Then she saw him.
He stood near the window, looking out at the rain-threatened gardens, his back to the door. He had not heard her enter—her approach through the servants’ corridor was silent by design—and she had a moment to simply observe him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that was slightly dishevelled, as though he had run his hands through it in thought. He wore morning clothes of excellent cut, the kind of effortless elegance that came with unlimited resources and excellent tailors. He looked every inch the duke he was.
But there was something in his posture—a tension in his shoulders, a particular stillness in his bearing—that suggested he was not as composed as he appeared. He looked, Cecilia thought, like a man who was waiting for something and not entirely certain it would arrive.
She should announce herself. Should clear her throat or let the door close loudly or do something to alert him to her presence.
Instead, she simply said, “Good morning.”
He turned.
When he saw her, his expression altered—not the pleasant, polished civility of dinner, but something quieter, warmer, almost relieved.
“You came,” he said.
“I came to return the book.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” But she did not move toward the shelves. Did not make any motion to actually return the volume. Instead, she stood there, looking at him, feeling the weight of his attention like sunlight on her skin.
“And?” he prompted.
“And I thought—” She stopped, uncertain how to finish the sentence. What had she thought? That she could have one moreconversation and then walk away? That she could taste this impossible connection and then pretend it had never existed?
“You thought you might discuss it with a fellow scholar,” Sebastian finished for her. His smile had gentled into something warmer.
“If he happened to be available,” she said carefully.
His smile deepened. “As it happens, I am.”
The space between them felt charged, full of possibilities that neither of them should be considering. Cecilia knew she should keep her distance, should maintain the careful boundaries that protected them both from scandal.
She walked toward him instead.
“The book,” she said, when she was close enough to hand it to him directly. “The author’s arguments about tenant welfare are interesting, but his proposed implementation is impractical. He assumes landowners will act against their short-term interests for long-term gains, which requires a degree of foresight that most men do not possess.”
Sebastian took the book, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The contact lasted perhaps a second, entirely innocent, but Cecilia felt it like a brand.
“Most men,” he repeated. “But not all?”
“Some men think beyond the immediate. Some men understand that true prosperity requires investment in human welfare as well as physical infrastructure.” She met his eyes, surprised by her own boldness. “The question is whether those men can be identified and elevated into positions of influence.”
“And how would you identify such men?”
“By their actions. By the way they treat those who have no power to retaliate against mistreatment. By whether they see people as means to ends or as ends in themselves.”
Silence. Not empty, but weighted.
He understood her. She could see it.
“And by that measure,” he asked quietly, “how do you judge me?”
A dangerous question. She considered.
“I should require more evidence,” she said at last.
