“Yes,” she said. “I will let you.”
He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it—a promise rather than a claim—and she felt the last of her fear begin to loosen.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
Chapter Fifteen
The Ashwoods departed Fairholme at noon.
Cecilia learned of their departure from Helena, who brought the news along with a freshly pressed dress and a warning.
“Lady Ashwood has requested to see you before they leave. The Dowager has agreed to the meeting, but she insists on being present.”
“My aunt wants to see me?”
“I imagine there are things she wishes to say—things that could not be said in public last night.” Helena’s expression was carefully neutral. “You are not obliged to meet her. The Dowager will support your refusal.”
Cecilia considered. The thought of facing Lady Ashwood made her stomach knot with old, familiar tension. For five years, this woman had held power over her—had dictated the terms of her existence, could have cast her out at a whim.
But that power was gone now.
“I will meet with her,” Cecilia said. “I want to.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. If I refuse, she will believe she still has the power to frighten me. I would prefer she understand that she does not.”
Something like approval flickered in Helena’s eyes. “Very well. The meeting is in the small parlour in half an hour. I will see that you are ready.”
The small parlour was modest by Fairholme’s standards—a room meant for private conversations rather than display. Lady Ashwood was already seated when Cecilia entered, her posture rigid, her expression composed only through visible effort.
The Dowager stood near the window, observing in silence.
“Cecilia,” Lady Ashwood said coolly. “How gracious of you to grant me an audience.”
“Aunt.” Cecilia kept her voice even. “You wished to speak with me.”
“I wished,” Lady Ashwood said, each word precise, “to understand how you accomplished this… arrangement. One moment you were a dependent under my roof, and the next you were engaged to a duke. I confess myself curious about the means you employed.”
“There were no ‘means.’ The Duke and I became acquainted during the house party. Our acquaintance developed into something more.”
“Acquaintance,” Lady Ashwood repeated, with a brittle laugh. “What a delicate word. I might choose another—several others, in fact—none appropriate to polite conversation.”
“I should be careful about the words you choose.” The Dowager’s voice cut cleanly across the room—quiet, but absolute. “Miss Ashwood is to be my daughter-in-law. Any insult to her is an insult to me.”
Colour drained, then flooded back into Lady Ashwood’s face. She had not expected intervention.
“I intended no insult, Your Grace. I merely—”
“You merely wished to voice your displeasure at being thwarted,” the Dowager said pleasantly. “That is understandable. It is not, however, a license to be ungracious. Choose your words with greater care.”
Silence settled—taut, brittle.
Lady Ashwood swallowed. “Very well. I will speak plainly.” Her gaze returned to Cecilia. “For five years, you remained in my house by my indulgence. You were housed, clothed, and fed—treated as a member of the family, though you had no claim to such generosity.”
“I was treated as a servant,” Cecilia replied quietly. “Made to feel that my presence was a burden—a favour that might be withdrawn at any time.”
“That is not—”
