just go set himself up with a mistress? Perhaps a woman who was not of his world? Like her?
“Ivy?” Octavia asked. “Can I get you something?” Her sister handed the glass of whiskey to Ivy, who took it automatically.
She drank it, all of it, sputtering as the liquid went down her throat. She felt the heat of it in her belly immediately, the light-headed feeling a welcome one given how distraught she felt.
She could understand why people turned to drink in difficult times.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Octavia.” Ivy gently disengaged her sister’s hands from around her waist. “I want to go into my room, have a cry, and then get back to work. Perhaps I’ll have a cup of tea.” And then she wanted to cry again because it reminded her of his antipathy toward the beverage.
“You know I am here for you,” Octavia said. “Whatever you want to do, I am here for you.”
Ivy offered a tremulous smile. “I know. Thank you.”
She took a deep breath, then frowned. “I do want to tell you about it, actually. I don’t know why I said I didn’t.”
“Habit?” Octavia offered, a wry smile on her lips. “Because you’re accustomed to holding back your emotion for fear it will cause difficulty? Because you’re accustomed to doing everything by yourself?” Her sister’s expression was fierce. “But I am old enough to shoulder this with you, Ivy. I want to be here with you, as you were there for me when I was too young to understand.”
Ivy felt the tears welling up again, but this time they weren’t borne of misery.
This was why she had responded so vehemently when he’d made his suggestion. Why she knew that if he was to plead his case she would have the same answer.
It wasn’t worth it to give up not only her autonomy, but that of her sister’s. She’d already made decisions for Octavia, she didn’t want to continue to do so. Octavia should be able to make her own mistakes, not have her sister make them for her.
“Let me tell you what happened,” Ivy said, taking Octavia’s hand and guiding her to the seat where he’d sat, then placed herself down in her own chair. “You might want some of that, too,” she added, gesturing toward Sebastian’s half-drunk whiskey.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What the hell, Seb?”
Nash glared at Sebastian, an irritable look on his face. His butler, Finan, stood behind him, a less irritated but more exasperated expression on his face.
At least he was inciting a reaction from everyone he spoke to?
Small comfort. Or, to be honest, no comfort at all.
Nash swung the door wide. “You’d better come in,” he muttered ungraciously. Sebastian walked in, followed by Byron and Keats. As Nash shut the door behind him, the noise echoed in the bare hallway.
His friend wore a black silk dressing gown, making him look even more menacing than usual. It hung open over his naked chest, wrapped at the waist, not quite long enough to hide his bare legs and feet.
“You were asleep?” Sebastian asked unnecessarily. Because Nash’s hair was all awry, his eyes were puffy, and his cheeks were heavily stubbled.
“Yes, you idiot, because it is five o’clock in the morning.”
“It is?” Sebastian said in surprise. He hadn’t taken note of the time when he’d left Miss Ivy’s, but it couldn’t have been much past one o’clock. Had he truly been wandering for over four hours?
“Come into the study.” Nash whirled in a flurry of black silk, stalking down the hall to open the door, holding it wide for Sebastian. “Bran—” he began, only to be cut off by Finan.
“I know, Your Grace, brandy and brandy and more brandy,” the butler said in an aggrieved tone. “People coming at all hours of the day and night causing havoc,” he muttered as he retreated down the hall. “And with their dogs, too,” he added.
“Insolent beast,” Nash commented as he shut the door. His tone held no rancor, however, and Sebastian had to chuckle.
Nash sat down, tucking the fabric of his dressing gown around him so as to preserve his modesty. Sebastian appreciated that his friend was alert enough to spare Sebastian’s eyes from the sight.
“What is it?” Nash said, sounding almost sympathetic.
“I look that bad, hm?” Sebastian replied. Byron and Keats settled at Sebastian’s feet.
Nash shrugged. “No, honestly. You look as you usually do. It’s just not like you to show up, banging on my door at such an hour. Not to mention I saw the lady scurry out from the ballroom and you follow after with a determined expression. Tell me what happened.”
Sebastian began to speak.
Finan kept their glasses filled through the entire story, from the cribbage board incident to Ivy’s refusal.
“You wanted her to be—what? A bastard’s bride dependent on her husband’s family?”
Uh. “Well, put that way—”
“What other way would you put it, Seb?” Nash asked, swallowing the rest of his brandy and holding it out for Finan without taking his eyes off Sebastian.
“I wanted her to return to who she was.” He sounded defensive even to himself.
“Who she was?” Nash replied, emphasizing the last word.
Sebastian frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you idiot, that she has clearly become more than what she was. Tell me,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger toward Sebastian, “would you have paid attention to her at all if she had been Miss Ivy—I don’t know her last name . . .”
“Holton,” Sebastian supplied.
“Holton. If she had been Miss Ivy Holton, and had been presented to you in a ballroom wearing white and a demure smile?”
