Chapter 4
The term flabbergasted did not do justice to how Cecelia was feeling.
She stared at Lord Cumberland uncontrollably. Unable to believe that this man, this duke, was the man her father had chosen to be her chaperone.
The boy she had once known seemed completely gone, replaced by a cold and distant stranger, one she could not imagine walking through a park with, let alone attending a ball on his arm.
He stared back at her, his blue eyes stormy, and yet it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
There had to be some mistake. This could not be happening.
And so, she turned to Mr Jones and lay bare her feeling, “There must be some mistake, sir. The mourning period has not yet been observed.”
The solicitor's smile was gentle, perhaps a little sad. “Be that as it may, there is no mistake, My Lady.”
Even as she shook her head, he added, “This was your father's final wish for you.”
Silence fell in the room, and it seemed as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for someone else to show their reaction first.
Cecelia never expected it to be him.
“I cannot,” Lord Cumberland announced. “I do not have the time to be chaperoning frivolous young ladies at balls. I have my own affairs to see to.”
His words cut like a knife to Cecelia's chest, and she couldn't not bring herself to look at him again.
Was that really what he felt about her? That she was frivolous? That she was just like all the other young ladies of the ton? Did he not remember her as she had been before?
That horrid familiar sensation of tears pricking her eyes came creeping in, yet she would not allow anyone to see it as she said, “Of course. Lord Cumberland is busy. It is a ridiculous notion. The mourning period must be observed. It is the custom for us to remain at the house.”
Mr Jones nodded his acknowledgement. “All I can do is give you your father's wishes. I cannot force you to adhere to them, though I will tell you one thing. It states if you do not, that if you do not marry within the year, your dowry shall be lost to you.”
Cecelia's face grew cold, and she knew that all the colour had to have drained from her cheeks. Her hands began to tremble, and her fingers grew numb.
“This cannot be,” she protested, “Daddy would never do such a thing.”
She heard the rustling of papers and glanced to see Lord Cumberland reading the will once more.
Lord Cumberland, that was how she had to think of him now. He was a duke, a stranger, and an outsider. He was not the boy who had left her all those years ago.
It was better this way.
“Mr Jones speaks the truth,” he said finally, glancing at her for only a second before he turned his attention back to the solicitor, “but as I have stated, I am much too busy for silly errands.”
Silly? The word stuck in Cecelia's mind and made her nauseous. That truly was what he thought of her then.
She was a silly, frivolous young lady who had no business asking him for anything at all.
“Please,” her mother spoke up in a tone full of pleading, “let us not be so hasty about this.”
Cecelia's stomach twisted.
It was no secret that her dowry might very well be the last thing they had when all of this was over with.
“Please,” the dowager continued, “at least take a few days, three, to consider it.”
Cecelia turned back to Lord Cumberland, almost hopeful. It was only when he rose to his feet that she felt that hope dying like the last ember of a fire left too long in the hearth.
“I shall consider it, though I do not believe I shall change my mind,” he stated, and with that, he offered a dip of his head. “If you will excuse me, I have other business to attend to.”
“Of course, Your Grace, please do not let us keep you,” her mother insisted, rising to offer a curtsey.
Cecelia forced herself to her feet to do the same, following her sisters’ lead.
Only when the duke had left the drawing room did she dare to flee. Though her mother called her back, she could not stop her feet from carrying her swiftly up the stairs.
She could not hold anything back any longer. She needed to make it to her quarters quickly.
And as she slammed the door shut behind her, she finally allowed the tears to fall.
They swept down her face in a cascade so vast she thought they might never stop. Throwing herself onto her bed, she drowned her sobs with a pillow.
Nobody must hear her. Nobody must know the pain she kept buried deep inside her. It came to the surface often, but here in this bedroom was the only place she ever allowed it to consume her.
At the sound of knocking on the door, Cecelia managed to compose herself. Sucking back tears, she rose from the bed and straightened her dress before calling, “Come in.”
Her stomach twisted as she wondered who might be on the other side. Perhaps her mother had come to berate her for speaking in such an ill manner towards the duke.
She scoffed, imagining all the times she had done so when they were children, playfully mocking each other as they always had.
Maybe she had sent Catherine in her stead, too angry to come herself.
Yet, when the door opened, she was a little relieved to see Mary slip in and click it closed behind her.
