Chapter Nine
The picnic at the ruins was everything Cecilia had dreaded.
Lady Marchmont had arranged the expedition with her usual precision: carriages for those who preferred comfort, horses for those who did not, and an army of servants to convey tables, chairs, and hampers laden with delicacies.
The ruins themselves were picturesque—a crumbling medieval chapel beneath ancient oaks, its ivy-clad walls open to the October sky.
It was beautiful. It was romantic. It was designed, in every particular, to facilitate attachment under the benevolent supervision of elders.
Cecilia was not there to form attachments. She was there to carry Georgiana’s extra shawl, to fetch what was required, to be useful without being noticed.
To be invisible.
She had come with the servants, riding in one of the supply wagons rather than the elegant carriages reserved for guests.
She had helped prepare the site—spreading cloths on fallen stones, setting out plates and glasses—had done her duty, as she always did, and then withdrawn to the margins to await Georgiana’s inevitable demands.
The guests arrived in a flutter of parasols and bright exclamations, scattering through the ruins like exotic birds.
Lady Marchmont guided their movements with practised ease—ensuring that the proper young ladies found themselves near the proper young gentlemen, that chaperones maintained clear sightlines, that every arrangement promised maximum romantic advantage.
Georgiana was placed beside the Duke of Ashworth.
Of course she was. Despite the mortification of the previous day—or perhaps because of it—Lady Ashwood had intensified her efforts. Arriving from Bath some days earlier, her sister apparently recovered, she had assumed command of the campaign with military efficiency.
From her position near a broken wall, the spare shawl draped over her arm, Cecilia watched Georgiana settle upon a blanket at Sebastian’s side—laughing at some remark, her golden curls bright in the autumn light, her blue eyes alight with calculated charm.
And Sebastian…
Sebastian was performing. Even at a distance, Cecilia could read the careful neutrality of his expression, the measured answers, the rigid courtesy of a man enduring a trial with determined grace.
He did not look toward her.
It was what they had agreed—or rather, what they had painfully acknowledged must be done after yesterday’s disaster.
He would play his part; she would play hers.
They would not acknowledge one another. They would give no further cause for speculation.
They would behave as though nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
Cecilia turned away and sought a small recess of the ruin—a narrow alcove that had once been a side chapel—and allowed herself a moment’s privacy.
This was her life. This would always be her life. Standing at the edges of gatherings, watching others live the existence she had once been taught to expect, carrying shawls and lemonade and gratitude for the privilege of being unnoticed.
She had believed she had made peace with it. Had learned that wanting more was futile—that hope was a luxury she could not afford. And then Sebastian had looked at her in that library and said I find you interesting—and five years of careful resignation had collapsed at a touch.
Now she wanted again. Wanted to be seen. To be known. Wanted—
Him. You want him. Say it.
She wanted him. There. The truth she had been dancing around for days, spoken in the privacy of her own mind where no one else could hear.
She wanted him—Sebastian Harcourt, Duke of Ashworth. Wanted his conversation, his attention, his rare, unexpected smiles. Wanted his hands upon her face once more, wanted to lean into his touch and not draw back. Wanted things she had no right to want, with a man she had no right to desire.
And she could not have him. Could never have him. The gulf between their worlds was unbridgeable, and wanting did not narrow it.
Wanting has never changed anything for me.
“Cecilia.”
She turned, her heart leaping—and found not Sebastian, but Georgiana.
Her cousin stood at the entrance to the alcove, her expression unreadable. She had left her blanket, left the Duke, left her mother’s careful designs.
She had come looking for Cecilia instead.
“You are wanted,” Georgiana said, her tone flat. “Mama desires more lemonade from the wagons. What was brought proves insufficient.”
“Of course.” Cecilia moved to pass, but Georgiana stepped into her path.
“He defended you yesterday.”
The words were not a question, yet they waited for an answer.
“He was being… civil.”
“He was being more than civil. He humiliated me before an entire room. A duke—championing my poor relation at the expense of his own consequence.” Georgiana’s jaw tightened. “Do you comprehend how that appeared? What is being said?”
“I did not seek his intervention.”