When had Nash ever been this loquacious? Or had he always been able to converse, but nobody had ever asked it of him? Required it of him?
Perhaps they all had hidden depths that were only discovered when difficulties arose.
He opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. “No,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t have.”
“Exactly.” Nash paused. “So why do you want her to be someone you wouldn’t have paid attention to? Why don’t you want her to be her?” A pause. “And why don’t you want you to be you? The person you are now?” A philosophical Nash was almost too much to bear.
Fuck. Nash was right. They both knew it. Finan knew it. Likely Byron and Keats knew it, too.
“I’ve ruined it,” he said. “If I go back to her and try to persuade her that I don’t want her to change—how could she possibly believe me? I still don’t have the means to support her—”
“Does she need supporting?” Nash interrupted.
Sebastian began to sputter, only to give in to Nash’s irrefutable logic. It was only custom that he feel obliged to provide for his wife; there were certainly ladies whose fortunes or skills allowed them to be the primary breadwinner. He just didn’t know any of those people himself.
Because you’ve only ever known aristocrats, a voice whispered pointedly in his head.
“Does she need supporting?” Nash asked again, this time in a more acerbic tone.
“No. But—�
�
“But nothing.” Nash downed his glass of brandy, waving Finan away when he would have refilled it. “You need to decide what you want to do, Sebastian. You idiot. Do you want to suffer the rest of your life without love because of your pride, or do you want to go to her, grovel in a thoroughly satisfying manner, and then kiss her senseless?”
Put that way— “Yes.”
Nash frowned. “Yes, what? Suffering or groveling?”
“The latter, I believe, Your Grace,” Finan interjected.
“Precisely,” Sebastian replied.
Nash made a shooing gesture. “So go, you idiot. Grovel well. Your future depends on it.”
Sebastian rose, glancing down at his dogs. “Could you—?”
“Yes, leave them here. They can have some brandy, too,” Nash said in an impatient tone of voice.
“No brandy for dogs, Your Grace,” Finan chided.
“Beef, then. Whatever they want. Just go.”
Sebastian nodded toward Nash and Finan, then spun on his heel and nearly ran out of the house. It wasn’t too late. Was it? It wouldn’t be too late. He had to tell her how he felt. And if she didn’t want him after that?
Well, then, he’d try again.
And again.
And if she never said yes?
He would work to be the man she deserved, even if she never accepted him. He would not compromise. Not with his goals, his marriage, his future.
She’d shown him the importance of that.
Now he just had to figure out a plan.
“You want to—what?” Thaddeus narrowed his gaze at Sebastian. They were back in Thaddeus’s office. The town house was still being cleaned after the party, and Thad had told Sebastian that Ana Maria was still asleep.
The party had been a grand success for her, and for Thaddeus’s first official appearance as the Duke of Hasford, Thad reported.
Sebastian sat in front of Thaddeus’s desk, no longer noting the changes in the office with regret. That time of his life was well and truly over. And he did not wish to return.
“I want to take up your offer. Not the one involving me marrying Miss Whatshername,” he added hastily.
“Muttlefield,” Thad supplied.
“But the one where I go to a Hasford country estate and try my hand at management. I’ve learned a lot at Miss Ivy’s”—including how to fall in love—“but I want to make my own way. That’s why I want to be anonymous.”
“They won’t recognize you?” Thaddeus asked.
“The one we grew up in, yes, of course they would. But there are others, ones that my mother deemed not ostentatious enough to patronize.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. One day, perhaps, he’d forgive his mother. As Ana Maria wished.
But that day was not now.
At least her overt snobbery meant that there were places he could go without being recognized. An upside to her complete and entirely offensive persona.
“Why do you want this?”
It was an honest question, and one Sebastian hoped he could answer honestly.
“I’ve changed, Thad.” Sebastian glanced away from Thaddeus’s direct gaze, trying to find the words to explain. “You presented me with an option that might have suited me if it had come up right after hearing about the title. I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a reasonable option, one that any somewhat disgraced gentleman would leap at if it meant he could return to the world he knew.”
“You weren’t disgraced,” Thad said gruffly. “You were always you, it is just that—”
“That I was no longer the duke. I know. And you were right when you said I usually took the easy way. I never thought before about the easy way or the hard way. I just assumed that things occurred because of me. Not what my lineage provided.”
He looked back at Thaddeus, whose expression was intent. Listening to Sebastian as he’d never listened before.
First Nash, now Thad. Was everyone different?
“At first, after losing everything, all I knew was what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to be a charity case, I didn’t want to do the same things my mother had.”
He took a deep breath. “And when I did think I knew what I wanted, I set my sights too high.” Yes, he could eventually get enough money to become an investor. But that would take years, and meanwhile, he had a life to live, and a woman, hopefully, to love.
“But that’s not enough now. I think I know what I am capable of. I just want a chance to prove it. And since I have no recommendations, I have to ask you for this favor. But if you agree, you cannot tell anyone—not Ana Maria, not anyone—where I am. I need to do this on my own.”