“Cece, what was all that about downstairs?” Mary asked, folding her arms over her chest.
Cecelia bit the inside of her cheek. How was she to explain how she was feeling when truly she had no idea?
She dropped down onto the edge of the bed and threw up her arms. “He was being ridiculous.”
The way Mary pursed her lips suggested she didn't believe it was only the duke who was being ridiculous.
“He is a very busy man,” Mary pointed out. She sat on the bed beside Cecelia and reached a hand out to take hers.
Cecelia slid her hand away, clasping both together on her lap before she started to play with a bit of lace on her sleeve. “He called me frivolous and silly!”
Mary seemed to struggle to hold back laughter.
“Can you truly blame him when Mama has us all acting like every other lady in the ton?”
Cecelia grumbled, wishing Mary wasn't right about that.
“Perhaps your comportment lessons worked even better than we had hoped,” Mary said, a tinkle of amusement in her tone as she nudged Cecelia with her shoulder.
“A little too well by the looks of it,” Cecelia sighed. “I just cannot believe that Lord Cumberland of all people would believe such a thing of me.”
At that, Mary raised a brow. “George has not laid eyes on any of us for several years.”
“Nor we him,” Cecelia pointed out. She scowled back at her sister as she added, “We did not judge him so terribly when he stepped through the door.”
“He is a duke,” Mary said, reaching for Cecelia's hand again. This time she did not pull away. “Would anyone dare to judge him terribly?”
Cecelia scoffed. “Not aloud.”
Though I can think what I like of him, truly, Cecelia decided, though in truth, she had no idea what to think of him.
She felt all torn up, her insides twisted in knots at the mere sight of him after all these years.
“Mama is devastated,” Mary sighed, squeezing Cecelia's hand. “Will you not reconsider?”
“I fear that decision is not at all mine to make,” Cecelia said. Whether she liked it or not, it was Lord Cumberland who would have the last say in things.
“All is fair in love and war,” Mary said as if quoting something, and Cecelia rolled her eyes.
“You have had your head in too many books,” she insisted.
“Be that as it may,” Mary said, smiling a little. “War changes people, Cece. We've all seen it. Why not get to know the man George has become before judging him too harshly for his words?”
Cecelia cringed. A part of her, a larger part than she dared admit, wanted to listen. Yet, the rebellious, snubbed little girl inside her was desperately clinging on to her anger.
“What is the worst that could happen?”
Cecelia closed her eyes and imagined for a moment what it would be like to walk into a ball on Lord Cumberland's arm. The imagery was too painful, scary even, and she opened her eyes once more.
“How am I to spend so much time with a man who thinks me frivolous?”
Mary cocked her head as if the answer was quite obvious.
“Can you truly say we do not need his help?” she countered, sounding far older than her tender sixteen years. “Besides, there has always been something between you and him. I'm quite certain he would do anything for you.”
Cecelia's insides twisted all over again.
“Perhaps before,” she sighed and lowered her gaze, “but as you said, war changes people.”
It was more than that, Cecelia knew. The way he had looked at her, so cold and distant, told her as much.
“You must give him a chance,” Mary insisted, and the way she squeezed Cecelia's hand made her look her in the eye once more. Those large blue eyes were almost impossible to deny, and Cecelia had to fight with everything she had not to give in.
“As I said, I do not believe that decision lies at my feet.”
Mary's gaze grew even more pleading. “Will you at least be open to the idea if he is?”
Cecelia inhaled deeply.
“For you, Mother, and Catherine, you know I would do anything,” she said, hoping that when it came down to it, it was true.
Yet, the pain in her stomach left her wondering. Can I really accept his help after all he said?
Chapter 4
The next morning, George was in his study, trying his best not to think about the clause in Lord Flannery's will, when he heard the front doorbell ringing through the house.
The sound made his gut clench up, for he was in no mood for visitors. Nor was he excited at the thought of any more post.
Perhaps it wasn't too late to slip out and go for a ride. On horseback, nobody would be able to bother him. And it had been a while since he had taken a tour of the estate.
But all too soon, Dawling arrived at the door, leaving him no escape.
“Your Grace.” The butler dipped a low bow as he entered the room. “The dowager duchess of Cumberland has arrived.”
At his words, nausea filled George's throat. Just what he needed, a visit from his mother.