“And I wish to decline at least half of these invitations. I have neither the energy nor the inclination for a full season, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
“Consider them declined.”
“And I want—” She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “I want to write a book.”
Sebastian blinked. “A book?”
“On estate management. On the reforms we have undertaken here—the drainage improvements, tenant housing, crop rotation. I have been taking notes all year, and I think—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It is foolish. A duchess does not publish books on agriculture.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is not customary. Because people will find it odd. Because—”
“Because you have spent too many years being told what you cannot do,” he said gently, “and have forgotten what youcan.” He met her gaze steadily. “Write the book, Cecilia. I will help you find a publisher. And if society finds it strange that the Duchess of Ashworth holds informed opinions on crop rotation—then society must adjust.”
She stared at him, tears pricking her eyes. “You would truly support this?”
“I would support anything that gives you purpose and pleasure. That is rather the point of marrying you.” He rose, drawing her to her feet. “Come. You have been seated far too long. Let us walk in the gardens, and you may tell me more about this book.”
“Now?”
“Now. The correspondence will still be here when we return. The roses are at their peak, and I am told they are spectacular this year.”
She allowed him to lead her from the library, through corridors grown familiar, and out into sunlight that turned the gardens to gold.
He was not mistaken. The roses were magnificent.
They walked slowly among the paths, arm in arm, as Cecilia outlined her ideas.
Sebastian listened with careful attention, asking questions, offering thoughtful suggestions. He had always taken her intellect seriously—one of the many reasons she loved him. He never dismissed her interests as impractical or unseemly; he engaged with them as he would any worthy subject.
“You will require illustrations,” he said as they paused near a fountain. “Plans of the drainage, diagrams of the cottages. I can engage a draughtsman—”
“I had not yet thought so far ahead.”
“Of course not. You are still persuading yourself the book is possible.” He smiled. “But it is more than possible—it is useful. What we have accomplished here could benefit estates throughout England. Why should such knowledge remain confined?”
“Because knowledge is power,” she replied, “and those who possess it seldom wish to share.”
“A perceptive observation. But you are well placed to share it regardless.” He turned to her, serious now. “You have long believed your education wasted, have you not? That your learning served no purpose because the world refused you its use.”
“Yes.”
“This is your opportunity to contradict them. To show that a woman may contribute meaningfully—to thought, to progress, to practical reform.” He took her hands. “Write the book, Cecilia. Not for my sake, but because it is who you are. You were nevermeant to pass your life in ballrooms alone. You were meant to think, to write, to effect change.”
Something loosened within her—some final remnant of the woman who had once believed she must not want too much.
She let it go.
“I will write it,” she said firmly. “I will publish it under my own name, and I will not apologise for having opinions on agriculture.”
“That is my duchess,” Sebastian said, smiling broadly. “Now—shall we continue? I believe there is a particularly fine stand of lavender awaiting your inspection.”
“Lavender has no relevance to estate reform.”
“No, but it smells agreeable, and I enjoy observing your appreciation of agreeable things.”
She laughed—a full, unguarded sound, one she had once nearly forgotten.
