Chapter 19
It had been two days since Lord and Lady Rosehill's ball, and two days of receiving callers. Two days in which Cecelia was greatly surprised that she did not see George.
Though she ought not have been surprised after their kiss that evening, it still stung her to wonder why he had yet to show his face at Fernworth.
The manor had begun to feel like somewhat of a prison over the last few days, her mother insisting she give equal time to all the gentlemen at their door, otherwise instructing her on all she must do to find a match and secure it before it was too late.
And she was most relieved when a quiet lull in visitors allowed her and her sisters a respite to enjoy a walk in the park.
Truly, she would much rather have been running through the meadows of Fernworth, the only place she felt truly free, but the park came a close second.
Watching Mary attempt to juggle the handle of her parasol and the two books she had insisted upon bringing, she felt the weight upon her shoulders ease off a little.
Catherine's carefree spirit, stopping to smell the flowers at every turn, caused her to smile.
To simply be with her sisters was a comfort. Not to have them barking at her heels, demanding she be on the lookout for one of her suitors, was a godsend.
And the weather was also pleasurable: the sky a palest powder blue with nary a cloud, and the sun warm upon her back as she failed to hold her own parasol entirely upright. The scent of sweet treats wafted on the breeze from a nearby stall erected in the park square.
If she closed her eyes and allowed herself to forget all else, she could almost believe herself as carefree as her youngest sister.
“Oh, look, Cece!”
Catherine's exclamation made her eyes fly open just in time to see her sister hurrying towards the pond a little way off.
Following her sister's gaze, she spotted the reason for her excitement.
Ducklings!
It took all she had in her not to go racing down to the water's edge right along with her sister.
She and Mary shared an amused glance as they followed much more slowly.
She had barely made it off the path, onto the grass that lined the pond, when she heard someone call her name from behind.
“Elizabeth!” Mary called back as Cecelia turned to see Walter's sister hurrying towards them.
Behind her came her brother, and beyond him, the face of the man she had hoped and feared seeing.
George wandered with his hands in his pockets, his expression entirely unreadable. And when she met his gaze, her heart stopped.
“Cece, how wonderful it is to see you!” Elizabeth said, wrapping her in an affectionate embrace, yet Cecelia's eyes never left George's over the lady's shoulder, at least not until Walter stood in the way.
“What a marvellous surprise,” he agreed, throwing his arms wide at the three sisters who had come to stand side by side.
“Look, Walter,” Mary insisted, and she grabbed hold of his hand, having left her parasol and books discarded at the side of the pond.
The man did not attempt to stop her as she dragged him down to the water's edge to show him the ducklings.
Their crooning over the babies melted into insignificance as Elizabeth stepped aside to greet Catherine, and she came face to face with the duke.
She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat, unable to blink as he gazed down at her, his blue eyes quite unreadable.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping a curtsey as she remembered herself.
George removed one hand from his pocket and placed it behind his back to bow. “Lady Cecelia.”
The formality of his tone shook Cecelia to her core.
“Are you well?” he asked, and it took several long, agonizing moments for his question to register in Cecelia's tumultuous mind.
Paling, she quickly responded, “I … yes, Your Grace. I am well. I hope that you are also.”
Against her better judgement, she cast a glance at his lips. She found them pursed, and her own started to tingle as she remembered how they had been connected only two nights previously. That kiss had meant everything to her, and yet, he had brushed it off as if it were nothing.
His mouth opened as if he were to speak, but before he could do so, Elizabeth appeared at his side once more and insisted, “We must all walk together, like old times. I insist we make it all the way to the fountain and back before we depart.”
No matter how she tried, Cecelia's gaze would not fall from George's, nor did his leave hers as he spoke with little emotion, “I would be glad of the walk.”
Cecelia was most surprised when he offered her his arm and asked, “Will you walk with me, Lady Cecelia?”
One glance told her she had little choice.
Mary and Elizabeth were already arm in arm, and Walter had taken up Mary's books, leaving her free to clutch his arm in one hand and her parasol in the other.
Gulping, she turned back to George to find his expression expectant.
Remembering their last tiff in the park, she couldn't bring herself to decline. And as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, she realized that she did not, in fact, wish to.
With Catherine and Elizabeth in the lead, Walter and Mary seemed much too interested in each other to look back as she and George tailed onto the end of their little group.
And for several long moments, all she heard was the chatter of their friends ahead.
“Are you certain you are well?” George asked. He leaned in as if she might impart some secret to him.
Cecelia nodded, her throat constricted.
