Perfect Bride (30 page)

“Then what the blazes are you doing?”

Justin regarded him levelly. “You are still my brother, are you not?”

“What the hell kind of idiotic question is that?” Se
bastian demanded.

Justin raised his brows. “I thought perhaps a con
firmation was in order,” he murmured.

“What?”

A hand at his brow, Justin feigned great concentra
tion. “Forgive my lapse in memory, but when Father died, he had allowed our financial affairs to fall into a state that was rather dire, had he not?”

“For pity’s sake, you suffer no lapse in recall, Justin.”

“And you are the man whose pragmatic approach restored our fortune, who began the seemingly in
surmountable task of seeing to it that you, Julianna, and I were received in society without snickers or glares or whispers, are you not?”

Sebastian nodded tersely. “Your point?”

“Merely this.
My
brother would tackle the task of bringing home his beloved with the very same re
silience and fortitude.
My
brother would not lose heart.
My
brother would not lose hope.”

Sebastian was speechless. Somehow Justin’s lec
ture penetrated his brandy-induced fog as nothing else could have.

Or perhaps...as no one else could have.

Emotion swelled his chest. His throat grew tight. His eyes stung. He’d always loved his brother, even when he was madder than hell at his wild reckless
ness, but never more so than now.

“Justin,” he said hoarsely. “Ah, Christ.”

Justin groaned. “Dash it all, don’t go all sentimen
tal on me!”

“I fear I can’t help it. For I do believe I’m lucky to have a brother like you.” He gave a rusty laugh. “I can’t imagine having anyone
but
you as my brother.”

Justin reached out and squeezed Sebastian’s arm. “Nor can I,” he said simply.

very afternoon for the next week Sebastian pre
sented himself on the duchess’s doorstep and handed his card to Reginald along with the polite re
quest, “I wish to call upon Miss St. James.”

Each and every time Reginald disappeared, then returned with the same answer. “Miss St. James will not see you, my lord.” Indeed, the last time even the stony-faced butler appeared a bit harried. “Indeed, my lord, Miss St. James asks that you not return.”

Sebastian considered this. “Reginald,” he said po
litely, “what were her exact words?”

The stoic-faced butler was suddenly not so unflap
pable. “My lord, I am not in the habit of using such—”

“Ah. I assume her language may not have been particularly polite?” Sebastian wouldn’t put the poor man into the position of repeating his sweet lit
tle love’s presumably not-so-sweet discourse.

Reginald was clearly relieved. “You assume cor
rectly, my lord.”

“I see,” Sebastian murmured thoughtfully. “Will you give Miss St. James a message then?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“When she summons the courage to tell me her
self, perhaps I
may
consider her request.”

And indeed, it wasn’t Reginald who opened the door the next afternoon, but Devon. She proceeded to tell him in no uncertain terms precisely what she thought of him. “And don’t come back,” she finished fiercely. “Ever.”

And she slammed the door in his face.

Clearly he was getting nowhere, so he tried an
other tack. Every day for the next week, he penned a letter to his ladylove.

All were returned unopened.

Something had to be done, he thought grimly. Short of kidnapping her, muzzling her, sitting her down before him, and making her listen, he wasn’t sure what it was. Indeed, he was pondering that very situation when Stokes knocked on the door of his study.

“The dowager duchess of Carrington to see you, my lord. I took the liberty of seating her in the draw
ing room.”

Wonderful, Sebastian thought irritably. Had the duchess decided to light into him as well?

He nodded. A moment later he strolled into the drawing room. He greeted the duchess, then took the seat across from her.

“Your Grace, let us cut to the chase. I presume you’ve come on Devon’s behalf—”

“I’m here because of Devon, but not on her behalf.”

He looked at her sharply.

The duchess folded her hands across her cane. “The truth is, she doesn’t know I’m here.”

He hiked a brow. “Subterfuge, Your Grace?”

“I prefer to call it strategy, my boy.”

Sebastian stared. “Your Grace?”

“The last time we spoke, my boy, you made it clear you wouldn’t welcome my interference. In
deed, I believe you told me not to pry. And you may tell me to go to the devil again now, but before I say more, I have one question for you. Do you love my granddaughter?”

Sebastian could be no less than honest. “More,” he said quietly, “with every day that passes.”

“That’s just the answer I was hoping for.”

“I have every intention of making her my wife,” he stated bluntly. He would have no misunderstand
ings. “By God, she
will
be my bride.”

The duchess laughed softly.

Sebastian quirked a brow. “I take it I have your ap
proval then?”

“Would it matter if you did not?”

He countered her question with one of his own. “It has not, has it?” He went on. “Indeed, you may re
call, it was you who prompted me to begin my quest for a bride in earnest. I daresay, neither of us ever guessed it would be your granddaughter I intend to take to the altar.”

The duchess chuckled again. “Not quite the bride you envisioned, though, is she?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The gossips found it a juicy tidbit when I revealed the news of my son’s by-blow.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Sebastian indicated the news
paper. It lay open to the gossip column, which fea tured a sketch of Devon sitting beside her grand mother atop an open carriage. “An amazing likeness, don’t you think?”

