She was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. The dance was reaching its conclusion; soon the music would end, and they would be forced to separate, to face the watching crowd, to navigate whatever came next.
“I spent five years being safe,” she said finally. “Five years being useful, being invisible, being content with survival. And I was miserable. I did not realise how miserable until I met you—until I remembered what it felt like to want something, to hope for something, to feel alive.”
“Cecilia—”
“I do not want to go back to being safe. I do not want to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had been brave enough to try.” She met his eyes. “I choose you. I choose us. Whatever comes, whatever obstacles we face—I choose this.”
The music ended. The dance was over.
But Sebastian did not release her. Did not step back, did not resume the appropriate distance, did not do any of the things propriety demanded.
Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Then let me speak to Lady Marchmont,” he said. “And let us give these people something to truly talk about.”
***
The announcement was made an hour later.
Sebastian had spoken with Lady Marchmont, with his mother, with the various social authorities whose approval—or at least acquiescence—was necessary for such a declaration. Cecilia had waited, her heart pounding, as conversations happened beyond her hearing and decisions were made that would shape the rest of her life.
Now she stood beside Sebastian at one end of the ballroom, facing a sea of faces that ranged from curious to scandalised to genuinely delighted.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sebastian said, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. “I have an announcement to make.”
The silence deepened. Even the servants stopped moving, frozen by the weight of the moment.
“I have the honour to inform you that Miss Cecilia Ashwood and I are formally betrothed.” His gaze flickered toward her—warm, unwavering. “She has bestowed upon me the greatest happiness of my life by accepting my suit.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The words hung in the air, almost visible, as the assembled guests struggled to process what they had just heard.
Then the Dowager Duchess began to applaud.
It was a slow clap, deliberate and pointed, making clear to everyone present that this match had her approval. After a moment, others joined in—tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm as they realised which way the wind was blowing.
Sebastian’s hand found Cecilia’s, squeezing gently.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “The hard part is over.”
“Is it?” She was trembling, the reality of what had just happened beginning to sink in. “I am going to be a duchess.”
“You are going to be my wife. The duchess part is merely incidental.”
“There is nothing incidental about being a duchess.”
“There is when you are married to me.” He raised their joined hands, showing them to the room. “This is what matters. You and I, together. Everything else is just... decoration.”
The applause was dying down now, replaced by excited conversation as the guests processed the extraordinary news. Cecilia could see Lady Ashwood near the refreshment table, her face a mask of barely-controlled fury. Could see Georgiana, whose expression was more complex—a flicker of anger, certainly—but layered with something quieter, almost like relief.
Could see the future opening before her, terrifying and wonderful and entirely unknown.
“I need air,” she said suddenly. “Can we—”
“Of course. Come.”
Sebastian led her toward the terrace doors, his hand warm and steady on hers. They slipped outside into the cold night, leaving the noise and heat of the ballroom behind.
The terrace was empty. Stars wheeled overhead, sharp and bright against the black sky. Cecilia took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs.
