“Lady Ashwood.” The Dowager’s voice was cool, pleasant—and utterly inexorable. “Miss Cecilia Ashwood attends this evening at my express encouragement.”
“Your—encouragement?” Lady Ashwood’s voice rose to a sharp, graceless pitch. “She is not—she cannot—I expressly forbade—”
“I am aware,” the Dowager replied, her smile as precise and dangerous as a blade. “Nevertheless, Miss Ashwood is here at my request, and wearing a gown of my providing, as a personal favour to me. I trust you will show her the courtesy proper to any lady under my protection.”
It was not a request. Rank, influence, and the power to ruin those who defied her were all contained in that impeccably polite sentence.
Lady Ashwood understood. Her features went rigid with suppressed rage, but she managed a tight nod.
“Of course, Your Grace. We are… gratified to see Cecilia looking so well.”
“I was certain you would be.”
The Dowager moved on, drawing Cecilia with her.
Behind them, Cecilia heard Lady Ashwood’s furious whisper to her uncle—sharp, venomous, barely contained—but she did not look back.
She was finished with looking back.
Chapter Twelve
The ballroom was magnificent.
Hundreds of candles blazed in crystal chandeliers, casting warm light over a room transformed by flowers and fabric and the ambition of Lady Marchmont’s decorating vision. Music swelled from a corner where musicians played with practised elegance. Dancers moved through the figures of a country dance, their movements precise and graceful.
And everywhere—absolutely everywhere—were people. People in fine clothes, people with fine manners, people who belonged to this world in a way Cecilia had almost forgotten she once belonged.
“I will leave you now,” the Dowager said quietly. “I have done what I can—established your presence, made clear that you have my support. The rest is up to you.”
“Wait—” Cecilia felt a surge of panic. “Where should I go? What should I do?”
“Go to the ballroom. Find my son. Let him see what you look like when you are not hiding.” The Dowager’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “He is here somewhere. He has been waiting for you, though he does not know it. Do not make him wait any longer.”
She released Cecilia’s arm and glided away, joining a group of older ladies near the refreshment table.
Cecilia stood alone at the edge of the ballroom.
For a long moment, she could not move. The noise, the lights, the press of bodies—it was overwhelming after so many years of quiet invisibility. She felt exposed, vulnerable, certain that everyone was looking at her and judging her and finding her wanting.
You are not invisible, she told herself fiercely.You have never been invisible. You have simply been hidden.
She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. Forced herself to look out at the glittering room rather than down at her own feet.
And she began to search for Sebastian.
The ballroom was vast, and the crowd was dense, and Sebastian was nowhere to be seen.
Cecilia moved slowly through the room, trying to appear purposeful rather than lost. She nodded at acquaintances—people she had glimpsed during her days at Fairholme, guests who had never looked at her when she was invisible but who now regarded her with curious, assessing eyes.
The whispers followed her like a trailing shadow.
“That is definitely the Ashwood cousin—”
“The one the Duke was rumoured to be interested in—”
“I heard she was sent home in disgrace—”
“But look at her now. That gown is clearly expensive—”
