“That is unfair,” Penelope said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “You cannot possibly know Athena's motivations –”
“Can I not?” Cecil's eyes bored into hers, and she saw something in them – hurt, anger, something deeper she could not name. “Tell me, Lady Penelope – do you believe Athena has never made a mistake? Never ruined an innocent person's reputation based on incomplete information? Or does Athena believe herself infallible, above reproach?”
The question hit too close to home, reminding her of Cecil's words in the carriage – his insinuation about scandal and ruin.
Have you ever touched yourself?
The memory sent a flush of heat through her entire body – shame and something else, something darker and more confusing. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though Cecil could see right through her.
“Excuse me,” she said abruptly, rising from her seat so quickly her chair scraped against the floor, the sound harsh in the suddenly quiet room. “I find I am not feeling well.”
She did not wait for a response before turning and fleeing the dining room, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
Penelope made it to the library before the tears came.
The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles burning in wall sconces. She was grateful for the darkness, for the privacy. She was furious – at Cecil for embarrassing her, at herself for letting him get under her skin, at the entire ridiculous situation she had found herself in.
She paced the length of the room, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her heated cheeks. How dare he? How dare he sit there and insult her – insult Athena – in front of everyone?
And yet, beneath the anger, there was something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like shame.
Because he was right, was he not? Who was she to decide what was best for other people? Who was she to judge Cecil's intentions, to interfere in his courtship with Jane?
Even if her intentions had been good, even if she had been trying to protect Jane – she had still presumed to know better than everyone else. She had still played God with other people's lives.
“Damn him,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice breaking. “Damn him for making me doubt myself. Damn him for seeing through me so easily.”
The door opened behind her, and Penelope whirled around, her heart sinking as she saw who had followed her.
Cecil stood in the doorway; his expression unreadable in the dim light. His cravat was slightly loosened, his hair dishevelled as though he had been running his hands through it.
“Get out,” she said coldly, trying to infuse steel into her voice even as it shook. “I do not wish to speak with you.”
Cecil stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded unnaturally loud.
“I think we need to talk,” he said quietly.
Cecil had not meant to follow her.
Or rather, he had not meant to care that she had fled the dining room looking as though he had struck her. He had not meant tofeel the immediate surge of regret that had twisted his gut the moment she disappeared through the doorway.
But the moment Penelope vanished, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest – something that felt disturbingly like regret. Like guilt.
He had excused himself moments later, ignoring the curious glances from the other guests. Lord Lockwood had looked particularly concerned, half-rising from his seat as though he might follow as well. Cecil had shot him a look that made him sink back down.
He had found her in the library, pacing like a caged animal, her hands pressed to her flushed cheeks. In the dim candlelight, she looked younger, more vulnerable. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
He was not surprised when his request to speak with her was met with immediate refusal.
“Talk?” Penelope let out a bitter laugh that made something in his chest ache. “You mean the way you 'talked' at dinner? Insulting me in front of everyone? Making me look like a fool?”
“I was not insulting you,” Cecil said, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were not entirely true. “I was merely pointing out the flaws in Athena's approach –”
“You were being cruel,” Penelope cut him off, her eyes flashing with pain and anger. “And you knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to hurt me, and you succeeded. Are you satisfied?”
Cecil opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. She was right. He had been cruel. He had seen her laughing with Lord Lockwood, had seen the way her face lit up when she spoke about poetry, had seen how comfortable she looked with him – and something dark and possessive had risen in him.
He had wanted to provoke a reaction, to remind her of their arrangement, to see that fire in her eyes directed at him instead of warm admiration directed at Lord Lockwood. And he had succeeded.
