Chapter Sixteen
They did not go to dinner at once.
Sebastian held her for a long moment, neither of them speaking, simply existing together in the quiet library. Cecilia could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek—steady, anchoring, something solid to cling to when everything else seemed likely to drift away.
“I keep expecting to wake up,” she murmured.
“So do I. And yet we persist in remaining awake.”
“What if it does not last? The feeling, I mean. What if we wake one morning and realise we have made a dreadful mistake?”
He drew back slightly and tilted her chin so she was compelled to meet his gaze.
“Then we will address it,” he said gently.
“We will talk, and listen, and work our way through it together. That is what partners do.” His thumb traced the elegant line of her jaw.
“Marriage is not a single, grand choice. It is a thousand quiet ones—patience, honesty, kindness—made again and again. If we keep choosing one another, we will be well.”
“You make it sound almost simple.”
“Not simple. Merely possible. And that is enough for me.”
She lifted a hand and traced the familiar planes of his face—the strong jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the hint of a smile fighting its way to the surface.
“I do not deserve you,” she whispered.
“That is not your decision to make. And I might argue the opposite.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “We deserve each other. We chose each other. That is what matters.”
A knock sounded at the library door. They stepped apart—not in guilt, but with the quiet composure of two people who had nothing to conceal.
“Enter,” Sebastian called.
Helena appeared, her expression properly neutral, though her eyes betrayed a glimmer of amusement.
“Your Grace, Miss Ashwood. Her Grace asks that you join the party in the dining room,” she said. “Dinner will be served shortly, and there are wedding matters requiring immediate discussion.”
“‘Immediate’?” Cecilia echoed.
“Her Grace’s word,” Helena replied mildly.
Cecilia glanced at him. “Shall we face it together?”
“Always.”
They followed Helena through Fairholme’s corridors. The house was quieter now; most of the guests had already departed after the ball, leaving a diminished company at Lady Marchmont’s table. Conversation drifted from distant rooms, softened by carpets and high ceilings.
The principal dining room was prepared for a reduced party—not crowded, but far from intimate—a length of table shining beneath candlelight, with several places occupied and more left discreetly vacant, while Lady Marchmont presided with gracious composure.
“Ah,” the Dowager said as they approached, setting aside a folded sheet of correspondence. “There you are. I feared Fairholme’s library had swallowed you whole.”
“Our apologies,” Sebastian said lightly. “We were talking.”
“I imagine there is a good deal of that to be done,” Lady Marchmont observed, smiling. “Pray be seated. There will be ample opportunity for further conversation once the soup has been served.”
Dinner proceeded with the polite murmur of a diminished house party. Only when the servants had withdrawn with the first course did the Dowager incline her head slightly—not to command, but to signal a shift in conversation.
“Since we are soon to leave Fairholme,” she said, “we must consider the practical arrangements ahead. Chief among them is the timeline. The banns must be read on three successive Sundays. If they begin this week, the earliest possible date is three weeks hence.”
“Three weeks?” Cecilia’s voice lifted despite her effort to contain it. “That seems… very soon.”
“It is efficient. There is no reason to delay—you are both of age, both willing, and the settlement negotiations should be straightforward given that Miss Ashwood brings no fortune to the match.” The Dowager’s tone was matter-of-fact, without malice. “Unless you object?”
Cecilia looked to Sebastian.
“Do you?”
“Not in the least,” he said quietly. “I would marry you tomorrow if I could.”
“It is not possible,” the Dowager reminded him, a faint curve at her mouth. “The banns must be read. Three weeks, then. The ceremony should be at Ashworth Hall—the family chapel is customary. Arrangements may be completed once we arrive.”
“How many guests?” Sebastian asked.
“That depends on how public an occasion you desire. A small ceremony—family and close friends—would require perhaps thirty. A larger one—what the world expects of a duke—significantly more.”
“Small,” Cecilia said, before she could stop herself. “Please. I cannot—” She faltered.
“Small,” Sebastian said firmly. “This is our wedding, and we will have it as we wish.”
The Dowager inclined her head, approving. “Then small it shall be. That simplifies much.”
Conversation moved to settlements. Cecilia spoke quietly.
“I have nothing to contribute to one—no property, no fortune. Whatever terms you think proper, I will accept.”
