Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(7)

He turned his attention to the far more impressive list on the right—the one that served as a comparison of all other lists. On this day, the page before him was all the more poignant. A reminder of a life lost. A reminder of everything accomplished despite that early death. It also served as a reminder of Sebastian’s own mortality…and failings.

He set the sheet down and sat back in the familiar folds of his leather winged-back chair. In mere moments, his late father had gone from stout health and happy to dead of an apoplexy, Sebastian stepped into the role of duke but had not relinquished his own hope.

But on this day, restlessness filled him. He shoved to his feet then strode over to the sideboard. He’d never had much use for the maudlin sort, those sentimental fellows who were free with their emotion. He grabbed a decanter of brandy, pulled off the stopper and then splashed several fingerfuls into a glass. Not because he passed judgment on them for that emotion but rather with the responsibilities he’d undertaken, learning the role of heir to a dukedom and then eventually the dukedom itself, well who had the time for those sentiments?

Sebastian carried his glass over to the window and pulled back the curtain with his other hand. He stared down into the busy streets below. Black lacquer carriages bearing lords and ladies heading to the evening’s amusements, as they did every evening, a city tableau that had likely played out upon the same pavement below ten, thirty, and fifty years ago. And at the end of your life, what did you have? He swirled the contents of his glass. If a man is fortunate, Sebastian, when he leaves this Earth he’ll have left his estates thriving and his coffers full. The memory of those words rang so clear, his father’s voice fairly boomed off the very walls.

“Responsibility, commitment, and honor.”

Next to the successfully managed estates, his father had extoled powerful familial connections above all else. Sebastian’s lips twisted wryly. So much so, the man had betrothed his five-year old daughter to another duke’s son. A union that had in no way taken into consideration those two small children or their future happiness.

Sebastian took a sip. If his father could hear those treasonous thoughts, he’d have rolled over in his well-cared for grave. With his passing, however, he came to appreciate in death, what a man left behind, the real legacy that remained was his family. That was the real mark he made upon the earth. At no point had anyone who’d shared remembrances of the late duke ever mentioned a blasted thing about the well-run properties and the colossal wealth he’d amassed. The only one who truly spoke with any real fondness of the late duke was Sebastian’s mother.

For some inexplicable reason, the duke who’d valued power, honor, and strength above all else—had somehow—fallen in love with his wife.

Sebastian had also come to appreciate, the very insignificant mark he would make if his heart were to suddenly attack him, as had happened to the previous duke. And that was the toll by which he measured himself. Not the wealth or the estates or the familial connections. At thirty-one, his father had a wife he loved and an heir. In his life he’d go on to produce a daughter, Emmaline.

A knock sounded at his office door. He stiffened, and turned just as his mother pulled the door open and stepped inside “Sebastian,” she said with a smile. She drew on her long, white evening gloves.

He inclined his head. “Mother.” He searched for a hint that she remembered the significance of this very day, but the softness in her expression gave little hint of pained thoughts.

She sailed into the room, her silver satin skirts snapping about her ankles. “You’re intending to join me this evening?” His mother stopped beside his desk.

Glass held in salute he said, “As a dutiful son, I cannot imagine a place I’d rather be but at Lord and Lady Denley’s ballroom.” And he’d prided himself on being that dutiful son.

Her laugh cut into his words. “So very dutiful you’ve not attended a single ball in a fortnight.” Alas, it seemed it was never enough.

He inclined his head. “Has it been a fortnight?” He quite detested the tedium of the events. The simpering ladies shoved into his path by eager mamas who’d have nothing more than the illustrious title of duchess for their daughters.

“And not a single event at Almack’s,” she carried on.

“Almack’s, is it?” He took a sip of his brandy. She was matchmaking. “Is there a certain lady?”

She blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Sebastian waved his glass. “Almack’s, my appearances at events? I take it there is a certain lady you’ve selected for my duchess.” As it was she’d already been far more patient than most other mothers.

His mother pursed her lips. Her graceful face devoid of wrinkles gave little indication of her years. “Oh, hush. I know better than to matchmake for you. You have very specific,” she arched an eyebrow, “requirements in your duchess.”

He gave a lazy grin and then finished his drink. “I do at that,” he said with a deliberate vagueness that resulted in another arched eyebrow. Though he expected both his mother and sister would be indeed quite shocked if they were to glean the very precise items upon that mentioned list his mother now spoke.

His mother chose that inopportune moment to glance down—at the damning page upon his desk. Sebastian moved with alacrity. He crossed over so quickly, droplets splashed over the rim of the glass. She snapped her head up. “Sebastian?”