Chapter Thirteen #2
“You must tell us how you met,” Lady Arabella Worthington urged, leaning forward with avid curiosity. “From the very beginning.”
A flicker of panic rose in Cecilia’s chest. The truth—that they had met because she had been borrowing books in the library without permission—did not seem fit for such company.
“We became acquainted at the beginning of the house party,” Sebastian said smoothly. “Miss Ashwood was visiting Lady Marchmont’s library, and I happened to be there at the same time. We discovered a shared interest in certain academic subjects and began a conversation.”
“Academic subjects?” Lady Arabella’s nose wrinkled. “How very odd. What sort of subjects?”
“Agricultural improvement, chiefly. Miss Ashwood possesses a most impressive understanding of estate management.”
“Agricultural improvement.” Lady Arabella exchanged a look with the lady beside her. “How… unusual.”
“Unusual, perhaps. But invaluable.” Sebastian’s tone remained pleasant, though steel threaded through it. “I find intellectual engagement infinitely preferable to the alternative.”
Colour rose in Lady Arabella’s cheeks, and she returned her attention to her plate.
Gratitude warmed Cecilia—gratitude, and something deeper. Sebastian had defended her openly, without hesitation, and had done so in a manner that declared her interests merits, not defects.
“Thank you,” she murmured beneath the renewed hum of conversation.
“For what?”
“For refusing to let her make me feel small.”
“You are not small,” he replied quietly. “You are remarkable. I merely spoke the truth.”
She very nearly leaned across and kissed him; the impulse was so sudden she had to clutch her napkin to restrain herself.
“You are staring at me,” Sebastian said, a faint smile touching his lips.
“I am memorising your face—for later, when I am alone and wondering whether any of this truly happened.”
“It happened. It is happening. And tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after—it will continue.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain. I have never been more so.”
Beneath the table, his hand found hers, hidden by the heavy cloth. Their fingers intertwined—a simple contact, yet it felt like an anchor, fastening her to this moment, to this man, to the life opening before them.
She held fast.
***
The ball ended near two in the morning.
Cecilia was utterly spent—body, mind, and spirit. The evening had demanded constant vigilance, endless courtesy, and unbroken composure beneath a tide of scrutiny. She felt as though she had run a great distance without moving an inch.
Sebastian escorted her to the entrance hall, where the Dowager waited with Helena.
“You have survived,” the Dowager observed. “Barely, from the look of you.”
“It was… a great deal.”
“It was only the beginning. But you acquitted yourself well—better than I expected.” Her expression held something dangerously close to approval. “You will stay here tonight. Helena has secured a room. Tomorrow, we shall discuss the next steps.”
“Next steps?”
“The engagement must be announced properly. Notices to the papers, letters to the appropriate connections—the formalities such matters require. And your circumstances must be addressed: your residence, your wardrobe, your position. You cannot continue as you have been.”
A flutter of anxiety stirred in Cecilia. “I am not certain—”
“We shall discuss it tomorrow,” the Dowager said, brooking no argument. “For now—rest. You have earned it.”
She swept away, leaving Cecilia with Sebastian and Helena.
“She is right,” Sebastian said gently. “You are exhausted. We will speak tomorrow.”
“There is so much I wish to say—”
“And you shall say it. On the morrow. Tonight, you must sleep.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you, Cecilia—for coming, for being brave, for choosing me.”
“Thank you for being worth choosing.”
His smile was soft, private—a smile meant for her alone. “Goodnight, my future Duchess.”
“Goodnight, my future husband.”
She watched him go—tall, composed, impossibly dear. It still did not feel real. Perhaps it never would.
“Miss Ashwood,” Helena said gently. “Your room is ready. Shall I show you?”
Cecilia nodded, too tired for speech.
They walked together through the quiet corridors of Fairholme, her silver gown whispering across the floor, her mother’s pearls warm at her throat.
The pearls.
Her hand flew to the necklace—and her heart lurched.
“Wait.”
Helena turned. “Is something amiss?”
“My pearls—the strand feels—” Cecilia ran her fingers along the necklace, counting. Her stomach dropped. “One is missing. It must have slipped free.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. I have known this necklace my whole life. One of the pearls is gone.”
Concern flickered across Helena’s face. “Where might it have fallen? The ballroom? The terrace?”
“I do not know—I was not thinking —” Tears pricked her eyes. “They were my mother’s… one of the few things I kept after my father died. I cannot lose them—I cannot—”
“We shall search tomorrow,” Helena said firmly. “In daylight, when we can see clearly. If the pearl is here, we will find it.”
“But if it fell outside—if someone takes it—if it is lost in the grass—”
“Then we shall search the garden. We shall search everywhere.” Helena laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Cecilia—you are exhausted. The pearl can wait until morning.”
Cecilia wanted to argue—wanted to run back and search every inch of Fairholme—but her limbs trembled with fatigue, and she knew Helena was right.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “First thing.”
“First thing,” Helena promised.
They continued to Cecilia’s room—a charming guest chamber finer than anything she had occupied in years. Helena helped her undress, then examined the necklace with care.
“The clasp is sound,” she said. “But one of the links has stretched. The pearl must have slipped free during the evening.”
“Can it be repaired?”
“The strand? Easily—a jeweller can restring it in an hour.” She set the necklace upon the dressing-table. “Finding the missing pearl will be the difficulty. But we shall try.”
“Thank you—for everything. For the gown, for this week, for… all of it. I do not know how to thank you properly.”
“You need not thank me.” Helena’s smile was faint and wry. “It has been… good to be useful.” She nodded toward the bed. “Now sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
She withdrew, leaving Cecilia alone.
Cecilia lay in the soft bed, staring at the ceiling while her thoughts refused to still. The night replayed itself—the ballroom, the whispers, the dance, the proposal, the announcement, the lost pearl.
So much had happened. So much had changed.
That morning, she had been a poor relation in a grey dress, facing a life of quiet invisibility.
Now she was engaged to a duke.
It felt impossible. Miraculous. Like a story one heard—not a life one lived.
But stories did not speak of the cost—of fear, of risk, of walking into a room that might reject you.
Stories did not speak of the single, small loss in the midst of triumph.
She touched her bare throat, aching for the familiar weight of the pearls.
I will find it, she promised herself. Tomorrow, I will find it.
At last, exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into dreams—dreams of silver silk and grey eyes and a solitary pearl gleaming in starlight, waiting to be found.