Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(67)

“I’m not certain I understand you. My lord.” It was as if both sides of Sykes answered, in turn.

“No. Who would?” That speech had been a sterling example of garbled nonsense.

“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?”

Sebastian looked at the other man, alert and immaculate by the chamber doorway. Sykes had stepped in when he was an angry, discouraged youth, and he’d watched over Sebastian—in a way, in the part of life where he continually struggled—since then. Now, Georgina had taken up the reins and smoothed his path. Not in precisely the same way, but she’d summoned the words to sway her father, as Sebastian never could have. He felt an obscure sense of being handed off from one minder to another. It was not a pleasant thought. “No,” he said. “You can’t.”

“My lord?”

It was the wrong way round, Sebastian thought. He wanted to take care of Georgina, not be her charge. But could he? In one miserable instant, Sebastian’s view narrowed so that all he could perceive was his one glaring flaw. His prowess on the battlefield and host of admiring friends were forgotten. His expertise in the outdoors and many acts of kindness seemed as nothing. What right did he have to such a wonderful woman? Wouldn’t she, quite soon, begin to find him a burden? That notion hurt so much that he almost thought he’d rather lose her than face it. Only he wanted to marry her so very much.

Sykes put a hand on his arm. Unnoticed, he’d moved from the doorway. He looked genuinely alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“No.” Sykes couldn’t help him with this. “Perfectly well.”

“Are you certain? My lord?”

“Of course.” Sebastian regained control of his expression. He hated feeling so transparent. “Go ahead and get that letter off, Sykes.”

His valet hesitated, then bowed and left the room.

Alone, Sebastian sighed and rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t felt so despondent in…well, in years. His gaze was irresistibly drawn to a shelf of books between the two windows of his bedchamber. He walked over and picked one out. Holding it, he realized that some part of him continually hoped that this time the thing would be different. Blessedly, miraculously, mended. He opened the volume. As ever, the letters on the page were crammed together in solid, tangled lines. No effort he could make would force them to realign into meaning.

He clapped the book closed. He wanted to throw it across the room, but he carefully replaced it instead.

And with that simple movement, he was elsewhere, fallen into a memory more than twenty years old.

He’d been in the great library at Langford, alone with his father. Even now, Sebastian couldn’t imagine how that had happened, because the library was not his favorite room by any means. And with five brothers, he most often saw his parents in a crowd, rather than singly. Yet they were there, in his inner eye—his younger self and his deeply revered father.

Papa had been holding a book, and he’d read out a passage and invited Sebastian to comment. Or, really, to admire the sentiment; Sebastian had understood that much, even though the text had been a bit over his head. His father was offering to share a cherished idea with him. Naturally, he’d responded with great enthusiasm, delighted to be recognized in this way.

But then, his father had held out the book and suggested that he read the whole, which they could then discuss. Sebastian remembered that instant with agonizing clarity. Papa, the busy, sometimes distant duke, had looked so bright and eager. He’d offered the book like a precious gift, like the beginning of a bond. And Sebastian had had to refuse, because he’d known he couldn’t do it and couldn’t make other people understand why.

Sebastian’s hands closed into fists. He was swept by a longing to hit something.

Of course he’d tried. He’d said straight out that he didn’t read very well, no matter how hard he worked at it. But his father had heard his painful admission as a rebuff, an active youngster’s lack of interest in learning. In an effort to be kind—Sebastian knew it had been kindness and self-effacement and love—Papa had brushed his attempted explanations aside. He’d smiled, passed it off with a light rejoinder, and turned the conversation to Sebastian’s new hunter.

It had been partly a relief; Sebastian acknowledged that. His failure hadn’t been exposed. He’d gotten misunderstanding rather than contempt. They’d had a lively, comradely discussion of the horse’s good points. But it had put a limit on their relationship. Papa had never made such an offer again. Later, he’d found the intellectual kinship he’d been looking for with Randolph, and then to some extent with Alan, though their interests were different. Sebastian was shut out of those connections, and everyone thought it was by his own choice.

With a terrible sinking feeling, he wondered if it would be the same with Georgina. Would they come up against places where they could go no further, get no closer? That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted…more…everything…a totality he didn’t know how to label.

Sebastian snorted, turning away from the rows of books. How his brothers would gape if they could see him now. He was bluff, hearty Sebastian. Not a thinker. Not deep like Randolph, or witty like Robert. Certainly not brilliant like Alan. Right at the opposite end of the brotherly spectrum from Alan, in fact. Spectrum—he only knew that word because of Alan and whatever it was he did with light. None of them understood that, Sebastian reminded himself. He shook his head. Even Nathaniel, ever kind and protective, would smile at the notion that he, the thickheaded soldier, was wrestling with such convoluted ideas.