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 be in residence had come over two weeks ago. The brief, terse note had not been sent to his daughters, but rather to his butler, in order to ensure that all would be made ready for him. In Eleanor’s mind that did not bode well for the visit, but she did not have the heart to point that out to her sister.
Bianca lived for these moments, these sparse times when their father remembered their existence and made a rare appearance in their lives. Spending but a few hours with the earl was all Bianca needed to make her feel as if she mattered to him, as if she were an important part of his life.
For Eleanor it was not as simple. She was very aware that the earl had long ago abandoned them. His various pursuits of personal pleasure, his travels abroad, and his social life in London all held far more interest for him than his two motherless children.
Eleanor had been raised by a succession of governesses, but at least she had experienced the gift of a mother’s love for the first eight years of her life. Poor Bianca had never known their mother—she had died a few days after Bianca’s birth. Perhaps that was the reason Bianca felt such unconditional love toward the earl; he was the only parent she had ever known.
The distracted, infrequent interest he demonstrated, the occasional affection he bestowed, seemed to be enough for Bianca. Not so for Eleanor. She wanted the impossible—she wanted her father to love her. Yet in her experience the earl had proven time and again that the only person he had ever loved was himself.
Eleanor knew she was not the ideal daughter. She was not blindly obedient, meek, or subservient. At times she had been too outspoken with her criticism of the earl’s parental neglect. But her worst crime of all was her inability to make a good marriage.
The earl had grudgingly given her one Season in Town and she had failed to make her mark, had failed to dazzle society, had failed to capture a husband. She had not brought wealth, property, or connections to the family and at nearly six and twenty, she was now too old. ‘Twas not surprising he had little use for her.
“I am hoping Papa will stay at least a few days once he does arrive.” Bianca’s face brightened. “There might even be time for him to meet Mr. Smyth. He has told me on more than one occasion that he would feel privileged indeed to make Papa’s acquaintance.”
No doubt. Mr. Smyth had recently taken up residence in their rural community. Claiming a distant relationship to Squire Williams had opened a few doors for the young man and he had taken full advantage of it, seeking to establish himself as a gentleman of means and culture. As far as Eleanor could tell, Mr. Smyth possessed neither in any significant quantities.
“The earl never mixes with the local society unless he has no other choice,” Eleanor said.
“I know.” Bianca sighed. “Still, I am anxious to hear his opinion of Mr. Smyth, though he is so much like Papa I am certain they will get along famously.”
“Hmm.” In Eleanor’s opinion, being like their father was hardly an admirable qualification. Yet Bianca’s remark was telling—and truthful. Eleanor realized that was another reason she disliked Mr. Smyth. He did possess the same controlling, domineering personality as the earl, traits Eleanor feared Bianca mistook for strength of character.
She also feared that Mr. Smyth had set his sights on Bianca not because he held her in any genuine regard, but rather because he thought the younger daughter of an earl would be a most fortuitous bride. If Eleanor believed he had true affection for Bianca she would have encouraged the budding romance, but she was highly suspicious of Mr. Smyth’s motives.
Eleanor wanted the very best for her sister. The magic of love, the promise of happiness, the respect of a husband who truly believed Bianca was a gift to treasure.
Of course, she had wanted that for herself too, but the opportunity had come and gone many years ago. When she was too young and too naive to understand its value. When she foolishly let it slip beyond her grasp.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. In order to achieve her heart’s desire she would have had to
