The Sinclair family home always gave Sebastian the impression of a mausoleum. It held the kind of silence that hung heavy and expectant, a taut wire strung between two points, waiting to snap. The house was modernized of course, but the air felt thick with expectations and the past. He stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring up at the doors to his mother's private room, and for a fleeting moment, he considered turning around and walking out. Would anyone stop him? Would anyone even care?
But that, of course, was not how these monthly visits worked. He had a duty, as his mother so frequently reminded him, and duty was not something one shirked. Not in the Sinclair family.
With a resigned sigh, he made his way up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The family house in London had always been too large, too cold, and too full of shadows for his liking. He'd grown up hearing those shadows roar, his father's rage, his mother's sharp, biting words, and despite the years that separated him from childhood, the memories still lingered, clinging to the walls like smoke.
Sebastian barely had time to knock before his mother's voice cut through the stillness.
"Do come in, Sebastian. I'm not getting any younger, you know."
He pushed the door open. The room was much as he remembered it: grand and stifling, the furniture arranged with military precision, and his mother perched like a queen in her throne-like armchair. Lady Sinclair had been a beauty once, and though age had softened the lines of her face, her eyes were as sharp as ever.
"Mother," Sebastian said with a curt nod, moving to stand by the fireplace. He didn't bother sitting. It never helped.
Lady Sinclair's gaze swept over him, her disapproval as tangible as the fire's heat on his back. "You look tired, Sebastian. Or perhaps you've simply stopped caring about appearances altogether."
"Very happy to see you as well, Mother," Sebastian replied flatly. He had long since stopped rising to her bait, though it didn't stop her from trying.
She sniffed, clearly unimpressed. "Well, we might as well get to the point. You're nearly thirty, Sebastian. Thirty. Do you know what people say about a man your age who remains unmarried? Nothing good, I assure you."
He arched his brow. "And what do they say about a man who avoids the altar entirely? I should like to meet him."
Her lips thinned. "This is not a joke. It is your responsibility to ensure the Sinclair line continues, and that means marrying, preferably sooner rather than later."
Sebastian's jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the edge of the mantelpiece. Here it was, the same refrain, spoken as though it were scripture. Duty. Legacy. Heirs. It was all she ever cared about, and she wielded it like a weapon.
"And I suppose you've prepared a list of suitable candidates?" he drawled, surely his mother had not gone that far.
Lady Sinclair's smile was coldly triumphant. "As a matter of fact, I have. The daughters of the Earl of Pembroke and Viscount Merriweather, for a start. Both well-bred, well-dowered, and accomplished."
"How fortunate for me, you forgot to mention how youthful. Surely their lack of life experiences make them prime targets for someone like me." Sebastian replied, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Although, I notice someone is missing. Genevieve Worthington, for example. A shame she didn't make your list."
His mother's expression froze, and for one glorious moment, Sebastian thought he might have silenced her. Then her nostrils flared, and she sat up straighter in her chair, like a general preparing for battle.
"Do not be ridiculous, Sebastian. No son of mine would marry into a working family, I don't care how rich they are. That girl's father sold grain, for heaven's sake. Grain! Her fortune may shine brightly now, but the stench of trade will never wash away."
"You are nothing if not consistent," he said mildly, though the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "And you wonder why I have no interest in marriage."
"It is because you are too much like your father," Lady Sinclair snapped, her voice rising. "Reckless, selfish, and altogether thoughtless. You think you can avoid your responsibilities forever? That you can drift through life without consequence? You are a Sinclair, Sebastian. You will do your duty, whether you like it or not."
The words hit him like a blow to the chest, the same ones she'd flung at him for years. Reckless. Selfish. Thoughtless. The ghost of his father loomed large in this house, and it seemed his mother never missed an opportunity to shove Sebastian into his shadow.
He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "If you and my father are your example of marital bliss, then you will excuse me if I decline the opportunity to repeat it."
Her face went pale with fury. "You insolent—"
"Good day, Mother," he interrupted, his voice cool and unyielding. "We shall resume this pleasant conversation next month, I'm sure."
He didn't wait for her reply. He turned on his heel and strode from the room, her voice echoing behind him, sharp as glass.
You are just like your father.
The words reverberated in his head as he descended the staircase, their sting familiar but no less potent. He stepped outside into the brisk morning air, taking in a deep breath as though he could rid himself of the house's suffocating gloom.
Marriage. Duty. An heir. His mother spoke of it as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the institution hadn't strangled the joy out of both her and his father. The thought of it made his stomach turn.
No, he decided, shaking his head as he climbed into his waiting carriage. If marriage was the key to continuing the Sinclair legacy, then the Sinclair line would simply have to end with him. Surely he had a cousin somewhere out there.
He would rather be alone than live through the same miserable farce his parents had endured. And as the carriage pulled away from the family home, Sebastian felt the familiar weight of hopelessness settle over him once more, as heavy and unrelenting as the London fog.