A faint, uncertain breath left her. He softened his tone.
“In public, of course, you must call me ‘Your Grace.’ Nothing else would be proper. But here—in this room—between one reader and another—” He allowed the words to find their shape. “Sebastian will suffice.”
She was silent for a long while. He saw caution first, then surprise—and, fleetingly, something that looked very like longing—before her expression steadied into composure.
“If we are to abandon propriety so far,” she said at last, “then—Cecilia.” Her fingers tightened on the book’s spine. “But only here. Only in this room. Between… fellow scholars.”
“Between fellow scholars,” he agreed, the words almost a vow.
They stood in the clear morning light, surrounded by thousands of books, and looked at one another. Something loosened in his chest—something he had not known was bound; something warmed that he had not known was cold.
Dangerous,whispered reason.Impossible. Leave now.
He did not leave.
Instead, he said, “The book you have borrowed—I read it several years ago. The author’s arguments on tenant welfare are compelling, but his proposed implementation is flawed. I should like to hear your thoughts when you have finished.”
Her expression flickered—surprise, and then something very like quiet pleasure. “You would discuss economics with me?”
“I would discuss anything with someone who wishes to engage rather than merely agree.” He moved toward the door, lest he say—or do—something still more reckless. “I am often here in the mornings, before the day’s activities begin. Should you happen to return a book, and wish to share your impressions…”
He allowed the sentence to fade. The invitation hung between them—dangerous, unspoken, undeniable.
She did not accept it. She did not refuse it.
“Good day, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Sebastian.”
His name, spoken in her voice, sounded different than he had ever heard it—softer. Truer.
“Good day, Miss Ashwood. Cecilia.”
He left before he could change his mind—before he could remain and talk for hours—before he could do any of the things he suddenly, achingly wished to do.
Yet as he walked back to his rooms, her face lingered in his mind. Her voice. The way she had said his name.
Between fellow scholars.
He was in trouble. He knew he was in trouble. This grey-clad, sharp-minded, entirely unsuitable woman had found her way beneath his guard in the space of a single conversation.
He ought to avoid her. Ought to stay away from the library, attend to the eligible young ladies his mother had selected, fulfil his duty, and forget that Miss Cecilia Ashwood existed.
That was what he ought to do.
It was not what he was going to do.
***
Cecilia made it back to her room before her knees betrayed her.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, the borrowed book pressed against her chest, and made herself breathe slowly, carefully, until the rushing in her ears subsided. Her thoughts were a tangle of alarm and wonder and something else—something she refused, for the moment, to name.
Sebastian.
He had given her his name. The Duke of Ashworth had looked at her—trulylooked—and had spoken to her as if her thoughts were worth hearing, as if her mind were not an inconvenience to be tidied away. As though, for a brief moment, she had mattered.
It was madness. Utter madness. He was one of the most eligible men in England, circled by ambitious mamas and artful daughters. She was nothing—less than nothing—an unprovided dependent in a grey dress, tolerated for her usefulness and dispensable the instant that usefulness waned.
There could be nothing between them. Even conversation was dangerous; discovery would mean scandal for him and ruin for her. A whisper, a raised brow, a single ill-timed sighting—
