Cecilia took the letter and read, her stomach sinking with every line.
Dear Duke,
It is from regard for your name, and in remembrance of my long friendship with your late father, that I venture to write upon a matter of some delicacy. Reports have reached town concerning your recent engagement—reports of so alarming a character that I should think myself remiss were I to remain silent.
It is widely stated that Miss Ashwood, far from being the suitable connection your rank and family might justly anticipate, is a young woman of doubtful propriety, who contrived, by artful conduct, to recommend herself to your notice. I am further given to understand that she sought your company with a perseverance scarcely compatible with modest behaviour, arranging private interviews and permitting attentions which no lady of honour would have encouraged.
There is even speculation that these manoeuvres were not without design; that, having failed in former attempts to secure an advantageous establishment, she fixed her views upon your title as her final resort.
I repeat none of this with any desire to wound, but from an earnest wish to preserve you from a connection which, if these accounts bear any truth, could not but prove injurious to your family’s reputation, and unworthy of your father’s memory. I would therefore entreat you to consider most seriously whether the engagement ought to proceed.
I remain,
Your obedient servant,
Jones
Cecilia set the letter down, her hands trembling.
“My aunt,” she said quietly. “It has to be. She is the only one who would—”
“I know.” Sebastian’s voice was tight with contained fury. “She has been circulating lies through London drawing rooms. This is not the only letter—my mother received two this morning. I expect others will follow.”
“What do they say?”
“Much the same. That you entrapped me. That you schemed for my title. That you arranged clandestine meetings and encouraged improper intimacies.” His jaw hardened. “That you are unfit to be a duchess.”
The words struck like blows. Cecilia had expected anger—resentment, even. But this—this cold, methodical campaign to ruin her reputation before all the world—went beyond anything she had ever endured.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
“We answer. We expose her lies.”
“How?”
“My word should be enough. I am a duke—”
“And she is positioning herself as the wronged party. The generous relative who took in a poor orphan, only to have that orphan betray her trust and steal the match that should have gone to her daughter.” Cecilia’s voice was bitter. “It is a compelling narrative. People will want to believe it.”
Sebastian knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “I do not care what people believe. I know the truth. My mother knows the truth. Everyone who matters knows the truth.”
“But everyone who matters,” she murmured, “is not everyone.” She rose and moved to the window. “What happens while the lies spread? While invitations vanish? While your name suffers for my sake?”
“That will not happen.”
“You cannot promise that.” She stared at the gardens without seeing them. “Perhaps it would be better if—”
“Do not.” His voice cut sharply through the air. “Do not finish that thought. I will not hear it.”
“You cannot stop me from thinking—”
“I can stop you from sacrificing yourself to Lady Ashwood’s spite.” He turned her gently toward him. “Cecilia. Look at me.”
She did.
“I love you,” he said. “I chose you. I will go on choosing you—no matter what is written, whispered, or believed. If society shuts its doors, we will build our own. I will not lose you to a lie.”
“But your family—”
