"And the others? They were invited here under circumstances I should never have permitted."
His mother lowered the papers. "You agreed to this gathering."
"I know."
"Because you wanted a wife."
Sebastian glanced toward the windows. "I wanted the issue of marriage resolved."
Helena studied him closely. "And now?"
"Now, I think I invited eight women here to prove they were suitable, without considering if I was becoming someone any of them should desire."
"That doesn't sound like you."
"No."
A faint smile appeared on Helena’s face. "Perhaps that's encouraging."
Sebastian wrote to Clara first. The letter was brief. He didn't explain the rumors, blame Arabella, or ask Clara to forgive him because he had been hurt before. He simply admitted that he had doubted her honesty without giving her the courtesy of a question, and that his caution had become an excuse for distrust.
He received no reply for nearly a week. When Clara finally answered, her message was polite but restrained: she had read his apology, she appreciated it, and she was not ready to say more.
Eventually, he went to her family's estate. Clara found him waiting in the small drawing room, looking considerably less comfortable than he ever had in his own house.
"You came."
Sebastian stood. "I did."
She remained near the door. "Have you come to choose me?"
There was enough irony in the question to make him wince. "No."
Clara’s expression changed.
Sebastian continued before she could misunderstand: "I came to ask whether, eventually, you might choose me."
Silence settled between them. Clara looked at him for a long moment. "That is different."
"It should have been different from the beginning."
She entered the room and sat opposite him. Sebastian did not move closer.
"I owe you an apology," he said. "You saw that I was tired before anyone else did. Later, you told me what you wanted from marriage, and you were honest about what you feared." He paused. "I repaid that by deciding I could understand your motives better than you could explain them."
Clara lowered her eyes briefly. "I had begun to care about you."
"I know."
"No. You know now."
Sebastian accepted the correction. "Yes."
She looked back at him. "That was the part that hurt. If I had cared nothing for you, your suspicion would only have been insulting."
Sebastian’s expression tightened. "I am sorry."
This time, Clara believed he understood what he was apologizing for, but that didn't mean she forgave him right away. Sebastian didn't ask her to.
He visited again two weeks later, and then again after that. The meetings were shorter and quieter than those at Wycliffe Hall, but they were also more genuine because there was no audience, no list of candidates, and no expectation that every conversation had to lead to marriage. They got to know each other without competition around them.
Sebastian discovered that Clara disliked early mornings despite pretending otherwise, that she always read the end of serious novels before the middle, and that she became argumentative whenever anyone suggested practicality should matter more than happiness. Clara discovered that Sebastian loved riding in the rain, hated formal dinners, and occasionally disappeared from large gatherings because silence genuinely restored him.
The difference now was that neither of them had to wonder whether any of it was part of a test.
Months passed. One evening, after dinner with Clara’s family, Sebastian found her standing near the terrace doors.
She looked at him. "You're tired."
He smiled. "Very."
"Should I be concerned?"
"Probably."
She laughed. The familiarity of the exchange brought both of them back to that first dinner at Wycliffe Hall.
Sebastian reached into his coat. Clara immediately narrowed her eyes. "If that's a ring, I'd like to remind you that I haven't agreed to anything."
"It's not." He handed her a folded card instead.
Clara opened it. Inside was one question: Are you tired?
She looked up at him.
Sebastian smiled. "I thought it deserved a second use."
Clara shook her head, amused. "I am not tired."
"Good." His expression became more serious. "Because I have one more question."
She knew then.
Sebastian did not kneel immediately, nor did he launch into a speech about titles, estates, or everything he could provide. He simply looked at her. "Will you marry me?"
Clara studied him. "Are you certain you are choosing me?"
Sebastian shook his head. "No."
Her eyebrows lifted.
He continued, "I am asking whether you will choose me."
For several seconds, Clara said nothing. Then she smiled. "Yes."
Their wedding took place the following spring. At breakfast afterward, one elderly guest remarked that Sebastian had been remarkably fortunate to select the right woman from such an impressive gathering.
Sebastian glanced toward Clara. "That is not quite what happened."
The guest looked confused. "Then what happened?"
Sebastian smiled. "She was the only woman in the room who noticed I was tired."
Clara looked at him. "You were very tired, and apparently very difficult."
"That part has not improved."
Sebastian laughed.
Months earlier, every woman at Wycliffe Hall had been trying to make the Duke notice her. Clara had done something far simpler: she had noticed him first.