The answer was too large to be spoken.
“I want to go on knowing you,” he said instead. “To go on speaking—honestly—while we may.” He stopped short of the rest. “There are desires I have no right to voice. But I am not yet ready to pretend they do not exist.”
“And if the cost is mine to bear?” she asked.
The words struck like a blow. His mother’s warning echoed in his mind:it will fall upon her—and it will ruin her.
“I would never wish you harm.”
“Wishes do not alter consequences.” She folded her arms, as though to brace herself. “By morning, everyone will have heard that the Duke of Ashworth chose to single out the poor relation. They will draw their conclusions. It is I who must live beneath them.”
He understood then—fully—what his attention had risked.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
“I do not know.” Her gaze turned outward, toward the dripping lawns. “Part of me would have you walk away—leave me to the safety of being unseen.”
“And the other part?”
A long pause.
“The other part is… foolish,” she said at last. “And learns nothing from experience.”
“It need not be folly,” he murmured. “If we are brave.”
“Brave?” She gave a soft, bleak laugh. “I have been brave through grief and loss and the unravelling of everything I once expected my life to be. Bravery does not feed a woman, nor keep her housed. I cannot gamble the little that remains to me on a hope that may never become anything more.”
Sebastian wanted to promise—protection, provision, safety—but the words would ring hollow. He was not free to offer such pledges, and she was too practical to believe them even if he did.
“Tomorrow,” he said instead. “There is to be a picnic at the ruins. You will be there.”
“I shall be carrying Georgiana’s shawl. That is not quite the same as being there.”
“I know.” He drew breath, a decision settling in him. “But I shall see you, and you will see me—even if we must behave as though nothing has passed between us. Whatever others choose to imagine—we shall at least know the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
He lifted his hand—slowly, giving her time to retreat—and let his fingers brush her cheek. She went very still.
“That you are not unseen,” he said softly. “Not by me.”
Her eyes closed. For a heartbeat, she leaned into his touch.
Then she stepped away.
“We must return,” she said. “Before our absence is remarked.”
“Cecilia—”
“Tomorrow.” Her voice steadied, though feeling trembled beneath it. “We shall see what tomorrow brings. But tonight—we must remember ourselves.”
She turned and walked back toward the house, her grey gown fading into the dim, rain-washed light. He watched her go, and something within him settled—not peace, but resolve.
His mother wished him to end this. Society expected nothing less.
But Sebastian understood himself now with unsettling clarity.
He was done retreating into reason.
