The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(49)
Sebastian couldn’t say anything. He grappled for words—anything—but they all slipped away from him.
“Next time you think to make me proud? Don’t besmirch the name of an organization I love.”
Benedict spoke as if he were offering Sebastian kind, loving advice. Sebastian’s hands were growing cold.
His brother pushed to his feet. “Do something real, and I will recognize you for it. But this…”
It should have been obvious long before now, but Sebastian hadn’t wanted to admit it. His brother stood before him, his face a dark thundercloud, his arms crossed over his chest. Perfect Benedict, he’d thought. Benedict never set a foot wrong. Benedict always set so high a standard with his own conduct that Sebastian could not help but fall short of the mark.
Perfect Benedict was a liar.
“I see,” Sebastian heard himself say. “I thought I was at fault for the distance between us. But I was hardly alone. There is nothing I can do that will make you think well of me. You’re sending Harry to his grandmother because you don’t think I’ve accomplished enough to raise your son? How many pounds has she earned in business?”
Benedict frowned. “That’s hardly the point.”
“Isn’t it? You want your son to have an example of gentlemanly conduct. How many lectures has she delivered to your bloody Society?”
“You’re out of line, Sebastian. Don’t curse.”
“You cursed yourself, not two minutes ago!” Sebastian glared at his brother. “When was she inducted into the Royal Society? At what age? What papers has she published?” Sebastian took a step forward. “It’s not about what I do. It’s not about what I don’t do. It’s about the same damned thing, Benedict—the thing that this has always been about. I am someone—someone intelligent and capable—and you’ve never seen anything good in me. Well, I’m done trying to prove I deserve your respect. You’d never grant it to me, no matter what I did.”
Benedict drew back, his cheeks turning pink. “What a terrible thing to say.”
“Oh, it’s terrible, all right. Imagine living it,” Sebastian said. “Imagine growing up, knowing that the person whose good opinion you most wish to win has already deemed you good for nothing. All my life I’ve let you tell me that I was nothing but a fribble—a pointless, ridiculous, foolish rake, someone who contributed nothing to the world. But you know what? I have a lot to be proud of. Try it, Benedict. Tell me one good thing about myself.”
His brother’s jaw worked. His nostrils flared; he looked away. “Well. You’re likable—I’ll grant you that. It has always been your undoing: You’re likable. Everything has always come so easily to you—friends, women.” He shook his head. “Money. Prestige. Life is a game to you. The rest of us struggle through, trying our best to leave the tiniest of marks. And you just have it all handed to you without lifting a finger. Because you’re likable.”
Christ. Benedict couldn’t even give him a compliment without turning it into an insult.
“I can’t help it if people like me.” Sebastian folded his arms. “And I have not had everything I wanted simply handed to me.”
“Name one thing, Sebastian—one thing that you’ve wanted that you haven’t received.”
Sebastian looked away. “Your approval.”
“Oh, one difficulty! Very good. After more than three decades of easy sailing, you’ve discovered one thing that cannot be had for the price of a joke and a smile.”
“No,” Sebastian set his hands on the desk. “Your approval was the only thing I ever wanted as a child. All I have ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. For you to look me in the eyes and say, ‘Good work, Sebastian, I knew you could do it.’ But nothing I did was ever good enough for you. I tried and tried and tried, and no matter what I accomplished, no matter what I laid at your feet, I always got the same answer. What I did had no value.” He leaned forward. “That is codswallop, Benedict.”
Benedict tossed his head. “Oh, don’t try and arouse my pity. If you had done anything worth doing—”
“Do you know why I want your son?” Sebastian interrupted. “Yes, it’s because I love him. Yes, it’s because he’s a wonderful boy and I would count it an honor to raise him. But it’s also because I see you doing to him what you did to me. Nothing he does is good enough for you. All he receives are reprimands. ‘Stop playing make-believe,’ ‘You’re not old enough for real work,’ and yet, ‘You’re too old to play.’ Nothing he ever does is right. I want him because I want him to know that he’s good enough. Because I’m the only person in the world that believes that about him, and damn it, I do not want him to grow up like I did.”
Benedict’s eyes darkened. “You’re questioning my abilities as a parent?”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, “I am. You mucked everything up with me, and now you’re mucking it up with Harry. I’m not going to let you do that to him.”
Benedict sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You think I was too hard on you?” He took a step forward. “You think that you did your best, and I should have rewarded your substandard, foolish little efforts because otherwise, I might hurt your feelings?” His face was red. “You could have had my respect. It’s never been withheld. All you had to do was earn it.”