Page 79 of If the Duke Demands

Miranda sat in the overloaded mail coach for Islingham, pressed up against the wall by the five other people crammed inside with her, and stared miserably out the window, with the small bag she’d packed in her hurry to flee resting on her lap. As the city drifted past outside, everything that had happened to her since the masquerade swirled through her mind and only added to the deep humiliation she felt at what Sebastian had told her, and to the utter anguish that pierced her at knowing she would never be good enough for him.

Well, she had been right. The night of the masquerade had certainly led to her ruination, all right, but not at all the way she’d intended.

The irony was heart-stoppingly agonizing. During the time since she stole into Sebastian’s room by mistake, she’d lost her innocence and shattered her heart, she’d been accepted at court and humiliated in the home of the only family she’d ever known, and she’d fallen out of infatuation with Robert and into love with Sebastian.

Oh yes, she still loved him. She was certain of it. Because only love could make her feel this wretched.

She swiped a gloved hand at her eyes, the same pretty gloves that Katherine Westover, Duchess of Strathmore, had been kind enough to give her as a welcome gift when she arrived in London for what was to have been her dream season. Like the rest of her life, that, too, had been ripped inside-out. A London season was meant for a young lady to find a husband, not for her to lose her heart to a man who refused to marry her, even though he wanted to.

But Sebastianwouldmarry, exactly as he’d planned all along. But not her. He would marry the daughter of a peer from an old and wealthy family, a darling of society who would be perfect on his arm at every event to which he escorted her. There would be a grand wedding, most likely at Chestnut Hill and at that beautiful time of year when August faded into September and the stately brick house always looked so beautiful. Of course, she would be expected to attend. To do otherwise would insult the entire Carlisle family, but how was she ever going to bear it? To have to sit there and watch Sebastian pledge his life to a woman he didn’t love, one who stirred no passion in him, who would let him continue to live in that same, soul-killing way he’d been living since his father died…

A woman who wasn’t her.

The tears came unbidden now, and she turned her head aside to keep the other passengers from seeing the anguish on her face and the pain that threatened to consume her. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and she pressed her hand to her chest. Dear God, it hurt so much that she could barely breathe! Being with him was supposed to have been pleasure. Now, though, she felt nothing but aching misery.

She’d told Sebastian that she wanted him, and she meant it. With every ounce of her soul and being. She loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, to make a loving home for him and bear him children. To make him laugh and smile. To simply make him happy.

But he could never be hers. She’d been a fool to ever wish for that.

She opened her eyes and gazed at the last bits of a tear-blurred London slipping away as the mail coach headed north past Hampstead Heath.

The city had held so much promise for her when she arrived, so much potential for fun and happiness this season. But now, how would she ever be able to think of the city again without thinking of Sebastian?

That was the problem with London, she decided as she closed her eyes again and took a deep breath in a futile attempt to choke back her tears. From the outside, the city appeared so inviting, so exciting and wonderful…just like the pleasures beneath the flickering Chinese lamps at Vauxhall Gardens.

But just like Vauxhall, when the lamps died and the dawn came, it proved to be nothing more than an ugly illusion. Like love, it was nothing more than a dream that would never be real.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Sebastian sat in the darkness of Chesney’s study in Audley House and stared up at the portrait of his father hanging over the fireplace. It was a copy of the portrait that hung in Chestnut Hill that Mother had insisted Father sit for when he was awarded the dukedom, just as Josie had insisted that this copy be made and hung in her home after he died. She’d offered to have a second copy made, one Sebastian could hang in Park Place, but he’d refused her kindness. After all, he already had enough reminders there of his father.

But tonight, so much guilt swirled inside him that he needed to be here, because he could no longer tell where his guilt over his father ended and his guilt toward Miranda began.

Why did you give yourself to me?Her parting words reverberated inside his head, and he was unable to stop hearing them or seeing the tears that had streamed down her cheeks in anger, rejection, and frustration. Christ! He knew exactlywhy. Because she was beautiful and tempting, and he wanted her. It was that simple. Plain old lust. Couldn’t have been anything else to make him so reckless as to—

A damned lie.

The truth was that he’d wanted to share the freedom and life in her, to experience that same exuberance for living that had died in him with his father. Because they were friends, and then they were more…and all of it had felt wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that he hadn’t stopped to question any of it until it was too late.

With a curse, he shoved himself out of the chair and stalked across the room to the shelf where Chesney kept his best cognac. He filled a glass overfull with the stuff, then swallowed down half of it in a desperate attempt to numb himself.

It wasn’t working. Even as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, the image of her returned with fresh force—Miranda lying in his arms in his bed, admitting in a whisper so soft that he barely heard her…I love you. He squeezed his eyes shut as the next image came unbidden of her standing in his rooms in tears. What the hell did she want from him? He couldn’t marry her, and she knew it. She’d known it from the very beginning.

But damnation, so had he. He knew he needed to marry the daughter of a peer, a lady with good breeding and fine standing in society. One whom Richard Carlisle would have been proud to call his daughter.Thatwas what he needed in his duchess.

Although what hewantedin his wife…He bit back a groan of anger and frustration. What he owed to his father and to the family, to their legacy and reputation— Damnation! Wasn’t he entitled to compensation in return for all the responsibility he shouldered? Didn’t he have the right to claim some bit of happiness for himself in return? How long was he expected to be punished for one mistake?

“Sebastian?” His mother’s voice reached him softly through the shadows.

He sucked in a deep breath at the intrusion. “Mother.”

He turned to face her as she entered the room, closing the door after herself and shutting them together into the darkness. Even now, long after midnight, she was regal and dignified, carrying herself with confidence and grace. Every inch of her a duchess.

“I knew I’d find you here,” she said quietly as she crossed the room to him. When she reached his side, she leaned up to place a kiss on his cheek. Her face darkened as she asked gently, her voice not a question, “There are too many ghosts at Park Place tonight, aren’t there?”

More than she knew. He forced a smile and raised his glass to her. “Chesney has better cognac than I do.”

He could tell by the way she paused that she knew he’d just lied to her. “Then pour me a taste, will you?” With a motherly squeeze of his arm, she walked toward the fireplace. “I think we both could use it tonight.”