Chapter Six
Morning came grey and damp, clouds heavy with rain.
Cecilia dressed quickly in her familiar grey and went to Georgiana’s room for the daily ritual of gowns and ribbons. Her cousin, thwarted by the weather, was in a temper.
“Today’s walk will be cancelled,” Georgiana sighed. “I had planned to walk with the Duke. Mama says proximity breeds affection.”
“Perhaps there will be indoor entertainments instead.”
“Indoor entertainments do not permit private conversation.” Another sigh. “I suppose I must endure cards. I detest cards.”
“You might read.”
Georgiana looked at her as though she had suggested coal-scuttling. “Read? At a house party? What an extraordinary idea.”
“Forgive me. I was mistaken.”
Her cousin narrowed her eyes. “You are in a strange humour this morning. Almost cheerful. It is unlike you.”
“I slept well.”
“Did you?” Georgiana studied her a moment longer, then turned to more important matters. “The blue gown—or the yellow? No, the blue. No—”
“The blue,” Cecilia said gently. “It suits you best.”
“The blue, then. And the pearls.”
Cecilia dressed her, arranged her hair, ensured perfection in every detail. She performed her role as she always had—calm, competent, invisible.
But part of her mind was elsewhere.
In the library.
Stop, she told herself. Attend to your duties. Forget him.
She could not quite manage it. Could not stop thinking about grey eyes and unexpected questions and a name whispered into darkness.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “You look lovely.”
“I do,” Georgiana said, pleased. “You may go, Cecilia. I can manage from here.”
Dismissed. As always.
And yet, this morning, the dismissal felt like freedom.
She had, perhaps, an hour before anyone would think to look for her. An hour in which she might move unseen through the great house, expected nowhere, required by no one.
An hour in which she might—if she allowed herself such folly—return a book.
She retrieved the volume from its hiding place beneath the mattress and held it for a moment against her breast, as though it were something that might steady her. She drew a slow breath.
Then she left the room.
Her steps carried her along the quiet passageways toward the library, her heart beating too fast, her thoughts a careful tangle of hope and fear. She knew precisely how imprudent this was—how little she could afford discovery, how much she might lose.
She went anyway.
And, for once, she refused to think of consequence.
***
The library was quiet when she arrived.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows, softened by the clouds outside, casting the room in shades of grey and gold. The fire had not yet been lit; the air held the chill of a space that had been empty overnight.
For a moment, Cecilia thought she had arrived first. Her heart sank with a disappointment she should not have felt.
Then she saw him.
He stood near the window, looking out at the rain-threatened gardens, his back to the door. He had not heard her enter—her approach through the servants’ corridor was silent by design—and she had a moment to simply observe him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that was slightly dishevelled, as though he had run his hands through it in thought. He wore morning clothes of excellent cut, the kind of effortless elegance that came with unlimited resources and excellent tailors. He looked every inch the duke he was.
But there was something in his posture—a tension in his shoulders, a particular stillness in his bearing—that suggested he was not as composed as he appeared. He looked, Cecilia thought, like a man who was waiting for something and not entirely certain it would arrive.
She should announce herself. Should clear her throat or let the door close loudly or do something to alert him to her presence.
Instead, she simply said, “Good morning.”
He turned.
When he saw her, his expression altered—not the pleasant, polished civility of dinner, but something quieter, warmer, almost relieved.
“You came,” he said.
“I came to return the book.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” But she did not move toward the shelves. Did not make any motion to actually return the volume. Instead, she stood there, looking at him, feeling the weight of his attention like sunlight on her skin.
“And?” he prompted.
“And I thought—” She stopped, uncertain how to finish the sentence. What had she thought? That she could have one more conversation and then walk away? That she could taste this impossible connection and then pretend it had never existed?
“You thought you might discuss it with a fellow scholar,” Sebastian finished for her. His smile had gentled into something warmer.
“If he happened to be available,” she said carefully.
His smile deepened. “As it happens, I am.”
The space between them felt charged, full of possibilities that neither of them should be considering. Cecilia knew she should keep her distance, should maintain the careful boundaries that protected them both from scandal.
She walked toward him instead.
“The book,” she said, when she was close enough to hand it to him directly.
“The author’s arguments about tenant welfare are interesting, but his proposed implementation is impractical.
He assumes landowners will act against their short-term interests for long-term gains, which requires a degree of foresight that most men do not possess. ”
Sebastian took the book, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The contact lasted perhaps a second, entirely innocent, but Cecilia felt it like a brand.
“Most men,” he repeated. “But not all?”
“Some men think beyond the immediate. Some men understand that true prosperity requires investment in human welfare as well as physical infrastructure.” She met his eyes, surprised by her own boldness. “The question is whether those men can be identified and elevated into positions of influence.”
“And how would you identify such men?”
“By their actions. By the way they treat those who have no power to retaliate against mistreatment. By whether they see people as means to ends or as ends in themselves.”
Silence. Not empty, but weighted.
He understood her. She could see it.
“And by that measure,” he asked quietly, “how do you judge me?”
A dangerous question. She considered.
“I should require more evidence,” she said at last.
He laughed—unexpectedly, without artifice. “A reasonable assessment. I have not furnished you with much evidence, one way or the other.”
“No,” she agreed. “But you are here. Speaking to me, when you might, with greater propriety, be elsewhere.” She hesitated. “That suggests… a disposition of some sort.”
“And what disposition do you imagine it to be?”
“I have not yet determined that.”
He set the book aside with care, as though the conversation itself had become the object of study.
“I ought to be elsewhere,” he said. “Doing what is expected of me.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because I find my thoughts… otherwise engaged.”
The words fell into the stillness like a disturbance in water, faint but widening. Cecilia felt the tremor of it—not dramatic, but unmistakable.
“Your Grace—”
“Sebastian.”
She hesitated. “Sebastian, then.” His name felt dangerous on her tongue—too near, too intimate for the space permitted them. “This is unwise.”
“I know.”
“It can lead nowhere.”
“I know that too.”
She drew a breath. “Then why—”
He shook his head faintly. “Let us not name more than we must.”
That, too, was an answer.
He stepped a fraction nearer—close enough that she felt the warmth of him without the impropriety of touch. The nearness was startling in its restraint.
“In this room,” he said, “we may—briefly—speak as ourselves.”
The words were not romantic. They were far more dangerous than that.
She should have stepped back.
She did not.
“I am no one,” she said quietly. “A dependent. A charity case. I have no fortune, no position, no future worth speaking of.”
“And yet,” he replied, with quiet intensity, “you think clearly. You speak honestly. You refuse to flatter a man who outranks you. That is… uncommon.”
Her throat tightened. “Uncommon does not alter circumstance.”
“No,” he said. “I fear it does not.”
A beat of silence passed—honest, unsentimental, painfully true.
“I should go,” she said at last. “Before my absence is noted.”
“Yes,” he agreed—though he did not move either. “Of course.”
She stepped back. The distance felt disproportionate to the space crossed.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the book. And for—conversation.”
“Will you come again tomorrow?” he asked, the words outwardly mild, inwardly anything but. “In the morning, when no one will miss you.”
“I should not.”
“I know.”
She hesitated. Truth pressed against habit.
“Yes,” she said.
Then she left—before restraint could fail, or courage could betray them both.