Chapter 12
At breakfast the next morning, Cecelia could not believe what she was hearing.
“You wish to invite his grace to dinner?” she exclaimed, forgetting herself a moment with her mouth open on a piece of fruit.
“Close your mouth, Cecelia. It is unladylike,” her mother instructed firmly. She took a sip of her orange juice before adding, “Yes, I think to invite him is the decent thing to do.”
“Decent thing to do?” Cecelia grumbled. “He did not do the decent thing yesterday. His behaviour was abhorrent.”
“To you, perhaps, but I saw nothing wrong with it,” her mother responded.
When Cecelia had gone to her mother to tell her all about how rude and obnoxious his grace had been, she had been expecting her mother to be as flabbergasted as she was. Yet, the countess looked quite pleased with the turn of events.
“Cecelia, do you wish to enter into a marriage that is wholly beneath you?” her mother asked now, arching her brow.
She looked much more herself with colour returning to her cheeks, though there was still a slight tremble in her hands whenever she reached for something.
“Of course not, but his grace did not even give a single one of my callers a chance,” Cecelia said.
Anger boiled up inside her again whenever she thought of it. He had been so self-assured, so condescending, and he had made her look entirely foolish.
No gentleman had sat more than five minutes in the drawing room with her the day before. It had been a terrible and frustrating ordeal that had left her quite speechless.
“If I had known he would flatten every one of my prospects, I would never have accepted his help,” she insisted, taking another bite of compote.
“He was merely trying to help thin the herd,” Catherine interjected, and Cecelia scowled at her across the table.
“He completely decimated the herd in a matter of an hour!”
At that, she thought she heard her mother laugh. She actually laughed as if it were something funny.
And that made Cecelia all the more angry. Her head whipped around, and her mother's lips pursed. “Do not look at me like that, Cecelia Anne Flannery.”
It wasn't often her mother chastised her so, and though she was still angry, she lowered her gaze back to her breakfast plate.
“Your father knew well what he was doing when he chose George to be your chaperone.”
Cecelia's gaze lifted once more, and she stared open-mouthed at her mother all over again.
“What happened to his being a duke? Is he merely George again now?” she demanded.
It was the first time she had dared utter his first name since his return, and it felt strange on her tongue. It tingled, and that tingle coursed throughout her entire body.
“Oh, Cecelia, I think we can dispense with formalities,” her mother said, shaking her head. “At least whilst he is not in our presence.”
So at home he shall be George, our George as he has always been, but I must treat him like the high and mighty duke that he is to his face, Cecelia thought bitterly. She would rather not have to face him at all after all that had happened the day before.
“Stop scowling,” her mother hissed at her, “you shall give yourself wrinkles.”
Her mother's words only aided in making her scowl more.
“Mama is right,” Mary said from where she sat beside Catherine. “George was only doing his best by you.”
“Well, his best is sorely lacking,” she snapped back, glowering at Mary as she wondered why everyone was suddenly on his side. “If he continues, my marriage prospects shall be entirely ruined.”
“I do believe that to be an exaggeration,” her mother said, scowling deeply. “His grace wishes the best for you just as your dear father would have.”
Cecelia scoffed, deciding it was best not to argue. She could already see it would do no good.
Likely, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands and talk to the duke herself.
The only problem was the mere thought of doing so made her feel all churned up inside.
***
Cecelia had long since learned it was best not to go against her mother's wishes, and by the time dinner grew near, she had managed to contain most of her anger.
Looking in the mirror as she pulled on her gloves, she sighed. If only his grace would ease off a little, she might actually find a match.
Though far from perfect, she had taken on all of the comportment lessons her parents had paid for, knowing one day it would be down to her to secure things for her family.
Keeping her rebellious nature inside had become somewhat of a full-time job, but to look at herself, she thought she looked just like any other young lady on the marriage mart of late.
Sophia had done an excellent job of pinning up her raven locks, decorating the updo with several loose curls and setting it in place with emerald pins that perfectly matched her eyes.
The rouge on her cheeks was just enough to bring out the natural blush of her lips and give her a youthful and pale countenance that, when matched with her dark hair, was quite striking, if she did say so herself.
