Wasn’t that just as bad? He had done nothing wrong and she had judged him because of her brother’s lies.
Monkstead had told her to talk to him, but Lavinia wondered if there was any point in that. He would never forgive her and she didn’t blame him.
And yet surely he deserved an apology from her? Was she such a coward that she couldn’t admit she had been wrong? When she remembered the look in his eyes as he turned from her . . . He’d believed she deserted him, and he hadn’t known why! For a year she’d thought he understood her reasons, and to know now that he hadn’t was an ache of shame and guilt that refused to go away.
The least she could do was say how sorry she was and try to explain why she turned her back on him, no matter how difficult it might be.
Megan met him at the door as Sebastian set aside his hat and coat. His sister-in-law’s expression was a cross between disapproval and shock, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. She gave a nod toward the closed door to the room to their left, the one where they put callers they didn’t much like.
Sebastian had seen the carriage outside and assumed one of Mark’s business clients was here. “Who is it?” he asked, trying to look interested. The truth was he just wanted to go upstairs to his room and lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
Since yesterday, when he had told Lavinia about her brother, and the truth about Patrick, he’d felt out of sorts. He was still angry with her for accepting what Martin said and not giving him a chance to refute the lies. In her heart she had believed him capable of the worst of crimes. All this time he had kept silent about what Patrick had tried to do to him, to spare her the added pain. Despite everything, he had paid her that consideration.
She hadn’t deserved it.
He felt as if he was grieving. Even though he’d lost her long ago, he’d still had hope. When he found her hiding at Monkstead’s, when he had seen how things were, there had remained a tiny kernel of hope in his heart. That she would welcome him back into her arms and her bed, and that they could make a life together. Now he wasn’t sure if the woman he had dreamed of existed, or whether she had been a fantasy he had constructed. The real Lavinia was not the warm and loving woman he had held in his arms, she was false and cold hearted.
“The visitor is for you,” Megan answered, rolling her eyes. “I tried to send her away but she flatly refused to go.”
Sebastian frowned. “She?”
As he said it he heard a sound from inside the door. The high pitched voice of a child. Despite everything he’d been telling himself his heart thumped with one last foolish hope. Lavinia? He reached to open the door but Megan leaned closer.
“Be careful, Sebastian.”
Lavinia was seated on the sofa with her back to him. It was her, and he found himself unable to move, as he took in the scene. The little boy was on the carpet in front of the unlit fireplace, where another female was fussing about him. It was her frowning face that turned toward him.
“My lady,” she muttered a warning.
Lavinia turned her head and then stood up so quickly she swayed. Sebastian knew he looked wrung out from all that had happened between them over past days but so did she. Her pallor and the shadows under her eyes gave him encourag
ement, because would a false woman with a cold heart care at all?
“Lady Richmond,” he said, his voice flat. His gaze went back to the child. It was the first time he had seen Oliver since he was tiny, and he seemed much changed. The boy had dark hair and blue eyes, and there was a familiarity to his features that made him think his son looked very much like him. Oliver was smiling.
Sebastian came closer, as if drawn despite himself, and the boy clambered to his feet with the aid of his nurse, and toddled toward him. When he reached out his hand, Oliver clung to it, and then began bouncing slightly on his plump legs as if this was a game. Chuckling to himself, he looked up at Sebastian, expecting him to join in.
“Why are you here?” he sounded gruff. His heart felt as if it was swollen in his chest, but he refused to feed it any more of his foolish hopes that she was here for him.
“I spoke to Martin,” her voice was different from her usual chilly reserve. She sounded shaky and uncertain. “He admitted everything. I should have known, I should have . . .” She stopped and spoke to the other female. “Thank you, Mary. Will you wait in the coach now? I won’t be long.”
The sour faced woman nodded and reached for Oliver.
“Leave him,” Sebastian said sharply.
Surprised, Mary looked at Lavinia for instruction. Lavinia nodded, and somewhat reluctantly the woman left the room.
Oliver looked up at Sebastian again, this time his expression a bit doubtful, and then turned his head to his mother, as if to ask if everything was all right. Lavinia smiled and held out her hands, and he toddled back over to her. She lifted him onto her lap, bending her head to nuzzle the soft skin at his neck.
Sebastian found himself watching them, and despite his determination not to hope, there were so many questions running through his head they made him dizzy. Was she here to say goodbye? Surely it was cruel to bring his son to see him after a year apart, and then leave forever? But then Lavinia had been cruel before—she had cut him off completely after Patrick died, giving him no chance to refute Martin’s lies.
“What do you want, Lavinia?” he said and he knew he sounded unwelcoming and didn’t care.
Her dark eyes flicked toward him and away again. She looked awkward, as if she wasn’t at all sure of her welcome.
“I came to explain,” she said, and then chewed her lip, as if choosing her words. He waited, giving her no help because he feared that if he opened his mouth he would blurt out the truth. That he still loved her. But when she began to speak her words weren’t what he had been expecting.
“When I learned that Patrick had died at Waterloo, I was shocked, of course, but I was also relieved.” She swallowed. “I was glad, Sebastian, because it meant we could be together. And then when I heard you were seriously injured, I felt as if I was being punished for my own wicked thoughts. Surely no wife wishes her husband dead so that she can be with another man? Not the sort of wife I thought I was, anyway.”