Chapter Twelve #2
And the whispers stopped—replaced by a collective intake of breath as the Duke of Ashworth led the poor relation, the invisible woman, the nobody in the silver gown, onto the dance floor.
The dance was a waltz.
Sebastian had not known what the next dance would be when he asked her. Had not cared. But when the music began, and he drew her into his arms, he felt a surge of gratitude for the intimacy the waltz allowed.
His hand rested at her waist. Her hand rested on his shoulder. They were closer than propriety strictly allowed, but propriety had ceased to matter some time ago.
“Everyone is watching,” Cecilia murmured as they began to move.
“Let them watch.”
“They will talk. They are already talking.”
“I daresay they have been talking since the moment you entered the room.” Sebastian guided her through a turn, marvelling at how naturally she moved in his arms. “Did you not hear the whispers?”
“I did.” A fleeting shadow crossed her expression—something perilously close to anxiety. “What do you suppose they are saying?”
“That I have taken leave of my senses. That you are a fortune-hunter who has contrived to entrap a duke. That my mother must be deranged to permit such an acquaintance.” He drew her a fraction nearer.
“And that I am the most fortunate man in the room, because I have found the only woman worth dancing with.”
“I doubt that is what they are saying.”
“It is what I am saying. The rest can go hang.”
She laughed—a real laugh, startled from her despite herself. The sound was like light, like music, like everything he had missed since she left.
“You are different,” she said softly. “Since I last saw you. Something has changed.”
“I stopped pretending.” He met her eyes. “In the library, I told you I was tired of performing. I have been thinking about that ever since. About the performance I maintain—the careful duke, the measured responses, the endless calculation of how I must appear.”
“And?”
“And I am done with it. Not entirely—some performance is necessary, in my position—but done with performing with you. Done with pretending I feel less than I do, or hiding behind propriety when my heart is screaming to be heard.”
The music swelled around them. They moved together as though they had been dancing this way for years—anticipating each other’s movements, adjusting without conscious thought, perfectly synchronised.
“When this dance ends,” Cecilia said quietly, “what happens?”
“I do not know. I have not thought beyond this moment.”
“People will expect an explanation. An announcement. Something to make sense of what they have witnessed.”
“Then we will give them an explanation.” Sebastian’s hand tightened at her waist. “Or we will not. We will do whatever you wish, Cecilia. I will not rush you, or pressure you, or demand more than you are prepared to give.”
“What if I am prepared to give everything?”
The words hit him like a physical blow. He stumbled slightly, recovered, and continued the dance through sheer muscle memory.
“Then everything is what I will take,” he said. “But only if you are certain. Only if you understand what you are committing to.”
“A lifetime of being whispered about. Of fighting for acceptance in a world that will never entirely welcome me.”
“Yes.”
“And also, a lifetime with you. Talking with you, arguing with you, building that something together that we spoke of.”
“Also, yes.”
She was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. The dance was reaching its conclusion; soon the music would end, and they would be forced to separate, to face the watching crowd, to navigate whatever came next.
“I spent five years being safe,” she said finally. “Five years being useful, being invisible, being content with survival. And I was miserable. I did not realise how miserable until I met you—until I remembered what it felt like to want something, to hope for something, to feel alive.”
“Cecilia—”
“I do not want to go back to being safe. I do not want to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had been brave enough to try.” She met his eyes. “I choose you. I choose us. Whatever comes, whatever obstacles we face—I choose this.”
The music ended. The dance was over.
But Sebastian did not release her. Did not step back, did not resume the appropriate distance, did not do any of the things propriety demanded.
Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Then let me speak to Lady Marchmont,” he said. “And let us give these people something to truly talk about.”
***
The announcement was made an hour later.
Sebastian had spoken with Lady Marchmont, with his mother, with the various social authorities whose approval—or at least acquiescence—was necessary for such a declaration.
Cecilia had waited, her heart pounding, as conversations happened beyond her hearing and decisions were made that would shape the rest of her life.
