He had been wrong.
“Did she say what she wished to discuss?”
“She did not. But she asked me three questions yesterday about where you had gone that morning—which may furnish a clue.” Evan’s tone softened. “Sebastian. Whatever you are about—”
“I am about nothing.”
“You are aboutsomething,” Evan said quietly. “You have been distracted all week. You scarcely spoke to Miss Ashwood at dinner—the golden-haired one—and Lady Marchmont noted your absence from the card-room. Something holds your attention, and it is not any of the young ladies Mother has gathered for you.”
“Perhaps I am tired of being gathered.”
“Perhaps. But that does not explain where you vanish each morning—or why you return looking as though you have seen something remarkable, and are determined no one should notice.”
Sebastian said nothing. There was nothing safe to say.
“Be careful,” Evan murmured. “Whatever this is—whoever this is—be careful. You have more to lose than you think.”
“I have nothing to lose but the expectation that I shall marry suitably and continue the line. That expectation will survive my occasional walk in the morning.”
“Will it?” Evan stopped, compelling Sebastian to pause as well. “Brother, I am not blind. I have seen the way you look at her.”
Sebastian’s heart lurched. “At whom?”
“The cousin. Miss Cecilia Ashwood—the one in grey, who stands at the edges of rooms and endeavours not to be seen.” His voice held neither mockery nor censure, only concern. “You watch her. Not constantly. Not conspicuously. But enough that a man who knows you might observe it.”
“You are imagining things.”
“Am I?” Evan’s voice gentled further. “Then why did you tense when I spoke her name?”
Because the secret was not so secret as he had believed.
“I have spoken to her,” Sebastian said at last. “A few times. In the library. She reads agricultural treatises. I found her conversation… refreshing.”
“Refreshing,” Evan repeated, eyebrows lifting. “If that is our word for it.”
“It is accurate. She does not perform. She says what she thinks. Do you know how rare that is among the women I am urged to court?”
“I can guess. But Sebastian, she is a dependent. She has no fortune, no standing, no prospect. Even if your feelings—”
“I have no feelings.”
The denial came too swiftly. Evan’s expression shifted to something like pity.
“You have feelings,” he said quietly. “Anyone looking at you could see it. The question is what you intend to do about them.”
“Nothing,” Sebastian said. “We talk. That is all.”
“And when the house party ends? When you depart, and she returns to whatever life awaits her? Will you simply... stop having feelings?”
Sebastian did not answer. He could not.
“Be careful,” Evan said again. “For both your sakes.”
He walked on toward the house, leaving Sebastian alone on the gravel sweep—staring at nothing, and trying not to think of impossibilities.
Chapter Eight
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth received her son in her private sitting-room, seated in the chair nearest the fire with all the strategic composure of a general taking the field.
