Chapter Eight
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth received her son in her private sitting-room, seated in the chair nearest the fire with all the strategic composure of a general taking the field.
“Sit,” she said, indicating the chair opposite. “We must talk.”
Sebastian sat. “Evan mentioned that you wished to see me.”
“Evan is observant when he chooses to be—a quality you might profitably cultivate.” Her gaze fixed upon him, penetrating and unsparing. “Where have you been spending your mornings?”
“Here and there. The grounds are pleasant. The library is well supplied.”
“The library.” Her tone suggested she did not find this explanation persuasive. “You have discovered, quite suddenly, a profound attachment to Lady Marchmont’s books.”
“I have always enjoyed reading.”
“You have always enjoyed reading alone.” Her voice sharpened. “Yet I am told you have not, of late, been alone in the library. You have been observed in conversation with a certain young woman—one who enters by the servants’ door, and departs before the other guests arrive.”
Sebastian kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened. Observed. Their precautions had not been sufficient.
“I have spoken with several people in the library,” he said carefully. “It is a semi-public space.”
“Do not trifle with me, Sebastian. I know precisely whom you have been speaking to. Miss Cecilia Ashwood—the cousin.” Her voice hardened. “The poor relation who has no business engaging in private conversation with a duke.”
“Our conversations have been entirely proper—”
“I am not speaking of propriety. I am speaking of appearance.” Her words cut cleanly. “And the appearance, should this excite comment, will not fall upon you. It will fall upon her—and it will ruin her.”
The blow landed with merciless accuracy. He had been thinking of his own weariness, his own relief in her company—not of the cost to Cecilia.
“She has done nothing wrong,” he said.
“Indeed. And yet, she will pay the penalty. That is how the world works, and you know it. A duke may indulge his eccentricities and be forgiven. A dependent girl may not. One whisper of impropriety, and she is finished—cast off, without home, protection, or future.”
“I would not allow that to happen.”
“And how, precisely, would you prevent it? By marrying her?” The Dowager’s laugh was soft and pitiless.
“Picture the reaction. The Duke of Ashworth weds a penniless cousin who performs the duties of a servant. Society would never accept it. Your children would carry the stain of her circumstances. The family name would be diminished for a generation.”
“Perhaps the family name might survive a little diminution.”
Her brows lifted. “Are you prepared to make the experiment?”
She leaned forward, her voice low and intent.
“I am not your enemy, Sebastian. I wish you to be content—but contentment must rest upon foundation, and Miss Cecilia Ashwood is not a foundation. She is a refuge. A respite from expectation. Nothing more.”
“You do not know her.”
“I do not need to know her. I know her position. I know that any association with you endangers her, regardless of your intentions. And I know that when this house party ends, you will resume your life, while she will be left to bear whatever consequences your attention has invited.”
The words hurt because they rang true.
“I have no desire to injure her,” he said quietly.
“Then cease seeking her out. Cease watching her across rooms. Cease giving the world anything to observe.” Her expression softened slightly. “Cease caring for her, Sebastian. For her sake, if not for your own.”
He did not answer. He could not promise what he did not know how to relinquish.
“There is to be an outing on the morrow,” she continued, businesslike once more. “A picnic at those ruins Lady Marchmont so admires. Miss Georgiana Ashwood will expect your attention. You will give it.”
“And Miss Cecilia?”
“Miss Cecilia will attend her cousin—carrying shawls, arranging comforts, performing the duties for which she is retained.” The Dowager’s gaze held his. “You will not address her. You will not seek her out. You will conduct yourself as though she were of no consequence to you. Do you understand?”
“I understand what you require.”
“I am not requiring. I am telling you what must be done if you value her welfare.” She rose, signalling the interview’s end. “I know this is painful. I know you believe you have found something real. But sometimes the kindest act we can offer another is to let them go.”
Sebastian rose as well, his movements constrained. “You believe I should relinquish her.”
“I believe you have no choice. Nor has she.” Her voice gentled. “End it, Sebastian—before harm is done.”
He left without replying.
