“The cousin?”
“Sir Edmund Ashwood’s daughter—the previous baronet. He died some years ago without proper provision for her, and the current baronet took her in.” A pause. “She attends Miss Georgiana. A sort of elevated lady’s maid.”
Sebastian fitted this to what he had observed: the careful movements, the lowered eyes, the quiet dignity of someone accustomed to the margins.
A baronet’s daughter, reduced to pressing her cousin’s gowns and arranging her cousin’s hair.
“Why do you ask?” his mother said lightly—but there was steel beneath the lightness.
“Curiosity. Nothing more.”
“Mm.” She did not sound persuaded. “Miss Cecilia Ashwood is not a candidate. She has no fortune, no position, and no prospects. Her situation is unfortunate, but not our concern.”
“I did not suggest that it was.”
“No—you merely enquired about her with more interest than you have displayed toward any of the eligible young ladies I have spent weeks researching.” Her gaze sharpened further. “Take care, Sebastian. Curiosity, misdirected, can be dangerous.”
“I am always careful.”
“Are you?” She allowed the question to linger, then returned to her papers. “Dinner is at eight. I expect you to be charming.”
He rose, recognising dismissal. At the door, he paused.
“Mother—how did it happen? To Miss Cecilia Ashwood, I mean. How does a baronet’s daughter come to such circumstances?”
His mother sighed. “The usual tale. An entail that carried the estate to a male cousin. A father fonder of books than practicalarrangements. A failure to secure the girl’s future in time.” She shook her head. “It is sad—but not uncommon. Half the companions and governesses in England share similar histories. There is nothing to be done.”
“No,” Sebastian said quietly. “I suppose there is not.”
Yet as he returned to his rooms to dress for dinner, the image of the woman in grey would not leave him—the composed face, the restrained movements, the sense that beneath the lowered eyes there was a mind worth knowing.
He pushed the thought aside. Again.
It did not stay aside.
***
Dinner was an elaborate affair.
The long table glittered with silver and crystal, candles casting a warm glow over two dozen guests arranged with meticulous attention to rank and romantic potential. Sebastian found himself precisely where his mother had intended: near Miss Georgiana Ashwood, positioned for maximum conversational advantage.
She was, he admitted, objectively lovely: golden curls arranged in the latest fashion, blue eyes that caught the candlelight charmingly, a smile that appeared at carefully calculated intervals—neither too eager nor too reserved.
“Your Grace,” she said, once the first course had been served and talk was permitted, “I understand Ashworth Hall is considered one of the finest estates in Sussex. How fortunate you must feel to possess such a property.”
“Fortune had little to do with it. I inherited.”
“Well—yes, but—” She recovered quickly from the mild rebuff. “I only meant that you must take great pride in its management. A well-ordered estate reflects the character of its owner, do you not think?”
“I think it reflects primarily the competence of the steward and staff.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face before the polished smile slipped back into place. “You are too modest, Your Grace. Everyone knows the master sets the tone. Mama says a household mirrors its head, just as a garden mirrors its gardener.”
“Your mother sounds very wise.”
“Oh, she is. She has opinions on everything.” Georgiana leaned a little nearer, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial air. “Sometimes rather too many opinions, if I am honest. But I suppose that is a mother’s prerogative.”
It was, Sebastian noted with mild surprise, the first truly genuine thing she had said—a small crack in the performance, revealing something human beneath it.