“That is not how settlements work,” the Dowager said. “You possess something far greater than coin: my son’s affection—and, more importantly, judgment. You have shown yourself capable, composed, and equal to difficult circumstances. You will be provided for accordingly.”
The words struck deeper than Cecilia had expected. “Thank you,” she whispered, “I appreciate the sentiment, but—”
“It is prudence, not sentiment,” the Dowager replied, though her tone had softened. “You must have income of your own—independent of any heir, should misfortune occur. That is my concern, and I will see it done.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of practicalities—guest lists left blessedly brief, arrangements deferred until they reached Ashworth.
At last, the Dowager addressed one final matter.
“Until the wedding,” she said, “you cannot return to Thornfield. That much is evident. Nor is it possible for you to remain here at Fairholme once the household empties.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The most suitable course is that you travel on with us to Ashworth Hall—as my guest, under my protection—and begin to acquaint yourself with the estate that will, in time, be yours to manage.”
Mistress of Ashworth Hall.
The thought trembled through her—both terrifying and astonishing.
“I would be honoured,” she said softly.
“Good. We depart in the morning. Helena will see to what needs packing—and to what must be acquired. A future duchess cannot live in borrowed gowns.”
A future duchess. The words still felt like unfamiliar clothing—strange on her shoulders, but warming to her shape.
When the meal concluded and the party began to disperse, the Dowager excused herself with a final nod.
“Rest, child. Tomorrow will be busy, and the days beyond, busier still.”
She left them, and Sebastian moved to the empty chair at Cecilia’s side.
“Are you all right?”
“I do not know,” she said honestly. “There is so much—so quickly. Yesterday I was a poor relation in a grey dress. Now I am planning a wedding, leaving my house, moving into yours and—” She broke off. “It is overwhelming.”
“We can slow matters, if you wish. Nothing is fixed.”
“No.” She reached for his hand. “I want to begin our life. I only… need a little time to steady myself.”
He squeezed her fingers gently.
“That is more than reasonable. You have had precious little time to breathe.”
“I have had no time at all. Everything has happened so quickly.” She gave a small, unsteady laugh. “Two weeks ago, I was invisible. Now I am about to become one of the most visible women in England.”
“You will adapt. You are remarkably adaptable—five years of endurance have proved that.”
“Endurance and visibility are different accomplishments.”
“True. But you will master the latter as you mastered the former. And I will be beside you, step for step.”
The steadiness in his voice calmed her more effectively than any touch might have done.
“Tell me about Ashworth Hall,” she said. “I want to picture it—the place that will be my home.”
“It is… large.” His mouth curved at her look. “Everyone says so first. Large, old, and layered with history. Parts of it date to the sixteenth century; others have been added, altered, argued over. There are formal gardens, working farms, and a village that depends upon the estate.”
“It sounds like a great responsibility.”
“It is. But it is also—” He paused, searching. “It is home. I know every corridor, every view from every window. I know the paths my brother and I wore into the grass as boys, the tenants and their families, the bend in the river that always floods in spring. I know the land as one knows a friend.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” His voice gentled. “More than I ever say aloud. And I want you to love it too. I want to show you every corner, every foolish childhood hiding-place, every story in its stones. I want Ashworth to belong to you as truly as it belongs to me.”
“What if it does not feel like mine? What if it is simply another place where I do not belong?”
“Then we will make it yours. We will fill it with your choices, your books, your ideas—with memories we build together. It need not be my home, occupied by my wife. It can be our home, shaped by us both.”
Something inside her loosened at that.
“Our home,” she murmured. “Yes. I like that.”
***
Later that evening, Helena found Cecilia in the small sitting room.
“I thought you might like company,” Helena said, taking a seat nearby. “Her Grace has retired, and His Grace is presently with Mr Reeve.”
“Mr Reeve?” Cecilia repeated.
“The Duke’s steward. He rode over from Ashworth earlier today with papers that required His Grace’s signature. He will return again at first light.” Helena’s tone was carefully composed—a fraction too composed, Cecilia thought.
“I see. You are well acquainted with him, then?” Cecilia asked, as though it were idle conversation.
A tiny hesitation—there and gone. “We have worked together on occasion.”