He moved closer, using the cover of the music to approach without drawing attention. He still could not hear the conversation, but Georgiana’s expression was visible now—a particular smile that suggested she was enjoying herself at someone else’s expense.
“—and I simply cannot imagine what you thought you were doing,” Georgiana was saying, her voice pitched just loud enough for Cecilia to hear, just quiet enough to be deniable. “Meeting with a duke, of all people. Did you imagine he was actually interested in you? That he might somehow... what? Fall in love? Marry you?”
“Georgiana—”
“He is being polite, Cecilia. That is what gentlemen do. They make conversation with whatever women happen to be present, because they are too well-bred to simply walk away. It means nothing.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because I have seen the way you look at him. It is pitiable, really—reaching after what lies so far beyond your grasp that it may as well be a star in the sky.” She tilted her head. “He has not kissed you, I collect? Even kindness has limits—particularly where there is so little to recommend the attempt.”
Cecilia’s face went very still. She said nothing.
Georgiana laughed—light, charming, entirely without warmth. “Poor Cecilia. Always wanting what you cannot have. First Thornfield, then your ridiculous dreams of a Season, and now a duke. One would think experience might have taught you better.”
“Miss Ashwood.”
Sebastian had not intended to speak. Had not intended to reveal that he had overheard. But the words were out before he could stop them, and both women turned to face him. Georgiana’s colour drained; Cecilia’s expression froze into barely contained mortification.
“Your Grace,” Georgiana said at once, summoning a bright smile. “How unexpected. I had not—”
“Clearly.” His tone was courteous, perfectly level—and edged with such unmistakable coldness that Georgiana faltered. “I wondered whether I might speak with your cousin.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the pianoforte seemed to fade into the background.
“My… cousin?” Georgiana repeated weakly.
“Miss Cecilia Ashwood,” he said. “With whom you were just conversing.”
Whatever he allowed her to see in his gaze made her take a half-step backwards.
“I—of course— we were merely—”
“I heard what you weremerelydoing.”
The sentence landed with dreadful precision. Georgiana’s lips parted and closed again; Cecilia looked as though she might wish herself invisible.
“Your Grace,” Cecilia said quietly, “there is no need—”
“There is every need.” His voice gentled, despite himself. “Miss Ashwood—would you take a turn with me? The rain has passed, and I find myself in want of fresh air.”
The impropriety of it was unmistakable. A duke did not invite a dependent girl to walk with him before witnesses. Tongues would wag. Consequences would follow.
He knew it.
He asked anyway.
“I—” Cecilia hesitated, glancing at Georgiana, then at the gathering knot of observers. “I am not certain that would be—”
“I am perfectly certain that it would not,” he said, very calmly. “I ask nonetheless.”
A breath. A calculation. Then, so quiet that he almost missed it:
“Yes.”
He offered his arm. She took it.
They stepped through the tall French doors into the rain-washed garden, the room behind them stunned into silence.
