“Mothers do tend toward opinions,” he agreed. “Mine has prepared a very thorough set of notes on every eligible young lady present at this gathering—complete with connections, accomplishments, and probable dowries.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “Truly?”
“I exaggerate only slightly.”
“How terrifying.” She laughed—an unguarded sound, startled out of her before she could arrange it properly. “I mean—of course—the Dowager Duchess must only wish to be thorough.”
“She is invariably thorough. It is one of her defining virtues.”
Conversation followed more easily after that. Sebastian found himself moderately engaged. Georgiana was not foolish—merely trained to perform rather than to be. When she forgot to be impressive, she was almost pleasant.
And yet, even as he asked appropriate questions and supplied appropriate replies, part of his attention drifted.
To the edges of the room.
To the silent figures moving along the walls.
To one figure in particular.
Not a servant, he reminded himself. She was a baronet’s daughter performing a servant’s role through circumstance rather than design. Yet she moved as one who had learned invisibility—efficient, quiet, unintrusive.
She had slipped in during the second course with something for Georgiana—a shawl, perhaps, or a handkerchief—murmured a word, received no acknowledgement, and withdrawn again to the shadows near the wall.
Where she now stood, watching.
Sebastian should not have noticed her at all. The lighting favoured the table, not the periphery. But his gaze returned to that patch of shadow again and again, drawn there as silk catches on a rough edge.
She did not look at him. Her attention was fixed on Georgiana, her expression composed into perfect neutrality. Yet there was something in the set of her shoulders—in the stillness of her posture—that suggested an awareness of being observed.
Or perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps she merely stood as servants stood, waiting to be summoned.
“Your Grace?”
He turned back at once. “Forgive me. My thoughts wandered.”
“You seemed very far away,” Georgiana said softly. For a brief instant, he glimpsed genuine curiosity in her eyes. “Is everything well?”
“Perfectly. The journey was fatiguing, that is all.”
“Of course. Mama says travel is dreadfully trying upon the constitution.”
And with that, the performance resumed. The authentic moment vanished, replaced by the familiar dance of agreeable nothings and cultivated charm.
Sebastian endured it with practised grace—while some obstinate part of him remained fixed upon the shadows at the edge of the room. Upon the woman who stood there, invisible to everyone except, inexplicably, him.
***
He escaped to the library after the port and politics had concluded.
It was becoming a habit, this retreat to rooms lined with books. Libraries required no performance. They demanded nothing but silence and offered, in return, knowledge, solitude, and the comfortable company of minds long departed—minds that could not be disappointed by him.
Lady Marchmont’s library was impressive: two tall stories of leather-bound volumes, a great fire glowing in the hearth, chairs placed where the light fell most advantageously. Sebastian selected a book at random and settled into an armchair, determined to lose himself in another man’s thoughts.
He managed perhaps ten minutes of honest reading before his attention began to wander.
The dinner had exhausted him in the peculiar way society always did—not physically, but somewhere deeper. The constant calculation. The careful weighing of every word and expression. The knowledge that everyone around him wanted something, and that what they wanted was never, in truth, him.
Miss Georgiana Ashwood wanted a title. Her mother wanted consequence. Lady Marchmont wanted the credit of a successful match. Even his own mother—who loved him in her way—wanted him to fulfil his duty to the name.
