1
CECILY
Bile rose in Cecily de Malet’s throat the moment she saw the man her parents wanted her to marry.
He was older than Father. What little hair he had left lay thin and gray against his scalp, combed carefully as though grooming might disguise what he lacked. Deep grooves curved around his mouth, the kind, she decided, that came from years of frowning rather than age alone.
Then he did smile at her, but it was almost more repulsive than his frown. It was practiced and hollow.
Cecily gripped the edge of the table, forcing her breathing to slow. Beside her, Mother’s hand clamped around her wrist in a silent warning.
She understood the look in his eyes immediately.
He wasn’t looking at her the way a suitor looked at a woman.
His gaze swept over her the way her father appraised a horse—measuring her hips, her posture, the set of her jaw.
His eyes flicked briefly to her father, then back to her, as though the matter was settled between them, and she was merely a formality.
“This is my daughter, Cecily,” Father said to the man, Lord Alard de Veyron.
Alard inclined his head. “Indeed. She will do very well… at Veyron Hall.”
Cecily shrank into her silk sleeves. She felt pinned in place by careful posture and good breeding. Her future was unfolding in front of her without her consent, and she was expected to receive it silently, with gratitude.
This cannot be happening, she thought. This cannot be my future.
But standing in the stillness of the hall, Mother’s fingers still digging into her wrist and Father smiling politely, Cecily understood something she hadn’t wanted to face. She would have to marry this man, and worse—he would be allowed to touch her.
The bitter taste surged again. She drew slow, careful breaths until the sickness eased.
After a few pleasantries, Alard asked for a moment alone with Cecily. Her parents agreed, and the door closed behind them.
Cecily clasped her hands together the way she’d been taught, not trusting herself to speak first. She looked down at her hands.
“You are very young,” Lord Alard said.
“Yes, my lord. I have sixteen years.”
He studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Youth is no hindrance. It is… adaptable.”
Adaptable? The word unsettled her.
She looked at him directly. “My parents have not yet given their answer.”
“No, not yet.” He paused, as though considering something of mild interest. “But such things rarely remain uncertain for long.”
Her pulse quickened despite her effort to remain calm. “My lord, I would like time.”
“You will have it,” he said smoothly. “Within reason, of course.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “And if I…” The words caught in her throat. “If I wish not to marry at all?”
For the first time, his gaze sharpened, not angry, merely attentive, as though she’d finally said something worth noting.
“That is not a decision for you to make,” he said. “Your father will decide for you.”
The calm certainty in his voice frightened her more than anger would have.
“Your parents are prudent people,” he continued. “They understand which paths remain open for you, and which do not.”
A knot of fear tightened in Cecily’s stomach. She couldn’t decipher his exact meaning, only the cold threat beneath his words.
He stepped toward the door, then paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “My late wife,” he said, his voice softening, “was a delicate creature. She learned, in time, that a garden blooms best when it is well-tended and securely walled. Peace comes from understanding one’s place.”
Then: “Do you, Lady Cecily?”
Before she could answer, he opened the door.
“Think on it,” he said lightly. “There is no need for haste. These matters resolve themselves with time.”
His first wife. No mention of love. No mention of tenderness. No mention of kindness. Only obligations. Understanding one’s place.
Cecily stood frozen, understanding that time was closing in on her.
∞∞∞
She lay awake long after the candles burned down, staring at the dark beams above her bed, while her thoughts chased one another in tight, frantic circles. Lord Alard’s voice echoed in her mind, so calm, so certain:
“She understood her obligations. Do you?”
The words pressed against her chest until breathing felt difficult.
She rose quietly and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. The corridor beyond her door lay in shadow, lit only by a single taper at the far end.
As she passed her parents’ chamber, their hushed voices drifted through a narrow gap in the door, stopping her cold. She knew she should retreat to her room, but instead her feet carried her closer, until she was pressed against the dark wood, listening.
Her mother was speaking.
“I don’t like this,” Rosamund said, her voice low and strained. “He’s too old for our girl.”
Cecily’s heart soared.
“He is powerful,” her father replied. “That cannot be ignored.”
Power. She knew what that meant for her.
“You’re right. We must be careful,” Rosamund continued. “He is not a man we can afford to offend.”
“But should we allow this to happen?” Thomas asked.
There was a pause.
Cecily leaned closer, scarcely breathing.
“We delay,” her father said at last, answering his own question. “As long as we can.”
Delay.
The word washed over her like cold water. Delay meant nothing. It wasn’t protection. It was a slow surrender.
“If we provoke him,” Rosamund said slowly, “we risk more than wounded pride. We risk our lands. Protection. Our standing. Our family’s future.”
“Should our daughter pay the price?” Thomas whispered.
Cecily’s stomach twisted.
“No,” Rosamund said. “But we must be cautious. Refusing him outright would carry consequences.”
Cecily pressed herself against the wall. She could not seem to draw a breath.
“Surely—” her mother continued.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor behind Cecily.
She stiffened. Someone was coming.
Inside the chamber, her father’s voice dropped lower.
“If we delay too long—”
Cecily didn’t hear the rest.
She pulled back from the door and fled down the corridor, heart hammering.
She had barely reached the bend in the hall when another sound came, hurried hoofbeats stopping in the yard below.
A moment later, a servant’s voice rose from the stairwell. “My lord. A rider from Veyron Hall.”
Cecily froze, then edged back toward her parents’ door after the message was delivered, hiding herself in the shadows.
Inside, she heard the faint crackle of parchment being opened.
Her father did not speak at once. When he did, his voice was low. Controlled.
“He says he will return in a fortnight.”
Her mother’s breath caught. “For… our answer?”
Thomas hesitated. “He says the hall should be prepared for a betrothal dinner.”
Fourteen days.
Her parents were stalling. But Lord Veyron was not.
And she had just fourteen days to figure out how to escape him.