Page 82 of If the Duke Demands

“I do.” He opened his eyes to look at her, and her face blurred as the self-recrimination tore from him. “Because if I hadn’t hidden her from all of you, hadn’t lied about where I was, you would have known where to find me. You could have sent for me, and I would have—”

“Still arrived too late,” she finished in a whisper, the truth too painful for her to find her voice. When his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of that, she reached up to lovingly brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You must stop punishing yourself for that night. You were a good son to your father, Sebastian. He was so proud of you.”

“Proud?” He couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that rose on his lips. “Of what, Mother? A string of dalliances with disreputable women, even after I’d promised him that I would put the title and our family before all else? Or lying to both of you because I knew he wouldn’t have approved of the women I associated with?”

Her eyes softened with grief and compassion as she gazed silently at him.

“The night my father died, instead of being at his side to provide comfort to him and you, I was in the bed of an actress.” The confession cut at him as he rasped out, “A woman I knew Father would never have approved of. I put my own selfish desires before the needs of the title and neglected my family.”

“And you haven’t let yourself have a moment’s happiness since,” she concluded gently. Then she added as she deduced, “Except with Miranda. And the guilt of that is eating at you, isn’t it, my son? Because you think you were punished the night your father died.”

“I know so,” he admitted as he stepped away from her. He couldn’t bear her concern a moment longer. “I knew I could never marry Miranda. I didn’t put the dukedom first, or I would never have…” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I was only thinking of myself, not of the title.”

“But, Sebastian,” she reminded him gently, “youare the title now. How does being unhappy serve yourself well?”

His chest tightened so hard that he could barely breathe. His happiness…the same concern that Miranda had for him last night. Yet tonight, the answer was still unchanged. What he wanted as a man was of no concern. His wants and desires ended the night his father died, when he became Trent. “Father would never have approved of Miranda as my duchess.”

“Oh yes, he would have.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “She’s not of the same station.”

“No, she’s not.” She turned to gaze once more up at the portrait, with love glowing on her face. “And he would have only cared that she’s a good woman who loves you for yourself and who makes you happy.”

Uncertainty churned inside him. “But the actress—”

“Herhe definitely would not have approved. But it would have had nothing to do with her profession.” She turned to face him. “The reason I know about her and that night was because she came to Chestnut Hill a few weeks after your father died, looking for you. She’d learned that you’d inherited, and she planned to set herself up as the new duke’s mistress. She didn’t care about you or gaining society’s respect—she only wanted your money.” A self-pleased smile curled her lips. “I sent her packing so fast I think I frightened her.”

“I had no idea,” he murmured, surprised by his mother’s fierce protection of her family during the darkest time of her life.

“At the time, there was no reason to tell you. You didn’t need to carry that burden on top of the others you were already shouldering.” She frowned, her face darkening with remorse. “But I now think I might have made a mistake in not telling you.” She paused a long and thoughtful moment. “What did Miranda want from you?”

“She wanted me,” he admitted quietly, still not quite able to believe it himself.

His mother tensed, her eyes narrowing at that. “She wanted to be duchess?”

“No,” he corrected quietly, looking up at his father, “she wanted me to be happy, and she wanted me to love her. She didn’t want the duke at all.” He grimaced as the memory of her words fell through him like ice water. “She wantedme.”

“It seems to me,” she said as she smiled at him with love, “that she can still have you, if you allow it.”

He didn’t dare let loose the faint stirrings of hope that began to blossom in his chest. He knew better than anyone the obstacles still standing between them. Even with his heart pounding at the possibility, he shook his head, unwilling to believe it. “Society would cut her to pieces.”

“My darling boy, you are a Carlisle. Your father was a soldier, your sister was a highwayman, and your two brothers are set on destroying St James’s Street, one club at a time.” With a knowing smile, she placed a kiss to his temple before she moved away toward the door. “When has anyone in this family ever truly cared about what society thinks?”

He stared down at the glass in his hands, his fingers trembling with the enormity of all that he’d learned tonight. For the first time in two years, hope warmed inside him that his life might be more than the burden of the title. That he might find happiness after all.

“She must hate me,” he murmured, giving voice to his worst fears. “After all the pain I’ve caused her…How do I begin to make up for that?”

“Start by telling her that you love her.” She paused to smile at him before she slipped out the door. “After all, that’s what your father did with me.”

***

“Oh, blast it!” Miranda looked down at the ruined column of figures in the orphanage’s account book and nearly cried. Again.

Shoving the book across the desk, she hung her head in her hands. She was utterly miserable, and the only thing that kept her from breaking into sobs yet again this afternoon was that she’d done almost nothing else since she returned to Islingham four days ago but cry. And think of Sebastian. Then cry some more…until she simply had no tears left.

Not even her work at the orphanage was able to distract her. She’d hoped that catching up with the accounts would provide enough distraction that she might be able to lose herself for a few hours in the sums and columns. But her mind only continued to wander, and she’d messed up the figures…Three hundred pounds for soap? Oh, she should never have come into her office in the first place!

But she would have gone mad if she’d remained at home.