He no longer gave a bloody damn what the ton thought of him, either. Abandoned by his wife? The unlovable duke? What did it matter? He could do what his father did…take a score of mistresses, lavish them with gifts, forget all about the woman whom he’d once married, so full of senseless hope that things might be different from his parent’s marriage.

But even as he had that thought he knew he wouldn’t do it. He didn’t want a score of mistresses. He wanted only Veronica. But he’d never had her. Not really. He would have to convince her that divorce was the best option. The blasted title demanded an heir and staying married to her like this would be unbearable. Not when he loved her so damned desperately, he wondered if he’d ever be able to take a full breath without pain again. And he couldn’t damn her to a solitary life of misery. She deserved better than that.

In the meantime, Hazelton and the rest of the blowhards in Parliament would have to accept that his wife wasn’t at his side tomorrow night. Or any of the nights that followed. Because Sebastian intended to tell only the truth from now on. A lie had got him into one horrible mess in his life. He would not utter any more of them. He’d tell Hazelton and all the rest of them the truth. His wife had left him. She refused to return from the countryside. She hated him. They’d all find out the truth, eventually. It might as well come from his own mouth.

Sebastian tossed back the covers and lunged out of bed. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t sleep. Not tonight. He’d write her a letter, post it to Edgefield Hall. No doubt she’d run back there as soon as she could, nursing her poor opinion of him. He’d tell her he’d grant her a divorce. She’d be relieved that he’d solved their problem.

He stomped to his writing desk on the far side of the room and slid into the chair in front of it. Then he pulled out a sheet of vellum and grabbed the quill from the inkpot. Sebastian took a deep breath. Might as well get started ending this misbegotten marriage once and for all.

Chapter Nineteen

Veronica couldn’t sleep. Even after three glasses of wine and a splash of brandy, she was wide awake. In fact, she was convinced she might never sleep again. Justin had been surprised when she’d asked for his help. Not that he’d been particularly helpful. “I don’t know,” he’d replied solemnly, shaking his head, “but whatever you do, I suggest it be grand and convincing.” Then her brother had retired for the evening, adding only cryptically, “When you think of something, let me know. I’ll help.”

Convincing, she was certain she could accomplish, But, grand? What was that supposed to mean? At the moment, there was a storm outside, so her grand plans would have to wait. It was just as well it was storming, however, because she didn’t have any plan, grand or otherwise.