“Yes.”
“But she was—Mother said she was—”
“Apparently, plans have changed.”
Sebastian was already moving. Without conscious thought, without consideration of the crowd or the whispers or the social implications, he was walking toward her—crossing the ballroom as though drawn by some force he could not resist.
They met in the middle of the room. The dancers swirled around them, the music continued, but for Sebastian, there was nothing but her.
“You came,” he said.
“I came.”
“I did not think—my mother said she would attempt it, but I scarcely dared to believe—” He broke off, shook his head, searching for words equal to the moment. “You are here. You are truly here.”
“I am.” Her voice trembled, though her gaze remained steady. “Your mother can be remarkably persuasive.”
“My mother is… a force of nature.” He could not cease looking at her—the silver sheen of her gown, the soft lustre of the pearls, the faint colour in her cheeks. “You are beautiful.”
“I am terrified.”
“You do not appear so. You look… magnificent.”
“I have become very adept at concealing terror. I have had years of practice.” She managed a small, wavering smile. “I was told this is your mother’s gown.”
“It was. It is yours now.” He stepped closer, close enough to touch if he dared. “Cecilia—”
“I know.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “I know what this appears to be. I know what people will say. I know that, by coming here, I have made a declaration that cannot easily be recalled.”
“And what is it you have declared?”
She was silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Around them, the whispers intensified—the entire room had noticed their conversation, was watching with avid interest, was already constructing narratives and drawing conclusions.
“I have declared,” she said finally, “that I am done hiding. Done being invisible. Done pretending that I want nothing and expect nothing and am content with crumbs from other people’s tables.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want you,” she said simply. “I want a life with you—whatever that looks like, whatever it costs, whatever obstacles society puts in our path. I want mornings that begin with you, conversations that challenge and comfort in equal measure, and a future we shape together—one that could not exist without the two of us.”
Sebastian felt something crack open in his chest—some wall he had not known he was maintaining, some defence he had built without realising.
“I have spent a long time being miserable,” he said. “Endless days of wondering whether I should ever see you again—whether you would write—whether you might, at last, find the courage to return to me. I have been irritable, distracted, and quite unbearable to everyone about me, because the only person I wished to see was gone, and I did not know if she would ever come back.”
“I am here now.”
“Yes.” His voice softened. “You are.”
He reached out—slowly, allowing her every chance to withdraw. His fingers brushed her cheek, the faintest possible touch, and she went very still. “Cecilia… I love you. I wish to marry you. I care nothing for society’s opinion—nor for expectations, nor for plans made on my behalf. Whatever stands between us, I would have you—only you—for the rest of my life.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “You cannot say such things in the middle of a ballroom.”
“I may say whatever I please. I am a duke.” He smiled—a true smile, the first since she had left Fairholme. “May I have this dance?”
Around them, the whispers had reached a fever pitch. Every eye in the room was upon them—watching, speculating, waiting to see what would happen next.
Cecilia looked at his extended hand. Looked at the watching crowd. Looked at the future that was opening before her like a door she had thought forever closed.
“Yes,” she said. “You may.”
