“You work too much.”
“That is hardly a revelation,” he laughed.
“I mean it! You rise before dawn, and you retire long after everyone else. You have not taken a full day for yourself since you became Duke.”
“That is the position.”
“No,” Philippa said firmly. “That is how you have chosen to bear it.”
He said nothing. She reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly.
“Cassandra does not make you weaker. She makes you human.”
He withdrew his hand gently, but he did not dismiss the sentiment.
“I do not know whether that is something I can afford.”
Philippa smiled at him, bright and unafraid.
“I think you cannot afford not to.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and saw not the child he felt responsible for protecting but a young woman with her own insight, her own quiet strength. While he had not been watching, she had grown up, and though he knew he had to respect that, he could not help but feel an innate fear that he was going to ruin her.
They returned home for dinner, and an idea formed in George’s mind. His grandmother had seemed intent on keeping him from Lady Cassandra that afternoon, but it was his household. If he wanted something, then it was his decision to be made and respected.
And so, at dinner that evening, the long table gleamed with silver and candlelight, and the guests were arranged once more with careful consideration. When he took his seat, Cassandra was already there, her place set beside his.
He did not comment on it, nor did she.
The meal began with the usual formalities, conversation flowing in measured currents. He noticed his grandmother watching him, her brow furrowed, but he did not acknowledge her.
“The library at Sherton is impressive,” Lady Cassandra said, examining her glass. “Though I suspect that half of the volumes are decorative.”
“Only a third,” he replied. “The rest are badly catalogued.”
“That explains it.”
They spoke of small things; the grounds, the weather, Philippa’s enthusiasm for hosting, anything but what lingered unspoken between them.
Her laughter was quiet, unguarded, and as they spoke he noticed what Philippa had said about the changes in him. They were undeniable, and though he could not say he disliked them, it did unsettle him to know they existed.
Across the table, Lady Sylvia watched them with thinly veiled displeasure. The Dowager’s gaze lingered as well, sharp and assessing. George did not acknowledge either. As the courses ended and the guests began to disperse, chairs scraping softly against the floor, Cassandra did not rise at once.
Neither did he.
The room emptied gradually, voices fading as people withdrew to the drawing rooms or retired for the night. At last, only a handful remained. George became acutely aware of the space between them, or rather, the lack of it.
“You did not leave,” Cassandra said softly.
“Nor did you.”
She glanced at him. “I thought you might wish to.”
“I find that I do not.”
The admission surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise her. They sat in silence for a moment, not uncomfortable. When at last they rose together, it felt less like coincidence than choice,and George, who prided himself on intention, could not quite decide whether that realization unsettled or steadied him.
They moved to the smaller sitting room, the space quiet. Lady Cassandra was the one to break the silence.
