“After this dance,” she said softly, “what happens?”
“Supper. More conversation. More felicitations. At last the evening will end, and we must part—you to the rooms my mother has arranged, I to mine.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we begin the work of building a life together. There will be announcements to draft, settlements to consider, arrangements to make.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It will be. But we shall meet it together.” He smiled. “And when all is done—when the obstacles are surmounted and the negotiations concluded—we shall have something few people ever possess.”
“What is that?”
“A partnership. A true partnership—founded on honesty, respect, and the knowledge that we chose one another, not from duty or convenience, but because we could not choose otherwise.”
The music ended. The dance was done.
Sebastian bowed, and she curtseyed—the formality of the gesture at odds with the warmth that passed between them. He offered his arm, and she placed her hand upon it as they left the floor together. He kept her close—a fraction nearer than strict propriety required—guiding her toward the supper room with calm, unmistakable purpose.
The message lay not in touch, but in carriage, in the surety of his step and the steadiness of his gaze.
This woman is mine. I have chosen her. I shall not let her go.
Cecilia felt it in the quiet emphasis of his manner, in the proud set of his shoulders, in the way he looked at her when he thought she did not see.
She understood.
She felt the same.
***
Supper was served in a grand dining room adjoining the ballroom, the tables arranged to accommodate the multitude ofguests. Sebastian guided Cecilia to seats near the head of the room, establishing her place at his side without speaking a word.
Lady Ashwood was seated nearby—close enough to observe, far enough to avoid conversation. Her expression throughout the meal was a study in controlled fury: a polite smile whenever anyone looked her way, her true sentiments surfacing only when she believed herself unobserved.
Georgiana sat beside her mother, uncharacteristically silent. She had neither approached Cecilia nor attempted confrontation or congratulation since their brief exchange of glances in the ballroom. Cecilia could not decide what to make of her cousin’s restraint. It was unlike Georgiana to hold her tongue when provoked.
The meal unfolded through course after course—soups and fish, meats and vegetables, sweets and savouries in the profusion befitting so grand an occasion. Conversation eddied around the table: politics, gossip, and—inevitably—the subject of Sebastian’s astonishing engagement.
“You must tell us how you met,” Lady Arabella Worthington urged, leaning forward with avid curiosity. “From the very beginning.”
A flicker of panic rose in Cecilia’s chest. The truth—that they had met because she had been borrowing books in the library without permission—did not seem fit for such company.
“We became acquainted at the beginning of the house party,” Sebastian said smoothly. “Miss Ashwood was visiting Lady Marchmont’s library, and I happened to be there at the same time. We discovered a shared interest in certain academic subjects and began a conversation.”
“Academic subjects?” Lady Arabella’s nose wrinkled. “How very odd. What sort of subjects?”
“Agricultural improvement, chiefly. Miss Ashwood possesses a most impressive understanding of estate management.”
“Agricultural improvement.” Lady Arabella exchanged a look with the lady beside her. “How… unusual.”
“Unusual, perhaps. But invaluable.” Sebastian’s tone remained pleasant, though steel threaded through it. “I find intellectual engagement infinitely preferable to the alternative.”
Colour rose in Lady Arabella’s cheeks, and she returned her attention to her plate.
Gratitude warmed Cecilia—gratitude, and something deeper. Sebastian had defended her openly, without hesitation, and had done so in a manner that declared her interests merits, not defects.
“Thank you,” she murmured beneath the renewed hum of conversation.
