“You make it sound almost simple.”
“Not simple. Merely possible. And that is enough for me.”
She lifted a hand and traced the familiar planes of his face—the strong jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the hint of a smile fighting its way to the surface.
“I do not deserve you,” she whispered.
“That is not your decision to make. And I might argue the opposite.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “We deserve each other. We chose each other. That is what matters.”
A knock sounded at the library door. They stepped apart—not in guilt, but with the quiet composure of two people who had nothing to conceal.
“Enter,” Sebastian called.
Helena appeared, her expression properly neutral, though her eyes betrayed a glimmer of amusement.
“Your Grace, Miss Ashwood. Her Grace asks that you join the party in the dining room,” she said. “Dinner will be served shortly, and there are wedding matters requiring immediate discussion.”
“‘Immediate’?” Cecilia echoed.
“Her Grace’s word,” Helena replied mildly.
Cecilia glanced at him. “Shall we face it together?”
“Always.”
They followed Helena through Fairholme’s corridors. The house was quieter now; most of the guests had already departed after the ball, leaving a diminished company at Lady Marchmont’s table. Conversation drifted from distant rooms, softened by carpets and high ceilings.
The principal dining room was prepared for a reduced party—not crowded, but far from intimate—a length of table shining beneath candlelight, with several places occupied and more left discreetly vacant, while Lady Marchmont presided with gracious composure.
“Ah,” the Dowager said as they approached, setting aside a folded sheet of correspondence. “There you are. I feared Fairholme’s library had swallowed you whole.”
“Our apologies,” Sebastian said lightly. “We were talking.”
“I imagine there is a good deal of that to be done,” Lady Marchmont observed, smiling. “Pray be seated. There will be ample opportunity for further conversation once the soup has been served.”
Dinner proceeded with the polite murmur of a diminished house party. Only when the servants had withdrawn with the first course did the Dowager incline her head slightly—not to command, but to signal a shift in conversation.
“Since we are soon to leave Fairholme,” she said, “we must consider the practical arrangements ahead. Chief among them is the timeline. The banns must be read on three successive Sundays. If they begin this week, the earliest possible date is three weeks hence.”
“Three weeks?” Cecilia’s voice lifted despite her effort to contain it. “That seems… very soon.”
“It is efficient. There is no reason to delay—you are both of age, both willing, and the settlement negotiations should be straightforward given that Miss Ashwood brings no fortune to the match.” The Dowager’s tone was matter-of-fact, without malice. “Unless you object?”
Cecilia looked to Sebastian.
“Do you?”
“Not in the least,” he said quietly. “I would marry you tomorrow if I could.”
“It is not possible,” the Dowager reminded him, a faint curve at her mouth. “The banns must be read. Three weeks, then. The ceremony should be at Ashworth Hall—the family chapel is customary. Arrangements may be completed once we arrive.”
“How many guests?” Sebastian asked.
“That depends on how public an occasion you desire. A small ceremony—family and close friends—would require perhaps thirty. A larger one—what the world expects of a duke—significantly more.”
“Small,” Cecilia said, before she could stop herself. “Please. I cannot—” She faltered.
“Small,” Sebastian said firmly. “This isourwedding, and we will have it as we wish.”
