A Little Bit Sinful. Adrienne Basso
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run cold.
Sebastian shuddered, unable to control his emotions, for in that instant he was once again a twelve-year-old boy, frightened and horrified at his gruesome discovery.
The creaking of the swaying rope was a mesmerizing noise. It had held him motionless as he stared at the incomprehensible sight. A rope had been tied to the sturdy drapery rod positioned across the long bank of windows. Dangling from it was the still, limp body of a woman. His mother.
She was dressed in a silver evening gown. One of her slippers had fallen off and the white silk of her stocking was visible from toe to heel. Her normally neat, coiffured hair was in wild disarray, her long, slender, white neck bruised and stretched where the rope was tightly pressed against it. Her lips were blue and swollen, her eyes wide open and staring sightless into the abyss.
Sebastian had no idea how long he stood there. He might have made a sound, or perhaps he had remained silent. The next clear memory he had of himself was that of sitting with his grandmother in the drawing room, her face taut with sadness and fear as she repeated over and over that he must never speak of this to anyone. No one must ever know that the Viscountess of Benton had taken her own life.
“Sebastian?”
The sound of Emma’s voice pulled him from the past into the present. He lifted his lashes and met a pair of concerned blue eyes.
“I’m fine.” He nodded, a weak attempt to convince himself of that untruth, then glanced away to regain his composure. Emma had an artist’s eye, the ability to see right down to a person’s soul. He did not want the darkness inside him to touch her, to taint her in any way.
The silence stretched between them. Sebastian squinted toward the road. Was that the carriage? Yes, he could see it clearly. He practically pulled Emma away from the graveyard, a desperate attempt to escape from his memories.
If only it were so easy.
Emma raised her eyebrows but said nothing until they were alone in the coach.
“You seem rather upset, Sebastian. Would it help to talk about it?”
He met her concerned eyes. It was tempting, so very tempting to unburden himself. Yet he could not. In his heart he knew that Emma would listen, would sympathize, would not judge. But old habits are hard to break and he had given his word to his grandmother. No one must ever know the truth.
For years he had suffered nightmares, desperate to know what had driven his mother to such a hideous act. Clearly her anguish had been unbearable, beyond desperation. His grandmother had refused to discuss anything pertaining to the death of her daughter-in-law, but when Sebastian reached his twenty-first birthday he confronted his grandmother, refusing to be denied.
“It does no good to speak ill of the dead,” the countess had insisted.
Sebastian could still feel the rage and hurt that had risen up from deep inside him. “God damn it! She was my mother. I think the very least I am owed is an explanation.”
“Her life was an utter shambles,” the countess had finally confessed, “because of a man.”
“A man? What man?”
“George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield.” The sigh the countess expelled had been filled with sadness. “She met him earlier that year at a house party. He was very recently widowed and she understood that kind of loss. They grew close very quickly.”
“How close?”
“Close enough for her to become pregnant with his child.” The countess had blurted that out, seeming to shock herself with the admission. “Evangeline was my daughter through marriage, yet I loved her as if she were my own flesh and blood. I was grateful she came to me when she found herself in trouble and the earl refused to answer her letters, refused even to see her. But he saw me.”
“You went to him?”
“I did. He tried to tarnish your mother in my eyes, telling me shocking, scandalous lies, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I demanded he do the right thing and marry her. He refused. He was such an odious man, lacking in feeling and honor. I would have pressed the matter more strongly but soon realized she was better off without him.”
“Apparently not.”
The countess’s eyes had welled with tears. “I had no notion of how distressed she was, how disgraced she felt. I offered alternatives, suggested we go abroad together so she could have the baby in private. I vowed to find a good home for the child with loving parents to raise it. Perhaps she could even visit them, giving her a chance to form some connection with the child. She told me she would think upon it, yet two days later …”
“She hung herself.” Sebastian remembered how calmly he had spoken those words, saying them aloud for the first time.
“I blame myself for not doing more to help her, to comfort her,” the countess had said, weeping softly.
“I blame Hetfield. He murdered my mother as assuredly as if he placed the noose around her neck with his own hands. For that he must be made to pay.”
“Sebastian, no.” The countess had risen from her chair. Her voice rasping and slow, she fought back tears. “You must put those thoughts out of your mind this instant. I beg of you, for my sake. I too clamor for revenge, but it will be a hollow victory indeed if you are injured or worse. You must promise me that you will leave it alone. Promise me.”
“Grandmother—”
“Promise me! Give me your word that you will stay away from the earl.”
“I promise.”
Even all these years later Sebastian could still recall how flat his voice was as he had made that vow, could easily remember how hollow he had felt inside. He had given his word, and though it had been difficult and painful, he had kept it these many years.
But now his grandmother was dead and as far as he was concerned the promise she extracted from him was also gone, buried along with her in the cold, dark ground. Perhaps the only good thing to come of her passing was the freedom to pursue a course of action that would bring him peace and put to rest the event that defined his childhood, that shaped his adulthood.
At long last, Sebastian was going to take his fitting revenge against George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield.
“It looks as if the worst of the rain will hold off until morning,” Bianca Collins declared as she stared out the drawing room window. “Do you think Papa will arrive today, Eleanor?”
Eleanor drew her attention away from the sewing she held in her lap, raised her head, and smiled fondly at her younger sister. At eighteen years old, Bianca had fully come into her looks. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her features delicate and refined, her skin flawless and creamy white. Her hair was long and lush, the color of burnt autumn leaves, her eyes clear and sparkling and as green as the meadow grass in summer.
Yet Eleanor knew it was the sweetness of her personality, the goodness of her heart, and her optimistic outlook on life that gave Bianca her true beauty.
“‘Tis impossible to predict what the earl will do,” Eleanor said as she pushed her needle through the delicate muslin fabric on the hem of the gown she was sewing. “I fear our illustrious sire is rather like the weather.”
“I’ve been so filled with curiosity that I’ve barely slept these last few nights,” Bianca admitted. “Though I feel it deep down in my bones that Papa will have something wonderful to tell us.”
“Hmm.” The noncommittal murmur was all Eleanor could manage. She too had been sleeping poorly, anticipating the earl’s visit. But while her tenderhearted sister had been struggling to contain her excitement, Eleanor was trying to tamp down her feelings of dread.
The message from the earl saying that he would shortly