Chapter Thirteen
They did not return to the ballroom at once.
Sebastian paused at the terrace doors, regarding her with an expression she could not quite read.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am attempting to fix this moment in my mind. Before we go back inside and everything alters.”
“Everything has already altered.”
“Not yet. Not entirely.” He turned fully toward her, the light from the ballroom gilding one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow.
“In there, we are a spectacle—a tale people will repeat for years. The duke who defied expectation; the poor relation who captured his heart. We shall be watched, examined, discussed, until there is nothing left of us but the narrative others choose to tell.”
“That sounds rather dire.”
“It is reality—the reality of my position, which will soon be yours as well.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips lightly to her knuckles.
“But out here, for this moment, we are only ourselves. Sebastian and Cecilia—two people who found one another in spite of every obstacle. I wish to remember that, before the world intrudes.”
Something eased within her—a knot of tension she had not known she carried.
“I spent five years being invisible,” she said softly. “Learning to want nothing, to expect nothing, to exist without leaving a trace. And now I am about to become one of the most visible women in England.”
“Does that frighten you?”
“It terrifies me. Utterly terrifies me.” She managed a small, shaky smile. “But I would rather be terrified with you than safe without you.”
“That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I doubt that. You must have had countless declarations.”
“Countless assurances of devotion to my title, my fortune, my influence. You are the first to say you prefer terror in my company to safety anywhere else.” His smile softened. “It is… unexpectedly affecting.”
She laughed in spite of herself—a genuine laugh, startled out of her by the absurdity of it: standing on a cold terrace, newly betrothed, calmly weighing the merits of fear and security as though comparing vintages.
“We are ridiculous,” she said.
“Undoubtedly. But we are ridiculous together—which renders it infinitely more tolerable.”
He lifted her hand and brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles—a promise rather than a declaration—and then guided her back toward the doors.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No.”
“Nor am I.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Let us be unready together.”
They stepped back into the light.
***
The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of congratulations and well-wishes.
Cecilia lost track of the faces that swam before her—ladies who clasped her hands and declared themselves delighted, gentlemen who bowed and offered felicitations, strangers who suddenly wanted to be intimate friends.
Everyone, it seemed, wanted to meet the woman who had captured the Duke of Ashworth.
Sebastian stayed beside her through most of it, a steady presence at her shoulder.
When she faltered, he stepped in with smooth conversation.
When she grew overwhelmed, he guided her to quieter corners where she could catch her breath.
He was, she realised, protecting her—shielding her from the worst of society’s scrutiny, giving her time to find her footing.
“You are very good at this,” she murmured during a brief moment of privacy.
“At what?”
“Managing people. Situations. Me.”
“I have had thirty years of practice managing people and situations. You are new.” He smiled. “And considerably more pleasant than most.”
The Dowager found them near midnight, materialising from the crowd with the particular grace of a woman who had navigated ballrooms for decades.
“Well,” she said, studying Cecilia with an unreadable expression. “You have certainly exceeded expectations.”
“Your Grace—”
“I brought you here to see what you would do with opportunity. I did not expect you to secure an engagement within two hours.” The Dowager’s lips twitched. “You are either brilliantly strategic or genuinely in love. I am still determining which.”
“The latter, Mother,” Sebastian said. “I assure you.”
“Mm.” Her gaze moved to her son. “You look happy. I cannot recall the last time I saw you so.”
“I have not been happy in years.”
“No. You have not.” Something gentled in her expression. “I was mistaken, I think—to suppose that duty and happiness must always stand opposed.”
“Does this mean you approve?”
“It means I am… prepared to approve.” Her tone was thoughtful.
“Miss Ashwood has shown herself intelligent, composed, and capable of meeting difficulty with grace. Those qualities are of considerable value in a duchess.” She hesitated, then added, “It also means I have grown old enough to recognise that my opinion matters rather less than it once did. You would marry her regardless. You may as well have my blessing.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Do not thank me. I am being practical, not generous.” Yet warmth threaded through the words. “Now—the supper set is about to begin. You should claim your fiancée before some enterprising young gentleman attempts to do so in your stead.”