“Quite so,” the duchess agreed. “A few of my friends were horrified to discover I embrace her freely.” Her mouth turned down. “Needless to say, they are friends no more. But it certainly hasn’t stemmed the flow of invitations arriving each morn
ing.” She watched Sebastian closely. “But what of you, Sebastian? I know you’ve worked hard to see yourself accepted in society again since your father’s death. If you make Devon your bride, it may well cause a stir. You will no doubt find your name on everyone’s lips again.”

Sebastian’s jaw clamped tight. “The
ton
can talk all they want. I really don’t care. My God, it’s ironic, for that’s the least of my concerns.” His expression turned pained. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but I do believe Devon would have accepted my suit before she discovered she was your granddaughter. Now that she has...”

“Yes, I know,” the duchess said gently. When Se
bastian glanced up sharply, she smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, my boy. I didn’t eavesdrop deliberately. I fear it simply couldn’t be helped. If it’s any consola
tion, I regret that my timing appears to have been abominable.”

“It’s hardly your fault. But I must ask”—his tone went very quiet—“has she . . . spoken of me?”

“She keeps her feelings to herself,” the duchess admitted. “I do not envy you, Sebastian. It appears our Devon has a stubborn streak. It’s hardly escaped my attention that she won’t see you.”

“Nor will she answer my letters,” he said grimly. “But I’ll wait a lifetime if I have to.”

There was a small silence. “Perhaps,” she mur
mured, “you won’t have to.”

“Your Grace?”

But she made no answer. Instead she pushed to her feet with the aid of her cane. “Do not fret,” she pronounced. “Sometimes we must simply avail our
selves of whatever opportunity comes our way.”

Sebastian took her elbow and assisted her to the door.
Do not fret!
she’d said. How easy for her to say!

At the door she turned. “The Clarkstons are good friends of yours, I believe. No doubt you’ve received an invitation to their dinner party the Friday after next.”

Sebastian frowned. It ran through his mind that perhaps the old gal was getting on in age, for what the devil did that have to do with his predicament? And—she was practically beaming!

“I have,” he acknowledged, “and Justin as well. However, I fear I’ve not been in the mood for socializing—”

“A pity,” she said gaily. “I’m so looking forward to it. Why, I vow the occasion warrants a new gown for both Devon and myself!”

And then she winked at him. The duchess
winked
.

Sebastian was still standing numbly in the door
way when her carriage rolled away.

The day of the Clarkstons’ dinner party arrived. Dev on had met the couple, William and Emily, when Grandmama entertained them at dinner one eve ning. Devon liked them immensely, for both were gracious and warm. But if she could have cried off,
she would have. Throughout the past month, her grandmother had treated her as if she were a price less treasure. Already Devon had come to dearly love this brash, outspoken old woman. They walked occasionally in Green Park, her grandmother lean ing upon her arm; almost daily, they took the car riage along Rotten Row. Last week the duchess had taken her to the King’s Theatre, where she’d seen her first opera—and gained her first glimpse of Prinny.

Clearly the duchess had no intention of hiding her from the world. Nor, it appeared, was either of them to be ostracized. The number of invitations that poured in each day was staggering. She couldn’t help but remember what Justin had once said about the duchess:
I daresay the devil himself could be received in society if he was received by the duchess.

But the duchess chose only a select few invitations. Devon was aware that the duchess had curtailed her activities so the two of them could get to know each other, to give her time to adjust to her new life. Her grandmother, she decided, was a woman of wisdom. Where Sebastian was concerned, the duchess did not question or lecture or pass judgment.

But Devon could not talk about Sebastian to her grandmother. Her wounds were too fresh, the hurt too deep. She did not want to see him, and at first she was fiercely angry at his arrogance. Did he truly think he could step into her life as if nothing had happened? She wanted nothing to do with him! In
deed, she was glad when his daily appearances ceased and his letters stopped.

A thousand times she replayed that horrid scene in her grandmother’s drawing room—the foolish,
terrible accusations she’d flung at Sebastian. If only she could take it back, she would!

Yet from that wretched memory a shaky confi
dence began to grow, a fledgling courage that blos
somed into a frail tendril of hope. It wasn’t as if he’d
had
to ask her to marry him. It wasn’t as if his hand had been forced. He’d known full well that if they wed, shame and scandal might follow.

He hadn’t cared.
He hadn’t cared
.

Only then was she able to search the depths of her heart and seek the answers that so eluded her. Only then did she discover one of life’s deepest truths— that dreams sometimes had a way of changing. Or perhaps it was simply that
she
had changed.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she might have wished to, she could never stop loving him.
Never
.

Nor did she want to...for it was then she realized she was carrying Sebastian’s child.

She sat before the mirror the night of the party, dressed in a gown of shimmering silver. It was odd, really, how much her life had paralleled that of her mother. Odd how the present sometimes had a way of shouldering the past. For she, like her mother be
fore her, had fallen in love with a blue blood. Sebas
tian too had been so determined that he would never repeat the shame and scandal that marred his childhood.

But there was a difference, a vast difference. And in that moment Devon made a vow. She wouldn’t spend her life as her mother had, mired in regret.

And Sebastian would never abandon his child. He would never abandon
her
.

For all her penniless upbringing, Devon had known her mother’s deepest devotion. Sebastian, on the other hand, for all his wealth and privileged up
bringing, had never truly known his parents’ love, not the way that she had.

And she would not deprive their child of the one thing neither of them had ever truly known...the security of knowing he or she was loved by both mother
and
father.

She must go to him. She must
tell
him.

She had only to find the courage.