Page 16 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)

Chapter 16

“The view satisfies your artistic sensibilities, I trust?” Sebastian inquired, aware of the formality in his tone yet unable to entirely dispel it, even in this moment of relative privacy.

Sebastian observed Charlotte’s profile as she gazed out at the western rise, her features illuminated by the golden light of late afternoon. The wind had liberated several chestnut tendrils, and they danced about her face with mischievous independence.

The sight stirred something unexpected within him—a peculiar amalgamation of admiration and protective instinct that he found increasingly difficult to dismiss as mere courtesy toward his friend’s sister.

Charlotte turned to him, her blue eyes alight with genuine pleasure—an expression so unguarded, so devoid of the calculation he had grown accustomed to in London drawing rooms, that it momentarily robbed him of composure, even though he had seen her face transformed with that particular look many times before.

“It exceeds any expectation,” she replied. “Though I confess I’m as captivated by what lies below as by the distant prospects.”

She gestured toward a cluster of ancient oaks that stood sentinel along the eastern boundary of Blackthorn Hall’s immediate grounds.

Even from this distance, Sebastian recognized the distinctive silhouettes of trees that had witnessed the passing of generations of Whitmores with impassive dignity.

William, who had been examining the condition of a boundary stone with the practical eye of a landowner, rejoined them with languid strides. “Is that where you maintained your childhood fortress, Bash? That oak with the peculiar fork in its lowest branches?”

Sebastian felt a rush of memory, as unexpected as a summer rainstorm. “You remember that? It must be seventeen years since I showed you the old treehouse.”

“Treehouse?” Charlotte interjected, her expression brightening with immediate interest. “Sebastian Whitmore, Baron of Blackthorn, former occupant of an arboreal residence? This revelation demands immediate investigation.”

Before Sebastian could formulate a suitable objection, she had gathered her reins and urged her mare forward with a decisive movement, heading directly toward the grove. William’s laughter followed her, rich with fraternal amusement.

“Still incapable of resisting an adventure, our Charlotte,” he observed. “Though I daresay your treehouse has likely succumbed to the ravages of time and weather.”

Sebastian adjusted his position in the saddle, straightening almost imperceptibly. “On the contrary. My father was methodical in matters of construction, even those designed for a child’s amusement. Oak beams and copper nails, if memory serves. He claimed a Whitmore should build nothing that would not outlast him.”

The words emerged with unexpected emotion—the first time Sebastian had spoken of his father without the careful detachment he had maintained since assuming the title.

William, with the intuitive understanding born of long acquaintance, merely nodded before turning his mount to follow Charlotte’s rapidly diminishing figure.

Sebastian lingered momentarily, struck by the realization that he had inadvertently revealed more than he had intended.

His father’s voice seemed to echo across the years: A Whitmore builds for posterity, Sebastian, whether a treehouse or a lineage. Remember that.

By the time Sebastian reached the grove, Charlotte had already dismounted and was gazing upward at the massive oak with undisguised delight.

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, dappling her face with shifting patterns of gold and shadow, transformed by the moment into a woodland sprite rather than a properly raised young lady of good family.

“Is it still accessible?” She inquired eagerly as Sebastian drew his stallion to a halt beside William’s gelding. “The remnants of a rope ladder are still attached, though I shouldn’t venture to test its soundness after so many seasons.”

Sebastian dismounted with practiced fluidity, momentarily disoriented by the strange compression of time—standing here as a man, simultaneously recalling himself at seven, scrambling upward with a boy’s heedless enthusiasm.

“There was a proper ladder on the far side,” he found himself explaining, moving toward the trunk with automatic steps. “Less visible from the main path, and thus less likely to attract uninvited visitors.”

His gloved fingers traced the weathered bark, finding the nearly invisible handholds his father had carefully carved—neither ornate nor obvious, but perfectly positioned for a child’s reach.

A wave of recollection washed over him with such intensity that he nearly staggered beneath its weight. His father, laughing as he demonstrated how to test each rung before trusting it with one’s full weight.

His mother, pretending outrage at the grass stains on his breeches while her eyes betrayed fond indulgence. Diana, too small to climb unassisted but demanding inclusion with the imperious certainty of a three-year-old.

“Sebastian?” Charlotte’s voice penetrated his reverie, her hand resting lightly upon his forearm. “Are you quite all right? You suddenly seem miles away.”

He glanced down, momentarily startled by the genuine concern in her expression. How unlike her it was to use his Christian name—and how strangely affecting he found it, sending a hot shiver up his spine that took root in the base of his neck each and every time he heard it.

“Forgive me,” he replied, composing his features with practiced discipline. “Merely ambushed by recollection. This place featured prominently in my childhood.”

William, who had secured the horses and now approached with casual ease, clapped a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Your father spent a full week constructing this arboreal fortress, as I recall. You were insufferably proud of it.”

Sebastian allowed himself a slight smile. “He insisted on explaining every detail of the construction; how the support beams were positioned to distribute weight properly, why certain woods resisted rot while others succumbed. I absorbed perhaps one word in ten, being far more interested in planning imaginary military campaigns from my elevated vantage point.”

