Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(93)

Sebastian’s lip curled. “Quite possible,” he said and filled his glass to the brim. “The lady admitted as much.” He set the bottle down and sipped his drink.

Waxham swirled the contents of his glass. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it once more. “I am not defending the lady.”

“Good. Don’t,” he bit out. He’d had enough of his disloyal family acting as though Hermione was the wounded party. He didn’t care to add Waxham to the vast collection of defenders.

“However—”

“I believed you said you didn’t intend to defend the lady?”

“—I trapped Sophie into marriage,” Waxham said bluntly.

He blinked. His friend’s words made little sense. Waxham had sought him out more than a year ago in avoiding marriage to Sophie. He’d asked Sebastian to launch a pretend courtship of the young lady in order to thwart his cruel, spiteful father’s wishes to see Waxham wed his childhood nemesis. “Impossible,” he said, using the other man’s earlier charge.

“Oh, it is quite possible. After all, Father threatened to cut me off without an allowance.” His friend continued on, in somber tones. “When I enlisted your help last year, I shared with you that my father intended to cut off my allowance.” He shook his head. “That wasn’t the sole reason motivating my father. Our pockets were to let.”

Sebastian sat back flummoxed. He’d not known.

“I hardly could have shared that shame with you,” his friend carried on. He took another sip of brandy and then set his glass down. “My point is this, Mallen. I trapped Sophie into marriage, knowing she was worth 100,000 pounds and yet, I loved her. Even with that dishonorable decision I felt forced into, I loved her, and my deception nearly cost me her love.”

“This is different.” Sebastian flexed his jaw. Except, is it? Waxham’s defense of Hermione planted seeds of doubt and they now took root and grew. He detested the tumultuous questions twisting inside his mind.

Waxham shook head. “No, it’s really not. Desperation will drive people who are not normally desperate to do desperate things.” He held his palms up. “Not everything is always as it seems.” Sebastian reached for the bottle. Waxham’s next words stayed his movement. “I paid a visit to the Duchess of Mallen.”

Sebastian stared at him blankly, brandy forgotten.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your wife,” Waxham clarified. “Not the dowager duchess.”

Of course, because Mother had taken herself off to the country with Emmaline. All the air left him on a swift exhale. His friend may as well have driven back his fist and slammed it into his solar plexus. He gripped the edge of the table while filled with an almost physical pain for information about his wife. Was she happy? “How did she seem?” He asked hoarsely. She’d not say anything to Waxham about any of what transpired between them.

Waxham shrugged. “Oh, I imagine about as well as a young lady is after being abandoned by her husband on her wedding night and gossiped about by the ton.”

The dull ache in his chest throbbed all the more. He pressed his eyes closed a moment. He shouldn’t feel guilty. She’d wrought this…and yet this was about so much more than guilt. For everything that had come to pass, he’d sooner slice off his left hand than see her hurt.

“Go home,” Waxham said quietly. “Go home to your wife.”

He dug his feet into the soles of his boots, besieged by a desire to do exactly as the other man said—to stand, walk out, and return home, take Hermione in his arms, and make her his wife in every sense of the word.

“The ton is talking,” his friend needled, worse than Lady Jersey coordinating matches at one of her famed events. “As one whose wife was the victim of salacious gossip, I would hate to imagine any other young lady being the subject of such cruelty.” He paused. “You’ve shamed your wife.”

Sebastian clenched his teeth so tight, pain shot up his jawline, up through his temple. For the first time, he glanced around at the filled club and the tables of gentlemen with their curious stares trained on him. Tension coursed through his body under the truth of his friend’s words. The idea of these men and their respective wives, mothers, and sisters disparaging Hermione ravaged him.

His friend’s quiet murmur pulled him back from his musings. “You do care,” Waxham said matter-of-factly. “And for whatever transpired at Lady Brookfield’s, Hermione is still your wife and deserving of, if not your affection, at least your respect.”

Sebastian grabbed his glass. Waxham’s words eerily echoed his own thoughts since he’d walked out of his townhouse and out of her life. He finished the remaining contents of his brandy and set the glass down hard. With a steadying breath he reached for Hermione’s note and stuffed it into the front of his jacket. “Send my regards to the countess.” He shoved back his chair.

“Mallen?”

He paused.

“I took the liberty of having your carriage called for.”

He fisted his hands. It wasn’t Waxham’s place to interfere—in any of this.

Waxham’s lips turned up in a half grin. “No thanks are necessary.” Then his smile slipped, replaced with his earlier solemnity. “Oh, and Mallen, do remember, pride is a dangerous thing.”