Helena nodded once—a small motion, full of possibility.
“I will reflect upon it—upon what you have said, and upon the wisdom of… speaking.”
“That is all I would ever presume to suggest.”
There was a brief silence. Then Helena said, more quietly, “Miss Ashwood… Cecilia, I am grateful. You have shown me a kindness I did not expect.”
Cecilia’s expression softened. “The gratitude is mine, Helena. You have shown me no less consideration.”
Helena bowed her head slightly—a gesture of respect, and of something nearer to affection. “You are very good.”
“I am merely returning what has been given,” Cecilia replied.
***
Cecilia retired to her room that night with her mind full of futures—her own, Sebastian’s, Helena’s—all of them uncertain and bright and terrifying in their possibility.
The pearl necklace rested warm and familiar against her throat, a thread to the past that no longer felt like a chain. Her mother had worn these pearls while building a life of her own—choosing, loving, being loved.
Now Cecilia would do the same.
She undressed slowly, almost ceremonially.
Tomorrow, she would travel to Ashworth Hall.
In three weeks, she would become a duchess.
Chapter Seventeen
The journey from Fairholme to Ashworth Hall seemed less a distance travelled than a crossing from one life into another.
Cecilia spent the hours watching the landscape change through the carriage window—the gentle hills of Lady Marchmont’s estate giving way to broader valleys, then to rolling parkland that seemed to stretch forever in every direction. The Dowager dozed beside her, untroubled by the rocking of the carriage, while Helena sat opposite, quietly reviewing correspondence.
Sebastian rode alongside on horseback, occasionally drawing close enough to the window for Cecilia to see his smile. Each glimpse of him sent a flutter through her chest—part disbelief, part joy, part terror at the magnitude of what she had agreed to.
She was going to marry him. In three weeks, she would be his wife. The Duchess of Ashworth.
The title still felt like a costume she was trying on rather than an identity she would wear for the rest of her life.
“We are nearly there,” Helena said, glancing out the window. “You may see the gates ahead.”
Cecilia leaned forward, her breath catching as Ashworth Hall came into view.
Sebastian had said the house was large. He had undersold it considerably.
The building rose from the landscape like something out of a dream—or a fairy tale, though one far grander than anything she had imagined as a child. The central structure was clearly ancient, all grey stone and Gothic arches, but wings had been added over the centuries in differing styles, creating a sprawling façade that seemed to go on forever. Towers punctuated theroofline. Windows glittered in the afternoon sun. Gardens unfurled before the house in elaborate, formal patterns, and beyond them, the parkland rolled toward distant woods.
“Goodness gracious,” Cecilia breathed.
The Dowager stirred, opening her eyes. “Ah. We have arrived.” She glanced at Cecilia’s expression and allowed herself a small smile. “It is rather overwhelming at first. One grows accustomed.”
“I am not certain I ever shall.”
“You will. It is a house, Miss Ashwood—larger than most, older than most, but a house nonetheless. It requires the same things any house requires: management, attention, care. You are more than equal to the task.”
The carriage rolled through the gates and up the long drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. Servants appeared as they approached—footmen to open the doors, maids to curtsey, a butler whose dignity might have rivalled any duke’s.
Sebastian dismounted and reached the carriage door before the footman, offering his hand to help Cecilia descend.
