Page 20 of His Mad Duchess
“One imagines correctly.” Sebastian’s mouth curved without humor.
Rook’s hands stilled on the collar for a beat. “You’ll be fine,” he said simply.
Sebastian gave him a glance, unreadable, then slipped his hands into the gloves Rook offered, leather soft as skin.
When Rook stepped back, Sebastian caught his own reflection in the pier glass. The man looking back was exactly as a duke should be—tall, broad across the chest, the line of his coat perfect, shoulders squared as if the title alone braced his spine. The face gave nothing away except, perhaps, the hard flick of his jaw when his eyes drifted to the window and found only gray dawn pressing at the glass or the hardness of his gaze.
He thought of Margaret Greystone then, though he couldn’t say why she’d crossed his mind. The quiet lilt of her voice in that library, the bright blue eyes that met his with a kind of wild dignity that was impressive. He remembered the press of silk at her waist when he hauled her up to that cursed window. Smaller than she looked, but stubborn all the same. He remembered how sharp her eyes had been even then.
Sebastian’s jaw flexed. She had no business lingering in his thoughts. He curled his hand inside the glove, the leather pulling at his knuckles. Whatever softness she possessed—or he, for even thinking of it—had no place here.
A knock at the dressing room door snapped the thought in half. Tolliver, the old butler, bowed low enough to almost vanish behind the doorframe.
“Your Grace. The carriages are ready.”
Sebastian didn’t turn at first. He adjusted his cuff, one precise tug. “Good. Make sure the front steps are clear of loiterers. I want no scenes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Tolliver vanished as quietly as he’d come, shoes silent on the polished floorboards.
Sebastian filled his lungs with breath and slowly expelled it. It felt like stepping into armor. Breathing out slowly, the familiar weight of his coat and gloves settling into place, as if they alone might hold him together when nothing else could.
He flexed his fingers once, feeling the slow press of his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat. He did not want this. Not the binding, not the pity in their eyes, not the whispers they’d stick to her name and his alike. But he’d walked himself here. He would stand where no other man would stand for her. He would bear it. That was all that was left.
The carriage ride to the chapel was short, but it felt like every jolt was a step closer to the guillotine. He stepped out into the corridor, boots thudding on the thick carpet. In the chapel, he could already hear the first murmurs of guests settling in their pews, the old wood groaning under polite weight, the quiet talk behind every tight smile.
At the end of the hall, he caught sight of Edward’s familiar shape, leaning one shoulder against a marble pillar, hands tucked carelessly behind his back. Edward’s head tipped as soon as he saw him, grin already half-formed.
Sebastian drew in a breath, jaw locking tight as he walked to the front of the chapel with Edward in tow.
He stood like a pillar at the chapel’s head, his boots braced on cold stone and his shoulders cut sharp beneath black wool. From the corner of his eye, he could see the pews shifting with a few polite coughs here and there, silk skirts swishing against the pews as guests found their seats.
Edward leaned in, voice pitched for no one else. “If the rumors are true,” he murmured, mouth twitching like he half-hoped it might be so. “Perhaps the roof will come down and spare you the next forty years.”
Sebastian didn’t look at him. His jaw moved once, a muscle flicking at the hinge. “Optimistic of you.”
Edward’s grin sharpened. “You’re the optimist, old man. Look at you. The Duke of Ravenscourt about to play at domestic bliss. Who’d have thought?”
Sebastian’s eyes stayed on the chapel doors. They hadn’t opened yet. Good. Let them stay closed a moment longer. His gloves creaked faintly when he flexed his fingers.
Edward tilted closer, breath stirring the edge of Sebastian’s collar. “Could’ve been worse,” he said. “She’s not plain; she’s… you know, she’s beautiful. No shrieking cousins. No debts tied around her neck. Could’ve saddled you with a shriveled heiress from the Highlands, God forbid.”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched barely. “Maybe I’d prefer the Highlands. Quiet.”
Edward snorted under his breath. “Liar. You’d die of boredom before the banns were read.”
Sebastian’s reply didn’t come. He only exhaled once, slow, cold. His eyes pinned on the wooden doors, as if sheer will might nail them shut for good.
Edward’s grin faded, softer now. He glanced at his friend’s stiff posture, the hand at Sebastian’s side, curling tight then flattening again. “Does she know?”
Sebastian’s head turned, just enough to cut him a glance, steel bright. “There’s nothing for her to know.”
Edward huffed a small laugh. “Lie to me if you must. Don’t lie to her.”
Sebastian didn’t answer that. The guests in front of them quietened. The doors would swing wide at any breath now.
He set his shoulders back, jaw locked. “Stand up straight, Wrexford.”
Edward barked a dry chuckle. “Aye, Your Grace.”