Charlotte’s laughter, spontaneous and melodious, seemed to brighten the shaded grove. “I can perfectly envision a miniature Master Sebastian Whitmore, solemnly commanding invisible troops while secretly plotting his escape from arithmetic lessons.”

“Hardly miniature,” William corrected with brotherly precision. “Even at seven, Bash stood a full head taller than most boys his age. A veritable sapling himself, shooting upward at an alarming rate.”

“Yet perpetually outmatched by you in athletic pursuits,” Sebastian countered, surprised by his willingness to engage in such informal reminiscence.

Charlotte’s presence seemed to invite a temporary suspension of the careful reserve he had maintained since his father’s death—as though her natural vivacity created an atmosphere where such unbending was not merely permissible but somehow necessary.

“Is it still accessible?” Charlotte inquired, returning her attention to the treehouse with undisguised curiosity. “Or has it been abandoned to the elements since your martial campaigns concluded?”

Sebastian studied the structure with critical assessment. The platform remained remarkably sound, a testament to his father’s insistence on quality materials even for a child’s plaything.

The walls had weathered to a silvery gray that blended harmoniously with the oak’s massive branches, but they stood square and true against the trunk.

“I believe it would support a visitor,” he concluded, surprised by his own desire to ascend once more to that childhood sanctuary. “Though perhaps not all three of us simultaneously.”

William made a dismissive gesture. “I shall maintain a dignified position on terra firma . My memories of that particular elevation are sufficiently vivid without requiring renewal.”

Sebastian found himself presented with an unexpected dilemma—protocol suggested he should permit Charlotte to ascend first, yet propriety prohibited him from following a lady up a ladder where her ankles might be visible. The social mathematics of the situation defied neat resolution.

Charlotte, as if reading his mind, offered an impish smile. “I think you would have to ascend first to verify the structure’s integrity, and I shall follow only if you deem it secure. Thus, safety and propriety may be satisfied simultaneously.”

Sebastian found himself unexpectedly disarmed by her practical solution. “Your suggestion has merit,” he conceded, removing his riding gloves with deliberate care. “Though I warn you, the ascent may prove challenging for one unaccustomed to such adventures.”

"I assure you,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with poorly concealed mischief, “that climbing trees was among the many unladylike skills I perfected before my mother despaired of ever making me presentable to society.”

The wooden handholds felt smaller beneath his adult hands, their familiar contours awakening muscle memories he had not accessed in years. Sebastian ascended with measured caution, testing each rung as his father had taught him long ago.

The platform, when he reached it, was remarkably sound—dusty but intact, the planks still securely fastened to the supporting beams.

He ducked through the low entrance, momentarily disoriented by the drastic shift in scale. What had seemed spacious to a child was decidedly confined for a man of his height.

The interior smelled of sun-warmed wood and ancient summers, a peculiar alchemy of scents that transported him instantly across the years.

His father’s voice seemed to hang in the air: Remember, Sebastian, even the smallest domain requires careful stewardship. A baron’s duties begin at home.

“Is the fortress secure, general?” Charlotte’s voice drifted up from below, gently mocking yet somehow encouraging.

Sebastian moved to the platform’s edge, looking down to where she stood with her neck craned back, one hand shielding her eyes against the dappled sunlight.

For reasons he could not entirely articulate, the sight of her thus—waiting for his judgment, trusting his assessment—stirred something profound within his chest.

“Structurally sound,” he confirmed, surprised by the slight roughness in his voice. “Though hardly suitable for formal entertainment.”

“The best retreats rarely are,” she replied, gathering her riding skirt with practical efficiency before approaching the ladder. “William, should I fail to return within a reasonable interval, inform our mother that I expired in pursuit of architectural curiosity rather than social misconduct.”

Her brother’s answering laugh held equal measures of exasperation and affection. “I shall embroider the tale appropriately, sister. Perhaps attributing your demise to an excess of intellectual engagement rather than physical recklessness.”

Sebastian watched as Charlotte ascended with nimble confidence, her movements suggesting this was indeed far from her first arboreal expedition.

When she reached the platform, he extended his hand to assist her final step—an automatic courtesy that resulted in a moment of unexpected connection as her gloved fingers gripped his with surprising strength.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, ducking through the entrance and straightening to survey the small space with evident delight. “It’s perfectly charming! Like something from a children’s tale, tucked away from the world.”

Sebastian observed her exploration with quiet fascination. Charlotte moved around the confined space with unconscious grace, fingertips trailing along the weathered planks as if reading their history through touch.

She crouched to examine a series of notches carved into one wall—marks he had made to measure his height at various intervals, a tangible record of boyhood’s swift passage.

“Your growth chart?” She inquired, glancing up at him with perceptive understanding.

Sebastian nodded, inexplicably moved by her recognition of this private ritual. “My father insisted on documenting my progress with scientific precision. He maintained that a Whitmore should approach even personal development with methodical attention.”

“He sounds formidable,” Charlotte observed, rising to stand before him.

In the enclosed space, her proximity was suddenly, acutely apparent—the subtle floral notes of her perfume mingling with the earthy scents of wood and leaf, the warmth of her presence like a tangible force in the close atmosphere.