The pale green gown she wore was one of her favourite colours, and the embroidered purple and pink flowers upon the bodice and skirts made her smile as she imagined what her father might have said. Likely something about her looking like his favourite meadow on the estate.
A tear pricked her eye, but she wiped it away with her little finger as she heard someone clearing their throat in her chambers doorway.
Clearing her own, she looked around to see her mother watching her.
“You look lovely, my dear,” she said. It wasn't nearly what her father might have said, but it was enough to make her smile all the same.
“Thank you,” she responded, offering a full turn, for she knew her mother would insist upon one. “Will I do for the dinner table?”
Adjusting her own gloves, her mother stepped into the room and eyed her up and down, stepping around her in a full circle twice before she finally nodded.
“I am quite impressed,” she said, standing before her with a hand upon Cecelia's forearm. “Two years ago, I never imagined we might find ourselves here.”
There was a sadness in her mother's tone that made her lay a hand on hers. “I miss him too.”
Her mother blinked at that, her expression growing unreadable. “Who? Oh, yes, your father. We all miss him, but that wasn't entirely my meaning.”
Cecelia bit the inside of her lip. For a moment, she had hoped for her mother to show a little emotion. She hadn't seen her do so since the funeral. It seemed now that was over, all thoughts had turned elsewhere. It made Cecelia's heart break to think her father's presence was so forgotten already.
“What I was referring to was your debut and how far you have come,” her mother said.
She lifted a hand to Cecelia's shoulder and squeezed gently, “There were so many callers here yesterday that I do believe you were the belle of the ball. You may even be the beauty of the ton by the end of the Season.”
Cecelia blushed at that, unable to imagine such a high honour being bestowed upon her.
Of course, it wasn't really something she cared about personally, though she knew that kind of thing held a fairly lofty weight amongst the ladies of the ton, and it was the easiest way of all to make connections, to find herself a prosperous marriage.
“I wouldn't think I have come that far, Mama,” she said, feeling somewhat like a small child again, hoping for the pride and acceptance of a mother who had so often scolded her for being unruly and rebellious over the years.
Her mother looked as if she were about to protest, but before she could, the sound of the front doorbell ringing throughout the house caused them both to stiffen.
“It appears our guest has arrived,” her mother said, her smile bright as if she couldn’t wait to get down to dinner.
Cecelia’s stomach tightened. The thought of having to grit her teeth and bear a dinner with the man who had been squashing all her prospects suddenly set her on edge once more.
“Mother, are you certain this dinner is a good idea?” she asked, and her mother’s expression told her she ought not have asked.
“His grace is doing all he can to make sure your future is a bright one,” her mother said, laying a hand on the small of her back to guide her towards the door. “The least we can do is have him over for dinner.”
***
The mood in the dining room felt more than a little subdued, quiet even, as they settled down for the first course.
Cecelia’s only relief was that her mother had seen fit to seat the duke opposite her and not right beside her. Instead, it was both of her sisters who had the pleasure of sitting on either side of him, and they seemed quite pleased to do so.
Mary sat quietly listening to the duke talk while Catherine openly questioned him about everything she could: the war, how he had taken to the dukedom since his father’s death, how he had found Cecelia’s debut ball, and what he had been up to in between all of it.
And the more Cecelia heard him talking, the more she came to think him an annoyance. She would have much rather taken supper in her rooms than have to watch her sisters, and even her mother, fawn over the man who had done all he could to see off every single one of her suitors so far.
“Oh, I wish I had been there to see it all,” Catherine said as they began talking on the ball once more.
Cecelia’s stomach twisted, remembering how well the ball had gone only to have all her prospects destroyed the very next day.
“It sounds as if it were magical,” Mary agreed. She turned to Cecelia and added, “I do hope you had a wonderful time.”
“I did,” Cecelia said plainly, spooning her second course about her plate with no real intention of eating it. With every moment that passed, she found her anger boiling up once more. It took all her effort to remind herself that she had promised she would stick to her mother’s wishes.
“Lady Cecelia was kept rather busy all evening,” His grace put in. “I am surprised her feet are not still sore from all the dancing she did.”