Sudden interest.He had no interest. He was merely… observant. Observation was a habit long cultivated—a means of survival in society’s treacherous waters. One noticed things; it meant nothing.
The image of the woman in grey rose again—pale, composed, quietly watchful.
He pushed it aside.
It meant nothing.
***
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth had transformed her guest suite into a command centre.
Sebastian found her seated at a small writing desk, papers arranged in precise order, her expression intent. Helena Crane sat nearby, taking notes with quiet efficiency.
“Darling,” his mother said, without looking up, “you are late.”
“I was not aware we had an appointment.”
“We always have an appointment when there is a house party to navigate. Sit. There are a few details I wish to revisit.”
Sebastian obeyed, suppressing a sigh. His mother’s determination had only sharpened since his thirtieth birthday; this gathering represented her boldest campaign yet. He had agreed to attend chiefly because refusal would have provoked an escalation he lacked the energy to withstand.
“Miss Georgiana Ashwood,” the Dowager began, consulting her notes with the air of someone briefly refreshing ground already covered. “Eldest daughter of Sir Horace Ashwood of Thornfield. Presented last Season. Well received. Plays the pianoforte creditably, speaks French, watercolours adequately. Her mother has connections to the Thornbury family through her sister’s marriage, which provides some degree of social foundation.”
“You have done your research.”
“I always do my research. First impressions are useful; information is indispensable.” She lifted her gaze, sharp and assessing. “You will be seated near her this evening. I expect you to make conversation.”
“I always make conversation.”
“You make polite sounds that resemble conversation to the inattentive. I expect you to engage. Ask questions. Show interest. Behave as though you genuinely wish to form an opinion of her, rather than merely endure her presence.”
He rubbed his temple. “And if I discover that her character does not suit me?”
“Then you proceed to the next candidate. But you cannot discover anything if you do not attempt to.”
Her voice softened. “Sebastian. I know this is distasteful to you. I know you believe there is no suitable match to be found among the young ladies of the ton. But you must try. For the family’s sake, if not your own.”
“I have tried. For seven years, I have tried.”
“You have performed the motions. That is not the same thing.”
She was right—and both of them knew it. He had danced, conversed, smiled, bowed—and retained nothing of any of it. He had never permitted himself to be truly engaged.
Genuine engagement required vulnerability. And vulnerability, in his experience, yielded disappointment.
“I will make an effort,” he said at last. “I can promise no more than that.”
“An effort is all I ask.” She glanced down again. “Now—as to the other young ladies—Lady Arabella Worthington has excellent connections, though her mother is overbearing. Miss Patience Hartley is said to excel at conversation, though her fortune is modest. And—”
“Who is the woman in grey?”
The question escaped before he could prevent it. His mother looked up, her expression unreadable.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Ashwood party included a woman in grey. Not the daughters. Someone else.”
“Ah.” Her tone became carefully neutral. “That would be Miss Cecilia Ashwood. The cousin.”