“He was...” Sebastian searched for the precise term, unwilling to offer a facile characterization of the man whose absence had left such a profound void. “Principled. Demanding, yet fair. He believed that nobility conferred obligation rather than privilege.”

Charlotte’s expression softened, the usual animation in her features giving way to something more contemplative. “You miss him terribly.”

It was not a question, and Sebastian found himself unprepared for the simple directness of her observation.

No one—not his mother with her rigid propriety, nor Diana with her gentle timidity, nor even William with his longstanding friendship—had addressed his grief so plainly.

“Every day,” he admitted, the confession emerging before he could establish the usual barriers against such vulnerability. “Particularly when confronting decisions affecting the estate. I find myself continually measuring my judgments against what I believe would have been his.”

Charlotte’s gaze remained steady, offering neither facile sympathy nor uncomfortable retreat. “And do you ever consider what might be your own judgment, independent of his shadow?”

The question caught Sebastian entirely off-guard. He considered his response with uncharacteristic care, aware that his answer mattered in ways he could not fully articulate.

“Frequently,” he acknowledged, surprising himself with the admission. “Though I was raised to believe that tradition provides the surest foundation for sound governance.”

“Foundations need not dictate the entire structure,” Charlotte observed, her head tilting slightly as she regarded him.

“The most magnificent cathedrals begin with ancient stonework yet reach toward heaven in ways their original builders might never have imagined.”

Sebastian studied her face—the intelligence animating her blue eyes, the hint of challenge in the curve of her lips.

How remarkable that this young woman, who society dismissed as merely spirited and occasionally improper, could articulate with such precision the very conflict he had been unable to resolve within himself.

“You have a singular perspective, Miss Fairfax,” he said absentmindedly.

“Charlotte,” she corrected, with the directness that continued to startle him. “Surely a shared treehouse warrants Christian names, at least while we remain in this elevated sanctuary?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could suppress it. “Charlotte. Though we must revert to propriety once we descend to earthly constraints.”

Her answering smile transformed her face with a radiance that momentarily robbed him of breath. “Agreed. Though I must warn you, Sebastian, that having once tasted the liberty of informality, I may find formal address increasingly tedious.”

His name on her lips sent an unexpected current through him, even though he had heard it before—a sensation both disquieting and strangely exhilarating.

In this moment, confined within the sun-dappled walls of his childhood retreat, the careful boundaries he had maintained seemed suddenly arbitrary, like rules devised for a game whose purpose he had forgotten.

“We should rejoin William,” he said reluctantly, aware that propriety demanded they not linger unchaperoned, even in so innocent a setting. “The hour grows late, and my mother will be expecting our return.”

Charlotte nodded, though regret flickered briefly across her expressive features. “Of course. Lady Blackthorn would hardly consider a treehouse an appropriate venue for chaperoned interaction, regardless of its architectural merits.”

Her wry observation, so perfectly capturing his mother’s probable reaction, startled a genuine laugh from Sebastian—a sound so unfamiliar to his own ears that it momentarily disconcerted him.

When had he last laughed freely, without conscious restraint? Before his father’s illness, certainly. Perhaps even before assuming the crushing weight of responsibilities that accompanied his title.

As Charlotte preceded him down the ladder, Sebastian remained momentarily within the treehouse, struck by the realization that something fundamental had shifted during their arranged courtship.

He had revealed more of himself to Charlotte Fairfax in only a few weeks than he had to anyone in all his life.

More disconcerting still was his awareness that her presence had temporarily lightened the burden he had carried for so long. Like sunlight penetrating a dense forest canopy, her natural vivacity illuminated shadows he had come to accept as inevitable.

The sensation was both unsettling and oddly liberating, like rediscovering the use of a limb long held immobile.

Descending to the ground where William awaited with barely concealed curiosity, Sebastian found himself watching Charlotte with new awareness.

She described the treehouse to her brother with animated gestures, her laughter ringing through the grove as she recounted Sebastian’s boyhood measurement marks.

The afternoon light caught in her chestnut curls, creating an effect not unlike the amber highlights in fine brandy.

A disturbing clarity descended upon Sebastian as they mounted their horses for the return journey.

The comfortable fiction he had maintained—that his courtship of Charlotte was merely a gentlemanly favor to her brother, a temporary arrangement of mutual convenience—had become precisely that: a fiction.

At some indeterminate point, without conscious decision or formal declaration, his interest had transformed into something far more genuine than he had permitted himself to acknowledge.

As they rode toward Blackthorn Hall, the setting sun gilding the ancient stone with warm radiance, Sebastian made a silent vow.

The conversation he had been postponing—distracted by estate matters, hesitant to disrupt their comfortable arrangement—could no longer be deferred.

He would speak to Charlotte plainly of his changing regard, his growing certainty that their relationship had evolved beyond its contrived beginnings into something he wished to pursue with sincere intention.

What had begun as obligation had become, by some alchemy he could neither explain nor resist, the most consequential decision of his life since assuming his father’s title.

The realization was as terrifying as it was exhilarating—like standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing that the next step would irrevocably alter his course.