She glided away, leaving them alone.
“Your mother is terrifying,” Cecilia said.
“Yes. She is. But she likes you.”
“That was her liking me?”
“That was her liking you very much. When she disapproves, she dispenses with pragmatism and simply destroys.” He offered his arm. “Shall we dance?”
“Again?”
“I have much lost time to amend.”
She took his arm, and they returned to the floor.
***
The supper set was another waltz. Cecilia was grateful for the intimacy it afforded—the excuse to remain close to Sebastian, to speak privately amidst the crowd.
“What are you thinking?” he asked as he guided her through a turn.
“That none of this feels real. That I shall wake tomorrow in my grey dress, in my little room, and discover it was all a dream.”
“It is no dream—though I confess there have been moments tonight when I wondered the same.”
“Which moments?”
“When you walked into the ballroom. When you said you chose me. When we stood on the terrace and you told me you loved me.” His voice was low, meant only for her. “Every moment, really. All of it feels like a dream I never dared to imagine.”
“You must have imagined marriage before—finding someone—”
“I have. I would often tell myself I ought to wait for affection—for understanding, for companionship that felt real. But as the years passed, every introduction, every carefully arranged prospect rang hollow. Little by little, I began to believe I had been foolish to hope for more than duty.”
He drew her a fraction nearer, his hand warm at her waist. “I did not expect to meet someone who makes me feel entirely myself—who challenges me, contradicts me, and sees through every pretence I attempt to wear. I did not believe such a person existed.”
“You found her hiding in a library, reading about crop rotation.”
“I found her being extraordinary in ordinary circumstances. The library merely gave me the chance to notice.”
The music swelled, carrying them through the final figures. Cecilia was acutely aware of every point of contact between them—the pressure of his hand, the warmth beneath her palm, the silent understanding that passed between them.
“After this dance,” she said softly, “what happens?”
“Supper. More conversation. More felicitations. At last the evening will end, and we must part—you to the rooms my mother has arranged, I to mine.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we begin the work of building a life together. There will be announcements to draft, settlements to consider, arrangements to make.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It will be. But we shall meet it together.” He smiled. “And when all is done—when the obstacles are surmounted and the negotiations concluded—we shall have something few people ever possess.”
“What is that?”
“A partnership. A true partnership—founded on honesty, respect, and the knowledge that we chose one another, not from duty or convenience, but because we could not choose otherwise.”
The music ended. The dance was done.
Sebastian bowed, and she curtseyed—the formality of the gesture at odds with the warmth that passed between them.
He offered his arm, and she placed her hand upon it as they left the floor together.
He kept her close—a fraction nearer than strict propriety required—guiding her toward the supper room with calm, unmistakable purpose.
The message lay not in touch, but in carriage, in the surety of his step and the steadiness of his gaze.
This woman is mine. I have chosen her. I shall not let her go.
Cecilia felt it in the quiet emphasis of his manner, in the proud set of his shoulders, in the way he looked at her when he thought she did not see.
She understood.
She felt the same.
***
Supper was served in a grand dining room adjoining the ballroom, the tables arranged to accommodate the multitude of guests. Sebastian guided Cecilia to seats near the head of the room, establishing her place at his side without speaking a word.
Lady Ashwood was seated nearby—close enough to observe, far enough to avoid conversation. Her expression throughout the meal was a study in controlled fury: a polite smile whenever anyone looked her way, her true sentiments surfacing only when she believed herself unobserved.
Georgiana sat beside her mother, uncharacteristically silent.
She had neither approached Cecilia nor attempted confrontation or congratulation since their brief exchange of glances in the ballroom.
Cecilia could not decide what to make of her cousin’s restraint.
It was unlike Georgiana to hold her tongue when provoked.
The meal unfolded through course after course—soups and fish, meats and vegetables, sweets and savouries in the profusion befitting so grand an occasion. Conversation eddied around the table: politics, gossip, and—inevitably—the subject of Sebastian’s astonishing engagement.