“I value candour, Your Grace.”
“Most people profess to value it—until they encounter it.” The Dowager paused. “I shall not offer you comfortable falsehoods, Miss Ashwood. I shall tell you the truth—and you shall tell me the truth in return—and together we will determine whether anything may be done about this impossible situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
“Do not be coy. it does not suit you.” Her voice sharpened. “My son is in love with you. You are— if Helena’s judgement may be trusted— in love with him. Under ordinary circumstances, this might be pleasing enough; but these circumstances are not ordinary.”
“I am aware of them.”
“Are you? Allow me to recite them, lest anything has escaped your notice.” She began to count them calmly upon her fingers. “You possess no fortune. No position. No family of consequence to ease your way into society. You have spent five years living as an unpaid dependent, performing duties ordinarily assigned to servants. You have no connections, no prospects, and no obvious qualifications for a duchess—beyond whatever charms you have employed to attract my son.”
The words were brutal—deliberately so. A test.
Cecilia did not flinch.
“Your assessment is accurate,” she said evenly. “Is there anything you would add?”
Something flickered in the Dowager’s eyes—surprise… or the beginning of respect.
“I would add,” she said slowly, “that despite all these deficiencies, my son has been wretched since your departure. He scarcely eats. He refuses the very entertainments which are the purpose of this gathering. He has withdrawn so entirely that even his brother cannot reach him.” She hesitated. “In thirty years, I have never seen him thus affected by anyone. And it troubles me greatly.”
“I understand your concern,” Cecilia replied softly.
“Do you? I wonder.” The Dowager leaned forward slightly, her gaze intent. “Permit me to be perfectly clear, Miss Ashwood. Had I believed you a fortune-hunter—had I supposed you had deliberately ensnared my son for the sake of advancement—I would destroy you. I would see to it that no respectable household in England received you; that no position, of any kind, was ever open to you; that you spent the remainder of your life regretting the moment you presumed to reach above your station.”
A chill traced the length of Cecilia’s spine. The words were delivered without heat, without drama—merely as fact. The Dowager was perfectly capable of doing precisely as she described, and Cecilia knew it.
“I am not a fortune-hunter,” she said quietly. “I did not pursue your son. I did not encourage his attentions. I tried—repeatedly—to discourage them, to remind him of the impossibility of any connection between us.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Yes,” Cecilia said. “Here we are.”
The Dowager studied her for a long moment, and Cecilia had the unsettling sensation of being read like a page—every thought, every hope, every fear laid bare beneath that penetrating gaze.
“Tell me about your father,” the Dowager said abruptly.
“My father?”
“Sir Edmund Ashwood. I am told he was a scholar—more devoted to books than to practical matters. That his neglect of his estate, and of his daughter’s future, led directly to your present circumstances.”
The familiar ache of grief stirred—never wholly healed. “He was not a practical man, no,” she said softly. “But he was kind. And he taught me to think—to question—to engage with ideas rather than merely accept what I was told.”
“A dangerous education for a woman.”
“Mayhap. But it is the education I received, and I cannot repent of it.”
“Even though it rendered you unsuitable for the life you were expected to lead? Even though it furnished you with expectations and abilities your situation could not support?”
Cecilia considered the question—a question she had asked herself countless times these past five years.
“I would rather be unsuitable and informed than suitable and ignorant,” she said at last. “Even if it has made my life more difficult.”
The Dowager’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but near enough. “Sebastian said you were remarkable. He claimed you were the most interesting person he had met in years. That you challenged him—argued with him—forced him to think in ways he had long forgotten.”
“He… spoke of me?”
“At length. In mortifying detail.” A pause. “He said you made him feel like himself for the first time since he inherited. Do you comprehend what that signifies, Miss Ashwood? What itmeans for a man who has lived his entire life performing a role he did not choose to suddenly feel permitted to exist as himself?”