“No? You merely spent every morning closeted with him in the library—discoursing upon agricultural improvements? Is that the tale we are to tell?”
Cecilia held her silence. There was no safe reply.
“I thought it harmless at first,” Georgiana went on. “A passing fancy that would fade once he recalled his obligations. But when he walked out before everyone—with you—I understood—” She broke off, her voice catching. “He cares for you. He actually cares. For you.”
“Georgiana—”
“How dare you?” The words burst forth—fierce, almost violent. “How dare you attract his notice when I have taken such pains to secure it—when my entire future depends upon making an advantageous match—when you have nothing, and I have everything, and yet somehow he looks at you as though—”
She stopped, breath unsteady, composure splintering.
“As though you were the only person in the room worth seeing.”
Cecilia felt the words like a blow—because they were true. She had seen that look. Had felt it. Had cherished it, even knowing she ought not.
“I am sorry,” she said—and meant it. “I never intended—”
“Your intentions are immaterial. The effect is the same.” Georgiana straightened, gathering herself with effort. “Mama has noticed. She observed all that passed and has formed her conclusions. She is… incensed.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Georgiana’s voice hardened. “She wishes to send you home. Tonight—before you may create further embarrassment.”
The words fell like cold water. Send her home—away from the library, away from Sebastian—with no chance even to say farewell.
“I see,” Cecilia said quietly.
“I persuaded her to delay—until after the picnic at least. I told her that sending you away abruptly would only excite more talk.” Georgiana hesitated, a flicker of something like guilt crossing her face.
“But she will not delay long. If there is any further incident—any hint that you have sought the Duke’s attention—she will dismiss you without reference. ”
Without reference. The words carried weight that Georgiana might not fully understand. A servant dismissed without reference could not find new employment. A dependent cast out without recommendation could not find new shelter. It was ruin, delivered in polite phrasing.
“I understand,” she said again, because there was nothing else to say.
Georgiana studied her—long, searching. Then, unexpectedly:
“Do you love him?”
The question hung in the still air, demanding what could not safely be spoken.
“It does not signify whether I do.”
“Answer me.”
“Why? What difference could it make?”
“It makes a difference to me.” Georgiana’s voice had altered—stripped of vanity, almost vulnerable. “All my life I have been told that I shall marry well—that my beauty and accomplishments will secure rank and fortune. That this is my purpose. But no one ever spoke of… affection.”
“Affection seldom enters into such arrangements.”
“No. It does not.” Georgiana looked toward the bright scatter of the picnic beyond the broken arch. “I thought—when I met the Duke—that perhaps I might grow to care for him. In time. If we were thrown together, perhaps something might take root.”
Cecilia said nothing. There was no comfort she could offer that would not be a lie.
“But he does not see me.” Her voice fractured on the words. “He sits beside me and speaks as propriety demands—and all the while, he is looking at you. Even when you are nowhere near, even when he does not turn his head—he is looking at you.”
Cecilia could find no answer. The cousin she had believed shallow and self-absorbed revealed, in that moment, a depth she had never imagined.
“I am sorry,” she said again—and this time the words meant something different. “I never meant to take anything from you.”
“I know.” Georgiana sighed, and for an instant looked very young—and very tired. “But you have. Whether you meant to or not.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Cecilia alone in the ruined chapel, surrounded by ancient stones and impossible choices.
***
Sebastian found her there an hour later.
He should not have come. He should not have slipped away from the picnic, nor searched the ruins until he discovered the corner where she had concealed herself. Every promise he had made—to his mother, to himself, to the silent rules that governed their conduct—required that he stay away.
But he had watched her all morning: standing at the margins, bearing shawls, fetching lemonade, vanishing when she was not needed. He had seen Georgiana approach her and depart looking shaken. He had seen Cecilia disappear into the ruins and not return.
He could not stay away.
“You should not be here,” she said when she saw him. She sat upon a fallen stone, her grey gown scarcely distinct from the weathered wall behind her, her face pale and strained.
“I know.”
“If someone sees—”
“I know.” He moved nearer nevertheless, drawn by a force he neither named nor resisted. “What did she say to you? Georgiana?”
Cecilia was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was very calm—the sort of calm that came after feeling had gone to ground.