“Sit,” she said, indicating the chair opposite. “We must talk.”
Sebastian sat. “Evan mentioned that you wished to see me.”
“Evan is observant when he chooses to be—a quality you might profitably cultivate.” Her gaze fixed upon him, penetrating and unsparing. “Where have you been spending your mornings?”
“Here and there. The grounds are pleasant. The library is well supplied.”
“The library.” Her tone suggested she did not find this explanation persuasive. “You have discovered, quite suddenly, a profound attachment to Lady Marchmont’s books.”
“I have always enjoyed reading.”
“You have always enjoyed readingalone.” Her voice sharpened. “Yet I am told you have not, of late, been alone in the library. You have been observed in conversation with a certain young woman—one who enters by the servants’ door, and departs before the other guests arrive.”
Sebastian kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened.Observed.Their precautions had not been sufficient.
“I have spoken with several people in the library,” he said carefully. “It is a semi-public space.”
“Do not trifle with me, Sebastian. I know precisely whom you have been speaking to. Miss Cecilia Ashwood—the cousin.” Her voice hardened. “The poor relation who has no business engaging in private conversation with a duke.”
“Our conversations have been entirely proper—”
“I am not speaking of propriety. I am speaking ofappearance.” Her words cut cleanly. “And the appearance, should this excite comment, will not fall upon you. It will fall uponher—and it will ruin her.”
The blow landed with merciless accuracy. He had been thinking of his own weariness, his own relief in her company—not of the cost to Cecilia.
“She has done nothing wrong,” he said.
“Indeed. And yet, she will pay the penalty. That is how the world works, and you know it. A duke may indulge his eccentricities and be forgiven. A dependent girl may not. One whisper of impropriety, and she is finished—cast off, without home, protection, or future.”
“I would not allow that to happen.”
“And how, precisely, would you prevent it? By marrying her?” The Dowager’s laugh was soft and pitiless. “Picture the reaction. The Duke of Ashworth weds a penniless cousin who performs the duties of a servant. Society would never accept it. Your children would carry the stain of her circumstances. The family name would be diminished for a generation.”
“Perhaps the family name might survive a little diminution.”
Her brows lifted. “Are you prepared to make the experiment?”
She leaned forward, her voice low and intent.
“I am not your enemy, Sebastian. I wish you to be content—but contentment must rest upon foundation, and Miss Cecilia Ashwood is not a foundation. She is a refuge. A respite from expectation. Nothing more.”
“You do not know her.”
“I do not need to knowher. I know her position. I know that any association with you endangers her, regardless of your intentions. And I know that when this house party ends, youwill resume your life, while she will be left to bear whatever consequences your attention has invited.”
The words hurt because they rang true.
“I have no desire to injure her,” he said quietly.
“Then cease seeking her out. Cease watching her across rooms. Cease giving the world anything to observe.” Her expression softened slightly. “Cease caring for her, Sebastian. Forhersake, if not for your own.”
He did not answer. He could not promise what he did not know how to relinquish.
“There is to be an outing on the morrow,” she continued, businesslike once more. “A picnic at those ruins Lady Marchmont so admires. Miss Georgiana Ashwood will expect your attention. You will give it.”
“And Miss Cecilia?”
“Miss Cecilia will attend her cousin—carrying shawls, arranging comforts, performing the duties for which she is retained.” The Dowager’s gaze held his. “You will not address her. You will not seek her out. You will conduct yourself as though she were of no consequence to you. Do you understand?”
