Chapter Four
Sebastian turned from the window with deliberate slowness, refusing to give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him startled. “I am observing. There is a distinction.”
“Is there?” Evan sprawled across the settee with the effortless indolence of a man who had never borne the weight of a title. “From where I sit, it looks remarkably like staring. The Ashwood carriage was emptied five minutes ago, and yet here you remain.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Evan’s grin widened. “How mysterious. How ducal. Tell me—does the brooding come naturally, or did you practise before a mirror?”
Sebastian did not dignify this with a response.
He moved away from the window, though the scene he had witnessed remained lodged in his mind like a splinter: the Ashwood party descending from their carriage in the predictable order of consequence—the father first, portly and ill at ease; then the golden-haired daughter, pretty and pink-cheeked; then a younger girl, greenish and suffering from the journey.
And last of all, a woman in grey.
She had stepped down as though uncertain of her welcome, her movements careful and contained.
Her gown was plain and serviceable—the sort of thing a governess might wear—and her dark hair had been arranged simply, without ornament.
She kept her eyes lowered as she crossed the gravel, her whole bearing suggesting a person accustomed to passing through the world without leaving a trace.
He should not have noticed her at all. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about her—nothing to distinguish her from the countless companions and attendants who populated houses such as this.
And yet his attention had caught on her, as silk catches on a rough edge, and he had watched until she vanished through the entrance.
Ridiculous. He was here to consider suitable candidates for marriage, not to cultivate inexplicable fascinations with grey-clad women of uncertain position.
“Mother wishes to see you,” Evan said, breaking into his thoughts. “Something about strategy for this evening’s dinner. I believe she has devised a seating plan.”
“Of course she has.”
“She is nothing if not thorough.”
Sebastian moved toward the door—then paused. “The Ashwood family. What do we know of them?”
Evan raised a brow. “Beyond what Lady Marchmont has told us? The father inherited a modest estate from a cousin. The mother is ambitious. The elder daughter is this Season’s offering—reasonably pretty, adequately accomplished. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason.”
“Liar.” But Evan did not press. “Go to Mother. I shall remain here and meditate upon the mystery of your sudden interest in minor Hertfordshire families.”
Sebastian left without replying, but the words followed him down the corridor.
Sudden interest. He had no interest. He was merely… observant. Observation was a habit long cultivated—a means of survival in society’s treacherous waters. One noticed things; it meant nothing.
The image of the woman in grey rose again—pale, composed, quietly watchful.
He pushed it aside.
It meant nothing.
***
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth had transformed her guest suite into a command centre.
Sebastian found her seated at a small writing desk, papers arranged in precise order, her expression intent. Helena Crane sat nearby, taking notes with quiet efficiency.
“Darling,” his mother said, without looking up, “you are late.”
“I was not aware we had an appointment.”
“We always have an appointment when there is a house party to navigate. Sit. There are a few details I wish to revisit.”
Sebastian obeyed, suppressing a sigh. His mother’s determination had only sharpened since his thirtieth birthday; this gathering represented her boldest campaign yet. He had agreed to attend chiefly because refusal would have provoked an escalation he lacked the energy to withstand.
“Miss Georgiana Ashwood,” the Dowager began, consulting her notes with the air of someone briefly refreshing ground already covered.
“Eldest daughter of Sir Horace Ashwood of Thornfield. Presented last Season. Well received. Plays the pianoforte creditably, speaks French, watercolours adequately. Her mother has connections to the Thornbury family through her sister’s marriage, which provides some degree of social foundation. ”
“You have done your research.”
“I always do my research. First impressions are useful; information is indispensable.” She lifted her gaze, sharp and assessing. “You will be seated near her this evening. I expect you to make conversation.”
“I always make conversation.”
“You make polite sounds that resemble conversation to the inattentive. I expect you to engage. Ask questions. Show interest. Behave as though you genuinely wish to form an opinion of her, rather than merely endure her presence.”
He rubbed his temple. “And if I discover that her character does not suit me?”
“Then you proceed to the next candidate. But you cannot discover anything if you do not attempt to.”
