Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(24)

Emmaline beat her white gloves together, her amusement replaced with an uncharacteristic solemnity.

The only time he’d remembered her somber had been when she’d severed that blasted betrothal contract crafted by their austere father. He leaned back in his seat and rested his arms along the edge of his chair. Concern drove back his earlier annoyance. For as much as she’d driven him mad these years, he’d lob off someone’s arm before he saw his sister hurt. “What is it?”

“Sophie.”

He would not be lobbing off Sophie, Countess of Waxham’s arm.

The two women had been friends since they’d made their Come Out. Sebastian shifted in his seat. “Has something happened between you and the countess?” he managed to force the question out. He shot a desperate look over her shoulder. This really was a conversation best reserved for their mother. Or Em’s husband. Or her dog, Sir Faithful. Not her elder brother.

She stared down at her gloves a moment, fixed on the white kidskin fabric. “Sophie would have made you a splendid wife,” she said at last.

That snapped his attention forward. And as the young lady whom she believed would have made him a splendid wife was married to his best friend, he really thought no response was the safe response.

Emmaline lifted her gaze and spoke in gentle tones. “However, she’s married now.” An idea that had once grated. “And though I cannot think of a single young lady who’d interest you, I know there is some very special, very unique lady who will see you and not your title.” At one time, he would have agreed with Emmaline. Until Lord Denley’s ball. There was, however, one young lady…

“Sebastian? Are you paying attention?”

“Indeed,” he said, tugging at his suddenly too-tight cravat.

“As I was saying, it will take a bit of searching to find your wife but it is not an impossible task.”

Ah, yes, her scheming with Sophie. “And is that what you intend?” He eyed her warily. “To find me a wife?” Unbidden, Hermione crept in his thoughts once more. This time as she’d been at their first meeting, wielding that silly pencil like a dagger. He grinned.

She set her shoulders back. “This isn’t a matter of amusement, Sebastian,” she said, with a touch of impatience shattering the fleeting memory of the lively Hermione. “This is about your happiness.”

“I believe amusement and happiness are suitable partners, no?”

At his droll tone, Emmaline tossed her hands up. “Can you not be serious?”

He was serious. All the time. It was a product of his station, and those damned expectations. “I want you to be happy,” she said softly, all earlier annoyance gone. His sister set her gloves down and rested her palms upon his desk. “Your life has been filled with rigid responsibility, I know that. Father demanded much of you.”

He’d demanded much of the both of them.

She gave him a soft smile. “I love my husband. That childhood betrothal was one of the greatest legacies left by Father.”

Yes, it had been but not for the reasons dreamed out by their father. His sister knew love, and possessed a beautiful child. Again, a pang of envy struck. He shoved it aside not wanting or needing to expose these very humbling desires before anyone, and most certainly not his sister.

He looked around her. “Where is your husband? Don’t you have to do…whatever it is marchionesses do throughout the day? Regan—”

A smile wreathed her face. “I left her sleeping quite contentedly,” she assured him, speaking of her now two-year-old daughter.

“Splendid.” For how long did babes sleep?

“Oh, worry not.” Her eyes glittered with the same mischievousness she’d shown as a girl. “She’ll sleep for two hours. On most days.”

Splendid.

“Do not try and change the subject.” She sat back in her chair, indicating he’d have had an easier time taking on Wellington’s determined forces at Waterloo than displacing his sister from his office. “I’m here to speak to you about—your heart.”

“My heart,” he repeated dumbly. He prayed he’d heard her incorrectly.

Emmaline gave a perfunctory nod. “Your heart.” His prayers, of course, proving futile. She folded her hands primly on her lap which was all a ruse. There wasn’t a thing prim about his hoyden of a sister. “Now,” she began sounding like a governess about to set down an unwanted lesson. “I know with your commitment to the dukedom, you don’t believe it important.”

“Do not believe what is important?” he asked, struggling to follow this unwanted conversation. A gentleman didn’t care to discuss matters of the heart—with one’s sister. With anyone, really. But especially not his sister.

“Why, marrying for love,” Emmaline supplied. “You likely have already in all your stodgy dukedomness—”

“That is not a word.”

She carried on over his dry interruption. “Resolved yourself to wed some prim, proper, and not at all passionate young lady.”

His sister was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, he’d never admit as much. He was content to carry on with her and everyone else believing he didn’t believe or aspire to that dangerous sentiment. It was far safer that way; for his pride, and with his sister’s temerity, his sanity.