“I would not blame you were you to feel uncomfortable after our last meeting,” George continued. The way he rested his hand upon hers on his arm made her breathless. “My behaviour at the Rosehill ball was entirely untoward, Lady Cecelia. I wish to apologize.”
Cecelia blinked, unsure what to say.
As if the silence was much too uncomfortable for him, George continued, “I would not wish to disrespect your father's last wish nor his memory in failing in my duties as your chaperone. I do hope you will forgive me. My actions were a terrible mistake.”
A mistake …
The word cut like a knife to Cecelia's gut.
Forcing her composure, Cecelia said, “Pay it no mind, Your Grace. It should be forgotten entirely.”
Even as she said the words, she felt less and less confident that she could ever forget the moment they had shared.
Though the idea that moment did not mean to him what it meant to her, Cecelia was determined not to show any emotion as she straightened her back and pressed her lips into a thin line.
If he was to return to his old, stone-cold self, she was going to do the same.
His look of relief at her words was almost too much for her heart to bear. It was so painful that it was difficult not to halt and grab her chest.
Yet, in the weeks since her father’s death, she had become somewhat of a professional in concealing her pain, her tears, and her longing.
Certain that if she continued to meet his gaze, she would falter, she turned her attention to the others ahead and called, “Mary, Catherine, don’t wander too far without me!”
Feeling George’s arm relax beneath her hand, she slipped it from the crook and hurried forward to catch up with the others.
She was glad when they all paused at her words, allowing her to meet them beside a hedgerow that was in full bloom with a variety of purple and pink flowers.
Unsure whether those words would come, she instead dipped to smell said flowers, forcing a pleasurable sound from her lips.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Mary said, though when Cecelia glanced back, it was Walter that she had addressed the question to.
And as if she had asked him to, Walter juggled the books into one arm and plucked the brightest purple flower from the hedge.
“For you, My Lady,” he said, offering the most charming smile that Cecelia had ever seen.
Her heart skipped a beat, leaping into her throat as green envy seeped into her stomach.
It had always been so easy for Mary.
She and Walter had always shared a special connection. They had always fawned over each other, though in the early days, she suspected they had both been too stubborn to admit the truth.
Now, however, the mood between them was clear.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught George’s eye. Their relationship, however, couldn’t be more unclear.
She blushed and averted her gaze, looking to Catherine and Elizabeth.
“The hour is growing late,” George suggested as he drew close behind her, “we ought to think about making our way home.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“Anyone might think you were eager to get to the theatre this evening,” she jested, her eyes sparkling with playfulness.
Cecelia stiffened. At the mention of the theatre, she remembered, and her chest tightened. She was to attend. And that meant—
A shiver ran down her spine.
—she was to share a box with the duke.
“As I am sure you are aware,” George scowled. “I have a fondness for theatre.”
“Just not the theatrics of the ton that come with it,” Walter added, and though she didn’t look at him, Cecelia sensed his agreement.
“It cannot be helped, I suppose,” he said, and Cecelia couldn’t help wondering if she was the only reason he was attending.
What a burden she must be, forcing him into the polite society he loathed so much.
“Well, I for one, am quite jealous,” Mary grumbled, and had she had the chance, Cecilia might have offered up her place. “I would cherish every second.”
“Then why don’t you attend?” Walter asked, and Mary’s eyes widened immeasurably.
“Do you mean to be my escort, Walter?” Her voice was almost shrill, the affection with which she said his name quite clear.
Cecelia shivered again.
Was she to put up with the stone-cold duke and the lovesick couple, crammed into a box all evening?
“I would be honoured,” Walter said, taking her hand before he looked to George, “if that is acceptable to you, Your Grace?”
Cecelia barely dared to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still close, much too close for comfort.
For a moment, his expression was entirely unreadable.
Then, he smiled.
It was a smile that appeared awkward on his face, though if anyone else noticed, they did not question it as he said, “I do not see why not. So long as Lady Westmere is amenable.”
Cecelia cringed at the expectant looks that turned upon her then.
The entire group stared at her as if she were the voice of their overbearing mother. And her stomach twisted.
Could she bring herself to dash her sister's hopes to the wind?
“Do you think Mama would have any objection?” Mary asked when Cecelia found no words.
Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her bottom lip quivered slightly as she tried to find the words to let her sister down gently.
How was she to cope with their affection at one end and George's coldness at the other?
It was as if she were forever locked in a battle of fire and ice, totally exposed to the elements with nowhere else to turn.
Yet, she found herself saying, “I think Mama would be amenable.”