"If you will excuse me," she said lightly, "I believe the gardens are calling."
Alistair's eyes flicked to her, his expression momentarily inscrutable. Then, with a polite inclination of his head, he allowed her to depart. Cecilia stepped into the cool embrace ofthe late winter afternoon. The gardens offered a serenity that contrasted sharply with the lively celebration inside.
She meandered along the stone paths, her fingertips brushing the heads of roses that bloomed unseasonably, their petals delicate beneath her touch. Her mind wandered to the journey that had brought her to this moment. The roses reminded her of her own path— unexpected, resilient, blooming despite the odds.
Her relationship with Alistair had been much the same. Where others might have seen only conflict, they had discovered a profound connection.
As she walked, memories of their tumultuous beginning flickered through her mind. Their first encounters had been nothing short of volcanic— sharp words, cutting remarks, a battle of wills that seemed insurmountable.
Yet somewhere amid those heated exchanges, something had changed. Respect had emerged from their conflict, then something deeper, more tender.
A sudden movement interrupted her reverie. Before she could react, a pair of firm hands grasped her by the shoulders and gently pulled her into the shadow of a tall yew tree.
"Alistair!" she exclaimed, her voice low but startled as she turned to face him. "What on earth are you doing?"
"I might ask the same of you," he replied, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "You disappeared from the table so suddenly that I feared you were fleeing the estate entirely."
The intimacy of the moment was not lost on her. Here they were, in the shade of the trees , far from the watchful eyes of society. It was improper, scandalous even— and yet, she found she did not care.
"And so you decided to accost me in the garden?" she retorted, though her heart betrayed her words by skipping a beat at his nearness.
He held up a small folded note, the wax seal broken. "To defend my honor, I should like to point out that you received my invitation."
Cecilia stared at the note in his hand, her brows knitting together. "This? I thought it was from Evie. Had I known it was you, I would have ignored it entirely."
"Liar," he said softly, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. "You'd have come regardless. Admit it."
Cecilia tried to summon a cutting reply, but his deep blue eyes, glinting in the fading light, robbed her of words. "You are impossibly presumptuous, Alistair," she finally managed. "And inappropriate. A duke passing notes like a schoolboy? What would the ton say?"
Alistair's expression softened, his teasing replaced with a quiet intensity that made her breath catch. "Before I met you, Cecilia, I'd never have dreamed of such impropriety. But you... you have turned my life into something delightfully unrecognizable."
The weight of his words settled over her like the evening's gentle embrace. "What is it you want, then?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Surely you wouldn't risk my reputation simply to speak of the weather."
"No," he admitted, stepping closer. "I wanted to know what news you've been so eager to share these past few days. It has left you brighter than I have ever seen."
Her lips parted in surprise, though she quickly recovered. "If you must know, I have received word from the editor I've been corresponding with."
Alistair's brows rose. "And?"
"And," she said, a smile spreading across her face, "he has agreed to publish my first work. It shall appear in a small literary journal next month."
For a moment, Alistair simply stared at her, and Cecilia felt a flicker of uncertainty. The literary world was notoriously challenging for women writers.
Many were forced to publish anonymously, their true identities hidden behind male pseudonyms or initial-only signatures. Shehad fought so hard for this opportunity, navigating a landscape designed to suppress female voices.
Then he laughed— a rare, warm sound that lit his face with joy. It was a laugh that spoke of genuine happiness, of pride, of complete acceptance.
"Cecilia," he said, pulling her into an embrace so sudden that she gasped. "That is extraordinary! You must be terribly proud."
She felt the strength of his arms around her, his happiness almost overwhelming. "I am," she admitted softly. "But I feared you might not approve. A duchess publishing her own writing is hardly conventional."
"Conventionality be damned," he replied, pulling back to look into her eyes. "You are brilliant, Cecilia. The world deserves to know it."
The publishing of her work represented more than just a personal achievement. It was a small rebellion against the constraints that had long defined women's roles in society.
Before she could reply further, his lips found hers, and the world seemed to fade away. It was not the hesitant kiss they had shared in desperation months ago but something deeper, a meeting of two souls no longer at odds.
The moment shattered with a loud bark, and Cecilia laughed as Alistair's dog, Cerberus, bounded into view, his tail waggingfuriously. The massive creature circled them, knocking into Alistair's legs and nearly toppling him.
