She hesitated, then chose honesty.
“Because I am tired of assuming the worst. And because I think there is more to you than you allow anyone to see.”
For a moment, she thought he might say something real. Something unguarded. Instead, he straightened.
“You do not need to understand me,” he said. “Understanding does not change our obligation.”
“It might change how one bears it,” she countered.
“This is not a conversation you need to involve yourself in.”
The words were not sharp, but they landed heavily.
“I thought you wanted me to come to you,” she said quietly. “You said as much.”
“Within reason.”
“And this exceeds it?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said, though she did not, not entirely.
The distance returned all at once, measured and deliberate. Cassandra felt it keenly. She rose slowly, smoothing her skirts, giving him the space he so clearly required. At the door, she paused.
“You carry more than you admit,” she said. “And you expect yourself to carry it alone. That may be duty, but it is not strength.”
He did not turn. Cassandra walked away with the unsettling certainty that whatever George was guarding so fiercely, it was not indifference, but something far more vulnerable.
The following morning unfolded with careful efficiency.
Breakfast passed under the watchful eye of the Dowager, servants moving briskly as guests prepared for the excursion into the nearby village. There was an air of anticipation about the day, a sense that this outing was meant to encourage goodwill.
Cassandra dressed and descended with the others, outwardly composed, inwardly restless. They gathered in the courtyard before setting off, carriages arranged in neat order. Voices rose and fell, laughter sounding a little too deliberate. Cassandra stood slightly apart, watching the movement around her, when Lady Sylvia approached.
“You seem distracted,” Sylvia said pleasantly.
“I am not particularly fond of crowds.”
“And yet today offers you everything. You shall be seen by the entire village, and so you can make your first impression.”
Cassandra studied her. She was dressed almost too well for such an excursion, but she looked undeniably beautiful.
“Is that a warning or an encouragement?”
“Neither,” Sylvia replied. “A question, perhaps. Why do you seem so determined to throw this away?”
“Throw what away?” Cassandra asked.
“This,” Sylvia said, gesturing subtly toward the carriages, the estate beyond, the future implied by both. “An opportunity others would kill for.”
Cassandra exhaled slowly.
“Because a title is not a home.”
“Then clearly you underestimate what all of this offers.”
“I know exactly what it offers,” Cassandra said.
