Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(57)
“Indeed, I wonder now if it may be some vestige…”
His voice trailed off. Sebastian frowned at him. Randolph had been in an odd mood since Mitra’s “meditation.”
“Some what?” asked Emma.
“Nothing.” Randolph smiled again and turned away.
The group was shifting. The marquess would go to his study now, Sebastian knew. Though it was not strictly polite, he could slip away. Georgina looked surprised that he didn’t come to her. Randolph approached as if to join him. But Sebastian just couldn’t stay.
He headed for the place that had been his refuge since he was small, the stables. The long summer twilight would last a while longer, and frankly he didn’t care if it didn’t. “I’ll see to Whitefoot when I return,” he told the startled groom as his mount was saddled. “You needn’t worry about us.”
Once in the saddle, Sebastian immediately felt better. He let Whitefoot amble slowly down the road from the castle and out into the countryside. He’d ridden this way often enough that he could guide the horse back in the moonlight.
It was a profound relief to have space around him instead of walls. He felt as if his spirit expanded, like a deep breath or unfurled wings. The evening air was soft on his cheek. The birds were making their farewells to the dying light. He caught the rush of a bat above his head. Dewfall had intensified the scents of leaf and water. He would have known, even if he hadn’t noticed on an earlier ride, that there was a tiny stream off to the left. From the set of the stars, he could see that he was riding west. Every element in his surroundings spoke to him so clearly. Out here, he felt more alive, more powerful. What was that phrase of Robert’s? “Monarch of all he surveyed.”
After half an hour or so, Sebastian pulled up at the edge of a stretch of forest. He dismounted, throwing a blanket he’d brought over Whitefoot’s back. Gathering bits of dry grass and dead wood, he made a small fire and sat down beside it. For him, this kind of retreat never got old. Snug in a circle of firelight, back against a massive tree trunk, he felt like the master of his fate.
And ironically, on the heels of that thought, a host of painful memories rushed at him, like an enemy patrol bursting from ambush. Though he tried to dismiss them, it seemed he was doomed to review his long struggle with words on a page, even though he was so familiar with that sad history he needed no reminders.
It had taken Sebastian a long time to understand that others didn’t see a line of type as he did. That letters marched in good order for his brothers, for example, and told them things he would never know. And then one day Nathaniel had been sitting beside him in the schoolroom at Langford. They’d been about eight and six, Sebastian supposed. His brother had been sounding out a difficult stretch of text, running his finger beneath the letters and speaking aloud. Watching and throwing in a question or two, Sebastian realized that he and his brother saw quite different things when they looked at the page. Nathaniel perceived separate segments, words, not a single clump of letters mashed together in a mocking jumble.
He’d tried to explore this mystery, but Nathaniel had been puzzled and then impatient to complete his assignment and go outside. His brother couldn’t imagine a problem with what he saw so plainly. And who was to blame him? It was bizarre.
Sebastian had tried twice more, with a tutor and then with a teacher he’d thought sympathetic at school, but he hadn’t been able to make them understand either. Partly, he’d made a hash of explaining, and partly the men were too accustomed to boys trying to shirk their lessons. It was obvious that neither had heard of anything like what he struggled to describe.
After that, Sebastian had accepted the fact that there was something wrong with him. His brain was flawed. He couldn’t master a skill that everyone else found simple. He turned his attention to ways of concealing his stupidity and working around it, with varying degrees of success, while at school. There were times when he simply couldn’t avoid public humiliation. He’d weathered such occasions through jokes and poses, playing the good-natured, thickheaded athlete, or the high-nosed, uncaring nobleman. He didn’t think anyone realized how very much he’d hated his “education.” His sporting success had masked a great deal. And after he escaped the classroom, evasion became vastly easier.
Until right now. Sebastian leaned his head against the rough bark of the oak at his back and faced the question again. Must he tell Georgina? The prospect made him more afraid than he’d ever been on a battle line. How would he even make her understand, if he did try? No one ever had. Even Sykes… Well, he didn’t know what Sykes believed as he helped Sebastian beat his way through the thickets of language. Or what he would advise about Georgina. A man couldn’t discuss his wife with his valet. Not even one who really wasn’t, like Sykes. And his not-quite wife. He couldn’t, at any rate.
The fire guttered. He’d need to add more wood if he was staying. Sebastian sighed. He would have liked to. It would be so pleasant to curl up here at the foot of the oak and spend the night. But it wouldn’t do. He’d learned long ago that running away solved nothing.
Regretfully, he rose and extinguished the remaining flames. At least the household would be in bed by the time he returned. There’d be no need to face his brother or his fiancée and see the reflection of the evening’s events in their eyes. Ought he to thank them? He didn’t think he’d be able to manage that. Pulling the blanket from Whitefoot’s back, he mounted and started slowly back the way he’d come.