Her voice softened. “Sebastian. I know this is distasteful to you. I know you believe there is no suitable match to be found among the young ladies of the ton. But you must try. For the family’s sake, if not your own.”
“I have tried. For seven years, I have tried.”
“You have performed the motions. That is not the same thing.”
She was right—and both of them knew it. He had danced, conversed, smiled, bowed—and retained nothing of any of it. He had never permitted himself to be truly engaged.
Genuine engagement required vulnerability. And vulnerability, in his experience, yielded disappointment.
“I will make an effort,” he said at last. “I can promise no more than that.”
“An effort is all I ask.” She glanced down again. “Now—as to the other young ladies—Lady Arabella Worthington has excellent connections, though her mother is overbearing. Miss Patience Hartley is said to excel at conversation, though her fortune is modest. And—”
“Who is the woman in grey?”
The question escaped before he could prevent it. His mother looked up, her expression unreadable.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Ashwood party included a woman in grey. Not the daughters. Someone else.”
“Ah.” Her tone became carefully neutral. “That would be Miss Cecilia Ashwood. The cousin.”
“The cousin?”
“Sir Edmund Ashwood’s daughter—the previous baronet. He died some years ago without proper provision for her, and the current baronet took her in.” A pause. “She attends Miss Georgiana. A sort of elevated lady’s maid.”
Sebastian fitted this to what he had observed: the careful movements, the lowered eyes, the quiet dignity of someone accustomed to the margins.
A baronet’s daughter, reduced to pressing her cousin’s gowns and arranging her cousin’s hair.
“Why do you ask?” his mother said lightly—but there was steel beneath the lightness.
“Curiosity. Nothing more.”
“Mm.” She did not sound persuaded. “Miss Cecilia Ashwood is not a candidate. She has no fortune, no position, and no prospects. Her situation is unfortunate, but not our concern.”
“I did not suggest that it was.”
“No—you merely enquired about her with more interest than you have displayed toward any of the eligible young ladies I have spent weeks researching.” Her gaze sharpened further. “Take care, Sebastian. Curiosity, misdirected, can be dangerous.”
“I am always careful.”
“Are you?” She allowed the question to linger, then returned to her papers. “Dinner is at eight. I expect you to be charming.”
He rose, recognising dismissal. At the door, he paused.
“Mother—how did it happen? To Miss Cecilia Ashwood, I mean. How does a baronet’s daughter come to such circumstances?”
His mother sighed. “The usual tale. An entail that carried the estate to a male cousin. A father fonder of books than practical arrangements. A failure to secure the girl’s future in time.
” She shook her head. “It is sad—but not uncommon. Half the companions and governesses in England share similar histories. There is nothing to be done.”
“No,” Sebastian said quietly. “I suppose there is not.”
Yet as he returned to his rooms to dress for dinner, the image of the woman in grey would not leave him—the composed face, the restrained movements, the sense that beneath the lowered eyes there was a mind worth knowing.
He pushed the thought aside. Again.
It did not stay aside.
***
Dinner was an elaborate affair.
The long table glittered with silver and crystal, candles casting a warm glow over two dozen guests arranged with meticulous attention to rank and romantic potential.
Sebastian found himself precisely where his mother had intended: near Miss Georgiana Ashwood, positioned for maximum conversational advantage.
She was, he admitted, objectively lovely: golden curls arranged in the latest fashion, blue eyes that caught the candlelight charmingly, a smile that appeared at carefully calculated intervals—neither too eager nor too reserved.
“Your Grace,” she said, once the first course had been served and talk was permitted, “I understand Ashworth Hall is considered one of the finest estates in Sussex. How fortunate you must feel to possess such a property.”
“Fortune had little to do with it. I inherited.”
“Well—yes, but—” She recovered quickly from the mild rebuff. “I only meant that you must take great pride in its management. A well-ordered estate reflects the character of its owner, do you not think?”
“I think it reflects primarily the competence of the steward and staff.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face before the polished smile slipped back into place. “You are too modest, Your Grace. Everyone knows the master sets the tone. Mama says a household mirrors its head, just as a garden mirrors its gardener.”
“Your mother sounds very wise.”