Chapter Nine
The picnic at the ruins was everything Cecilia had dreaded.
Lady Marchmont had arranged the expedition with her usual precision: carriages for those who preferred comfort, horses for those who did not, and an army of servants to convey tables, chairs, and hampers laden with delicacies. The ruins themselves were picturesque—a crumbling medieval chapel beneath ancient oaks, its ivy-clad walls open to the October sky.
It was beautiful. It was romantic. It was designed, in every particular, to facilitate attachment under the benevolent supervision of elders.
Cecilia was not there to form attachments. She was there to carry Georgiana’s extra shawl, to fetch what was required, to be useful without being noticed.
To be invisible.
She had come with the servants, riding in one of the supply wagons rather than the elegant carriages reserved for guests. She had helped prepare the site—spreading cloths on fallen stones, setting out plates and glasses—had done her duty, as she always did, and then withdrawn to the margins to await Georgiana’s inevitable demands.
The guests arrived in a flutter of parasols and bright exclamations, scattering through the ruins like exotic birds. Lady Marchmont guided their movements with practised ease—ensuring that the proper young ladies found themselves near the proper young gentlemen, that chaperones maintained clear sightlines, that every arrangement promised maximum romantic advantage.
Georgiana was placed beside the Duke of Ashworth.
Of course she was. Despite the mortification of the previous day—or perhaps because of it—Lady Ashwood had intensifiedher efforts. Arriving from Bath some days earlier, her sister apparently recovered, she had assumed command of the campaign with military efficiency.
From her position near a broken wall, the spare shawl draped over her arm, Cecilia watched Georgiana settle upon a blanket at Sebastian’s side—laughing at some remark, her golden curls bright in the autumn light, her blue eyes alight with calculated charm.
And Sebastian…
Sebastian was performing. Even at a distance, Cecilia could read the careful neutrality of his expression, the measured answers, the rigid courtesy of a man enduring a trial with determined grace.
He did not look toward her.
It was what they had agreed—or rather, what they had painfully acknowledged must be done after yesterday’s disaster. He would play his part; she would play hers. They would not acknowledge one another. They would give no further cause for speculation. They would behave as though nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
Cecilia turned away and sought a small recess of the ruin—a narrow alcove that had once been a side chapel—and allowed herself a moment’s privacy.
This was her life. This would always be her life. Standing at the edges of gatherings, watching others live the existence she had once been taught to expect, carrying shawls and lemonade and gratitude for the privilege of being unnoticed.
She had believed she had made peace with it. Had learned that wanting more was futile—that hope was a luxury she could not afford. And then Sebastian had looked at her in that library and saidI find you interesting—and five years of careful resignation had collapsed at a touch.
Now she wanted again. Wanted to be seen. To be known. Wanted—
Him. You want him. Say it.
She wanted him. There. The truth she had been dancing around for days, spoken in the privacy of her own mind where no one else could hear.
She wanted him—Sebastian Harcourt, Duke of Ashworth. Wanted his conversation, his attention, his rare, unexpected smiles. Wanted his hands upon her face once more, wanted to lean into his touch and not draw back. Wanted things she had no right to want, with a man she had no right to desire.
And she could not have him. Could never have him. The gulf between their worlds was unbridgeable, and wanting did not narrow it.
Wanting has never changed anything for me.
“Cecilia.”
She turned, her heart leaping—and found not Sebastian, but Georgiana.
Her cousin stood at the entrance to the alcove, her expression unreadable. She had left her blanket, left the Duke, left her mother’s careful designs.
She had come looking for Cecilia instead.
“You are wanted,” Georgiana said, her tone flat. “Mama desires more lemonade from the wagons. What was brought proves insufficient.”