But as he walked back through the silent corridor, her words echoed with relentless clarity.
End it.
The harm, however, had already begun—long before he had ever spoken her name. And he could not escape the fear that, by obeying his mother, he might wound Cecilia still more.
***
The afternoon brought rain, and with the rain came enforced indoor confinement.
The guests gathered in the drawing room for cards and conversation, arranged in clusters according to interest and social standing.
Sebastian found himself trapped in a whist foursome with Lord Thornbury, Lady Marchmont, and Miss Patience Hartley, whose earnest civility, however well-meant, had begun to weary him.
Across the room, Georgiana Ashwood held court among a circle of young ladies, her golden curls catching the lamplight, her laughter rising at carefully calculated intervals. She was performing beautifully—every gesture, every expression, every word designed to attract and impress.
And standing behind her, nearly invisible against the wallpaper, was Cecilia.
Sebastian should not have looked. His mother’s warning was still fresh in his mind, Evan’s concern still echoing. But his gaze found her anyway, drawn by some force he could not name or resist.
She was holding a basket of embroidery silks, apparently waiting for Georgiana to require a specific colour. Her grey dress blended with the shadows of the room, her posture erased her presence, her entire being seemed designed to avoid notice.
And yet he noticed her. He always noticed her.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—a contact so brief that no one else could have caught it—and something passed between them. Recognition. Understanding. The shared knowledge of everything they could not say and could not have.
Then she looked away, and the moment was gone.
“Your play, Your Grace.”
Sebastian returned his attention to the cards, making some move he barely registered. Miss Hartley smiled encouragingly; Lady Marchmont made a pointed observation about concentration; Lord Thornbury launched into a story about a hunting dog that seemed to have no end.
The afternoon crawled on.
***
It was nearly evening when the incident occurred.
The rain had stopped, and some of the younger guests had drifted toward the music room, where someone had begun playing the pianoforte.
Georgiana was among them, drawn by the prospect of displaying her own accomplishments.
Cecilia followed—as she always did—carrying the inevitable accessories and attending to the inevitable needs.
Sebastian had escaped the whist table and was standing near the doorway, ostensibly examining a painting but actually watching the room from a position that afforded him a view of Cecilia.
He knew he should not. He knew he was doing exactly what his mother had warned him against. But he could not seem to stop himself.
Georgiana was at the pianoforte now, playing a competent if uninspired sonata. The other guests made appreciative noises, clustered around the instrument in attitudes of polite attention. Cecilia stood apart, near a window, her basket still in her hands.
The piece concluded. Applause rippled through the room. Georgiana rose with a modest smile, accepting the praise as her due.
“Miss Hartley,” she said, “you must play next. I have heard such praise of your abilities.”
Miss Hartley demurred, protested, and eventually allowed herself to be persuaded. She settled at the pianoforte and began a considerably more accomplished piece, her fingers moving with genuine skill.
Georgiana drifted toward the window where Cecilia stood. Sebastian could not hear what she said—the music covered conversation—but he saw Cecilia’s expression shift. Saw her hands tighten on the basket. Saw something that looked like distress cross her features before she controlled it.
He moved closer, using the cover of the music to approach without drawing attention. He still could not hear the conversation, but Georgiana’s expression was visible now—a particular smile that suggested she was enjoying herself at someone else’s expense.
“—and I simply cannot imagine what you thought you were doing,” Georgiana was saying, her voice pitched just loud enough for Cecilia to hear, just quiet enough to be deniable.
“Meeting with a duke, of all people. Did you imagine he was actually interested in you? That he might somehow... what? Fall in love? Marry you?”
“Georgiana—”
“He is being polite, Cecilia. That is what gentlemen do. They make conversation with whatever women happen to be present, because they are too well-bred to simply walk away. It means nothing.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because I have seen the way you look at him. It is pitiable, really—reaching after what lies so far beyond your grasp that it may as well be a star in the sky.” She tilted her head.
“He has not kissed you, I collect? Even kindness has limits—particularly where there is so little to recommend the attempt.”
Cecilia’s face went very still. She said nothing.