Now she stood beside Sebastian at one end of the ballroom, facing a sea of faces that ranged from curious to scandalised to genuinely delighted.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sebastian said, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. “I have an announcement to make.”
The silence deepened. Even the servants stopped moving, frozen by the weight of the moment.
“I have the honour to inform you that Miss Cecilia Ashwood and I are formally betrothed.” His gaze flickered toward her—warm, unwavering. “She has bestowed upon me the greatest happiness of my life by accepting my suit.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The words hung in the air, almost visible, as the assembled guests struggled to process what they had just heard.
Then the Dowager Duchess began to applaud.
It was a slow clap, deliberate and pointed, making clear to everyone present that this match had her approval. After a moment, others joined in—tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm as they realised which way the wind was blowing.
Sebastian’s hand found Cecilia’s, squeezing gently.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “The hard part is over.”
“Is it?” She was trembling, the reality of what had just happened beginning to sink in. “I am going to be a duchess.”
“You are going to be my wife. The duchess part is merely incidental.”
“There is nothing incidental about being a duchess.”
“There is when you are married to me.” He raised their joined hands, showing them to the room. “This is what matters. You and I, together. Everything else is just... decoration.”
The applause was dying down now, replaced by excited conversation as the guests processed the extraordinary news.
Cecilia could see Lady Ashwood near the refreshment table, her face a mask of barely-controlled fury.
Could see Georgiana, whose expression was more complex—a flicker of anger, certainly—but layered with something quieter, almost like relief.
Could see the future opening before her, terrifying and wonderful and entirely unknown.
“I need air,” she said suddenly. “Can we—”
“Of course. Come.”
Sebastian led her toward the terrace doors, his hand warm and steady on hers. They slipped outside into the cold night, leaving the noise and heat of the ballroom behind.
The terrace was empty. Stars wheeled overhead, sharp and bright against the black sky. Cecilia took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs.
“Better?” Sebastian asked.
“I do not know. I feel—” She shook her head. “I scarcely know what I feel. It is all so much… and so sudden. An hour ago, I feared you might have forgotten me, and now—”
“Now you are engaged to be married to a duke.”
“Yes.” A breath of laughter escaped her. “It hardly seems possible.”
“It is possible. It is real.” He turned her gently towards him, his hands resting upon her shoulders. “Cecilia. Look at me.”
She did.
In the starlight, his grey eyes were softened, his expression unguarded in a way she had seldom seen. This was the true Sebastian—the man beneath the role, beneath the effort, beneath the careful composure.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “If you will allow it, I will spend my life proving it. I will be patient when you are uncertain; steadfast when you are afraid. Whatever you may require of me, I shall endeavour to be—for you are all that I require.”
“Sebastian—”
“You need not answer me now. You need not feel as I do—not yet. I wished only to speak plainly, so that you should never doubt what is in my heart.”
She reached up and touched his face.
“I love you too,” she whispered. “I have loved you since the moment you looked at me in that library and saw someone worth knowing. I loved you through those grey days apart, through every step that brought me here. And I love you now—here, beneath these stars—with the rest of our lives before us.”
He kissed her.
It was nothing like their first—no farewell in it, no grief. This was quieter, steadier. Not an ending, but a beginning.
When at last they parted, Cecilia was trembling—and not from the cold.
“We ought to go back inside,” she said reluctantly. “If we linger too long, people will talk.”
“People will talk regardless. They are doubtless already inventing opinions.” He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “But you are right. We should return. There are congratulations to accept and well-wishers to thank and an entire evening of being stared at to endure.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It will be. But we shall endure it together.” He smiled—that real smile she had come to love. “Come, my future Duchess. Let us go face our public.”
They walked back toward the ballroom.
Behind them, upon the cold stones of the terrace, a single pearl lay gleaming in the starlight—fallen unseen from Cecilia’s necklace, waiting to be discovered.
But that discovery would come later.
For now, there was only this: two people, walking toward a future neither of them had dared to imagine.
A future they would build together.
A future that was just beginning.