“I understand what you require.”
“I am notrequiring. I am telling you what must be done if you value her welfare.” She rose, signalling the interview’s end. “I know this is painful. I know you believe you have found something real. But sometimes the kindest act we can offer another is to let them go.”
Sebastian rose as well, his movements constrained. “You believe I should relinquish her.”
“I believe you have no choice. Nor has she.” Her voice gentled. “End it, Sebastian—before harm is done.”
He left without replying.
But as he walked back through the silent corridor, her words echoed with relentless clarity.
End it.
The harm, however, had already begun—long before he had ever spoken her name. And he could not escape the fear that, by obeying his mother, he might wound Cecilia still more.
***
The afternoon brought rain, and with the rain came enforced indoor confinement.
The guests gathered in the drawing room for cards and conversation, arranged in clusters according to interest and social standing. Sebastian found himself trapped in a whist foursome with Lord Thornbury, Lady Marchmont, and Miss Patience Hartley, whose earnest civility, however well-meant, had begun to weary him.
Across the room, Georgiana Ashwood held court among a circle of young ladies, her golden curls catching the lamplight, her laughter rising at carefully calculated intervals. She was performing beautifully—every gesture, every expression, every word designed to attract and impress.
And standing behind her, nearly invisible against the wallpaper, was Cecilia.
Sebastian should not have looked. His mother’s warning was still fresh in his mind, Evan’s concern still echoing. But his gaze found her anyway, drawn by some force he could not name or resist.
She was holding a basket of embroidery silks, apparently waiting for Georgiana to require a specific colour. Her grey dress blended with the shadows of the room, her posture erased her presence, her entire being seemed designed to avoid notice.
And yet he noticed her. He always noticed her.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—a contact so brief that no one else could have caught it—and somethingpassed between them. Recognition. Understanding. The shared knowledge of everything they could not say and could not have.
Then she looked away, and the moment was gone.
“Your play, Your Grace.”
Sebastian returned his attention to the cards, making some move he barely registered. Miss Hartley smiled encouragingly; Lady Marchmont made a pointed observation about concentration; Lord Thornbury launched into a story about a hunting dog that seemed to have no end.
The afternoon crawled on.
***
It was nearly evening when the incident occurred.
The rain had stopped, and some of the younger guests had drifted toward the music room, where someone had begun playing the pianoforte. Georgiana was among them, drawn by the prospect of displaying her own accomplishments. Cecilia followed—as she always did—carrying the inevitable accessories and attending to the inevitable needs.
Sebastian had escaped the whist table and was standing near the doorway, ostensibly examining a painting but actually watching the room from a position that afforded him a view of Cecilia. He knew he should not. He knew he was doing exactly what his mother had warned him against. But he could not seem to stop himself.
Georgiana was at the pianoforte now, playing a competent if uninspired sonata. The other guests made appreciative noises, clustered around the instrument in attitudes of polite attention. Cecilia stood apart, near a window, her basket still in her hands.
The piece concluded. Applause rippled through the room. Georgiana rose with a modest smile, accepting the praise as her due.
“Miss Hartley,” she said, “you must play next. I have heard such praise of your abilities.”
Miss Hartley demurred, protested, and eventually allowed herself to be persuaded. She settled at the pianoforte and began a considerably more accomplished piece, her fingers moving with genuine skill.
Georgiana drifted toward the window where Cecilia stood. Sebastian could not hear what she said—the music covered conversation—but he saw Cecilia’s expression shift. Saw her hands tighten on the basket. Saw something that looked like distress cross her features before she controlled it.