Thaddeus gave him a long searching look, then grunted in assent.
Sebastian exhaled in relief. “Excellent. Thank you. And I promise, I will return.”
“Just—just take care of yourself,” Thaddeus said.
Sebastian stood up and stuck his hand out, and Thaddeus rose, as well.
“I promise I will,” he said as they shook hands.
“Do you regret telling him to leave?” Octavia held Ivy’s arm as they walked down the street. Once again, like that previous time, in search of apples, bread, and cheese. Octavia had also vowed to make Ivy choose a new hat, saying, You might be miserable, but at least you’ll look pretty. Ivy didn’t want to argue with Octavia, since her sister was being remarkably supportive.
And Octavia had taken over some of Seb’s duties at the club, now coming up with creative ways to please their customers, so she didn’t want to annoy her either.
Ivy sighed. “I don’t regret it. It wouldn’t have worked, what he planned.”
“Of course not!” Octavia rejoined. “I am so glad you know what you want now.”
I want him.
“And that the club is continuing to do so well.”
One of the first things Octavia had done after that fateful evening was to choose a night to try Sebastian’s plan of clever wagers. It had been successful, more than what Ivy had hoped, and they had nearly enough money to go buy that cottage by the sea, if that was what they wanted.
But Ivy didn’t want that anymore.
She squeezed Octavia’s arm as she spoke. “I have to thank you for keeping me from falling into melancholy.” Octavia had gone so far as to surprise Ivy at odd moments by dashing into whatever room Ivy was in and dancing a spontaneous jig.
“It’s because I care about you, silly,” Octavia replied, sounding embarrassed. “You would do the same for me. Although it’s not the same as staking my future on the turn of a card, or anything—”
“Hush!” Ivy exclaimed. “I didn’t tell you that so you could tease me about it at any possible moment.”
“No, but you do have to admit it’s like me to do so,” Octavia countered.
“Do you know where he went?” Octavia asked after a few moments.
A lump formed in Ivy’s throat. “No. And it’s not really anything I can ask.”
“I could ask, if you want. Lady Ana Maria is so friendly anytime I stop to visit Byron and Keats.”
Ivy knew Octavia was visiting Sebastian’s half sister, but she hadn’t wanted to ask anything about that either. Not because it would be odd or inappropriate, but because she didn’t want Octavia to have to deal with the sight of her sister crying.
Besides, there was enough crying in the middle of the night when everyone had gone to bed.
“If he wants to see me, he can come find me.”
They had reached the baker’s stall by now. Piles of freshly baked bread were stacked on a cart, while the merchant stood behind the stall, patches of flour on her gown and a wide smile on her face. “What can I get for you, ladies?” she asked.
“Mac said he needs five loaves,” Octavia said. “He’s making sandwiches for the whist players. They spend a lot, we don’t want them to leave because they’re hungry.”
“Five loaves, please,” Ivy said.
The woman gathered the loaves and put them into two bags as Ivy ha
nded over the money for them.
“Apples next?”
Ivy nodded. “Yes, but those are just for us.”
“And the cheese?” Octavia asked in a hopeful voice.
Cheese. That night. She would not let her memories ruin the taste of one of the most delicious things ever invented. “Let’s get lots of cheese for us,” Ivy replied.
“If he did come find you, what would you say?” Octavia had torn off the end of one of the loaves, and had some of it stuffed in her mouth, making it difficult to hear.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Ivy said automatically.
“Humph. You understood me, didn’t you?”
Ivy rolled her eyes, but Octavia wasn’t looking at her.
“I don’t know what I’d say,” she said after a moment.
“But you love him, don’t you?”
Had she been grateful for her sister’s solicitousness? She might have to revisit that opinion.
“I do,” she admitted.
“I feel terrible he is such an idiot,” Octavia continued. “He could have had you, and he tried to offer some sort of weak compromise without ever asking you what you wanted.”
“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” Ivy asked wryly.
“Well, no. But if we talk it out, eventually it won’t be a big gaping wound in your heart.” Octavia spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, making it that much more painful.
“Just a small gaping wound.”
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” A pause. “No, wait, perhaps you’ve gained one, since you honestly were never that funny before.”
“Thank you?” They had reached the cheesemonger’s stall, thankfully, so Ivy was able to distract herself with choosing what types of cheese she wanted to drown her sorrows in.
They were heading toward the applecart when they heard their names being called.
“Miss Holton! Miss Octavia!” It was Lady Ana Maria dashing on the cobbled streets, a beleaguered-looking footman running after her.
“Good afternoon, Lady Ana Maria,” Ivy said. Lady Ana Maria looked entirely out of place in the common marketplace; she wore an exuberantly colored gown of deep pink, with a darker pink spencer on top. Her hat was festooned with a variety of feathers and blobs of plastic fruit that dangled precariously off the side.
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