“Welcome to Ashworth Hall,” he said, and there was something in his voice—pride, certainly, but also a thread of vulnerability. He wanted her to love this place. He feared she might not.
“It is beautiful,” she said—and meant it.
“Wait until you see the inside. And the gardens. And the library—” He stopped himself, laughing softly. “I am getting ahead of myself. Let me show you to your rooms first. You must be exhausted from the journey.”
“I want to see everything.”
“And you shall. But perhaps not all in one afternoon.” He offered his arm. “Come. Allow me to introduce you to your new home.”
***
The interior of Ashworth Hall was, if anything, more impressive than the exterior.
Sebastian led her through a grand entrance hall dominated by a sweeping staircase and what appeared to be centuries of ancestral portraits. The faces that looked down at her were uniformly severe—men in armour, men in wigs, men in the elaborate dress of various eras—and Cecilia felt acutely aware that she was being judged by the dead as well as the living.
“You will grow used to them,” Sebastian said, following her gaze. “I scarcely notice them now.”
“They look disapproving.”
“They always look disapproving. I think it was a requirement for portrait sittings. ‘Hold still and look as though someone has just insulted your horse.’”
He smiled at her surprised laugh. “Come. The family wing is this way.”
They walked through corridors lined with more paintings, past rooms that seemed to multiply the further they went. Drawing rooms, sitting rooms, a music room with a magnificent pianoforte, a breakfast room bathed in morning light, a formal dining room that might have seated fifty with room to spare.
“The library is through there,” Sebastian said, nodding toward a pair of double doors. “I am saving it for last. I wish to see your face when you enter.”
“You are teasing me.”
“I am cultivating anticipation. There is a distinction.”
They climbed the grand staircase to the family wing, where the corridors grew narrower but no less elegant. Sebastian stopped before a door near the end of the hall.
“These will be your rooms until the wedding,” he said. “Afterwards, you will move to the duchess’s suite, which adjoinsmine.” A faint flush rose in his cheeks. “But—that may be discussed later.”
He opened the door, and Cecilia stepped into a room that stole her breath.
It was not the grandeur that struck her—though the room was certainly grand, with high ceilings, tall windows, and furniture worth more than everything she had ever owned. It was the warmth. A fire burned in the grate, filling the space with soft, flickering light. Fresh flowers stood in a vase upon the dressing table. The bed was made up in gentle colours, inviting rather than imposing.
Someone had wished her to feel welcome. Someone had made this room ready forher.
“Do you like it?” Sebastian asked, genuine anxiety in his voice.
“I love it.” She turned to him, tears pricking her eyes. “Sebastian, it is perfect.”
“There is a sitting room through that door, and a dressing room beyond. Helena will be close at hand if you require anything, and the servants have been instructed to attend to your wishes.” He paused. “I want you to be comfortable here. I want this to feel like your home—not merely a place where you are staying.”
“It already feels more like home than Thornfield has felt in years.”
“Good.” He took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “Rest now. Recover from the journey. Tonight—after dinner—I will show you the library.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” His smile warmed. “Welcome home, Cecilia.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Cecilia stood in the centre of her beautiful room, surrounded by light and colour and the unmistakable marks of care, and allowed herself—at last—to believe that this was real.
