She would lose everything.
She knew this. She understood it with perfect clarity.
And yet.
I find you interesting.
No one had found her interesting in five years. No one had looked at her the way he had looked at her—with curiosity, with attention, with something that felt almost like recognition. No one had asked what she thought or invited her to share her opinions.
She had been invisible for so long. Useful but unseen, present but unacknowledged. And then this man—this impossible, inappropriate, entirely unsuitable man—had walked into the library and looked at her as though she were worth seeing.
What if I am tired of performing?
She understood that question. Goodness, how she understood it. Her entire existence was a performance now: the grateful dependent, the capable helper, the woman who wanted nothing and expected nothing and was content with the crumbs from her relatives’ table.
She was so very tired of performing.
But she had no choice. He could afford to be tired; he had wealth and power and a title that protected him from consequences. She had nothing but her reputation and her usefulness, and if she lost either, she would lose everything.
She should not go back to the library. She should contrive some discreet way to restore the book and avoid him entirely for the remainder of the visit. She should support Georgiana, keep to the edges, and pretend this morning had never occurred.
That was what prudence demanded.
Cecilia looked down at the volume in her hands. Thought of his voice. His manner. The way the nameCeciliahad sounded when spoken with care rather than obligation.
She closed her eyes.
She was in trouble.
And she was not entirely certain she wished to escape it.
***
The afternoon brought archery for the ladies, and Cecilia was summoned to attend Georgiana.
The event had been arranged on the south lawn: bright targets, satin ribbons, bows of modest weight suited to feminine hands. The young ladies looked charming as they drew and released, laughter drifting over the clipped grass like birdsong.
Cecilia stood apart, holding Georgiana’s spare gloves and a flask of lemonade—a distance that was social as much as physical.
She tried not to think of the library. She tried not to think of thoughtful eyes and measured speech and the quiet recognition that had passed between them. But memory tugged, persistent as a thread caught on a nail.
No. This was foolish. Dangerous.
She forced her attention on the scene before her. Lady Arabella Worthington possessed an admirable posture and little aim. Miss Patience Hartley improved steadily with practice. Georgiana performed prettily—competent enough to please, never so impressive as to threaten.
And there, at the edge of the field, stood the Duke of Ashworth.
He did not shoot. He stood among a cluster of gentlemen who discussed sporting dogs and autumn hunting, his expression composed into something unreadable.
Until his gaze found hers.
It lasted no more than a breath. Across the lawn, over parasols and ribbons and drifting laughter, his eyes met hers—calm, unhurried, unmistakably aware.
Then the moment was gone, and he turned back to his companions.
Had she imagined it?
“Cecilia!” Georgiana called sharply. “The gloves—these pinch dreadfully.”
