He sat beside her upon the fallen stone, near enough that their shoulders almost touched, and together they faced the broken chapel, open to the sky.
“Then we are undone together,” he said quietly. “For I wish the same—and I have not learned how to cease.”
They sat in silence—among ancient stones and impossible circumstance—and the words they did not speak hovered between them.
They did not need to be spoken.
***
When they emerged from the ruins, Georgiana was waiting.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her fair hair bright against the autumn hues, her expression composed to indifference. Behind her, the picnic continued—laughter and talk drifting upon the breeze—but she had removed herself from it, placing herself where she might intercept them before they returned.
“Your Grace,” she said, perfectly civil. “My mother has been enquiring for you.”
Sebastian stiffened; Cecilia felt the gathering tension beside her—the readiness for another confrontation. She touched his arm lightly, a warning.
“Go,” she said under her breath. “Before worse is made of this.”
“I will not leave you to face—”
“You must.” She met his eyes, willing him to understand. “Pray—go. For both our sakes.”
He held her gaze a moment longer; frustration and concern battled in his expression. Then he inclined his head, turned, and walked toward the clearing—passing Georgiana without a word.
The cousins remained alone among the ruins.
“That was quite affecting,” Georgiana said. “The manner in which he looked at you. The touch upon his arm. Very affecting indeed.”
“Georgiana—”
“Oh, spare me explanations. I am not a fool, whatever you may suppose.” She stepped nearer; her blue eyes were bright and hard. “I know what I witnessed—and so will others, if you do not conduct yourself with greater prudence.”
“Iamtrying to be prudent.”
“Are you? It appears to me that you have contrived to meet the Duke privately, encouraged his interest, placed yourself—”
“I have done no such thing.”
“Have you not?” Her careful composure fractured, a hint of anger showing beneath. “Then why does he look at you as he does? Why did he defend you before everyone? Why did he follow you here—to this conveniently secluded corner?”
“I did not ask him to follow me. I did not ask for any of this.”
“And yet you have it—his attention, his protection, his—” She stopped, mastered herself. “It matters little how it came about. What matters is what is to follow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that my mother is resolved upon action. She believes you have been undermining my prospects. She believes you have—forgotten your place.”
“My place.” The familiar bitterness stirred—long suppressed, now dangerously near the surface. “And whatismy place, Georgiana? To linger at the edges of rooms with your shawl on my arm? To dress your hair, press your gowns, and be grateful for the privilege? To hope for nothing, to expect nothing, tobenothing?”
Georgiana hesitated, then lifted her chin. Her voice, when it came, was unyielding.
“That is the way of things,” she said. “In return, you have a roof, respectability, security. It is more than many in your situation may claim.”
“It is not enough.”
The words escaped before Cecilia could call them back. Georgiana’s expression altered—astonishment, then anger, then something perilously like fear.
