“You are very kind to say so.”
“I am truthful.” Cecilia reached across the table, taking Helena’s hand. “You helped make me who I am. Without your guidance, your support, your belief in me—I do not know if I would have had the courage to reach for what I wanted. Staying at Ashworth is the least I can offer in return.”
“I did very little—”
“You did everything. You treated me as though I mattered, long before I believed it myself.” Cecilia squeezed her hand. “That is not a small kindness. That is everything.”
They sat in companionable silence, two women who had journeyed from the margins to the centre, from obscurity to presence.
At last, Helena rose. “I should let you return to your correspondence. There are several other letters awaiting you—mostly invitations. You have become quite in demand this season.”
“Have I? I had not noticed.”
“You had not noticed because you have been hiding in the library. Again.” Helena smiled. “The Duchess of Ashworth is expected to make the occasional appearance.”
“The Duchess of Ashworth is expected to do many things,” Cecilia replied. “She cannot possibly manage them all.”
“She might manage the Midsummer Ball. People are expecting you.”
Cecilia sighed. “Very well.”
“That is all anyone asks.”
Helena departed, leaving Cecilia alone once more—with her letters, her thoughts, and the quiet certainty that she had come precisely where she was meant to be.
***
Sebastian found her there an hour later, still engaged with the correspondence.
“You have been industrious,” he observed, settling into a chair.
“Invitations,” she replied, setting aside her quill and rubbing at her tired eyes. “Apparently, we are expected to attend everything this season. When did we become so very popular?”
“When you became the most discussed duchess in a generation.” He smiled. “You should hear what is said of you.”
“I am not at all certain I wish to.”
“It is largely complimentary. They say you are intelligent, capable—quite unlike what they expected from a poor relation who married above her station.” His expression softened. “They say I am fortunate indeed.”
“And what doyousay?”
“I say they are entirely correct.” He reached for her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. A little overwhelmed. Slightly nauseated—though that may be the letters rather than the pregnancy.”
“We can decline them. Every one. Remain here, in our library, and disregard the world entirely.”
“Can we?” she asked lightly. “Is that permitted?”
“I am a duke. Everything is permitted.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “What doyouwant, Cecilia? Truly.”
She considered the question. Not so very long ago, she would have been unable to answer it at all. Wanting had once seemed perilous—an indulgence she had long since learned to deny herself.
Now, the answer came easily.
“I wish to attend Dorothea’s wedding,” she said. “She asked us to go, and I believe it would mean a great deal to her.”
“Then we shall attend.”
