The morning sun cast a pleasant glow over the Fenwell estate as Cecil stepped down from his carriage, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. He had arrived earlier than was likely considered proper for a social call, but punctuality had never been a particular concern of his. And besides, it would look good for him if he appeared eager – overzealous, even, in his pursuit of Miss Fenwell.
The butler who answered the door regarded him with the sort of polite deference Cecil had learned was reserved for dukes, bowing deeply before murmuring that he would alert Miss Fenwell to her visitor's arrival. Cecil nodded, stepping into the entrance hall and clasping his hands behind his back as the servant disappeared down a hallway.
Alone in the foyer, Cecil allowed his gaze to wander over the modest but tasteful décor. The Fenwells were not wealthy by aristocratic standards, but they maintained their home well enough. It would do. Everything about this match would do.
He exhaled slowly, a sense of satisfaction settling over him as he considered how smoothly things were progressing. Jane Fenwell was precisely what he needed – sensible, agreeable, and utterly undemanding. She did not simper or bat her eyelashes at him the way so many young ladies did, nor did she seem particularly interested in grand romantic gestures. More than anything, she was practical, which suited him perfectly.
And she was lovely enough, he supposed, in that quiet, understated way some men preferred. Soft features and a gentle disposition. When the time came, their children would be perfectly acceptable in appearance, at the very least.
It was a sensible arrangement. A smart decision.
The sooner he could settle this matter and be done with it, the better. If he waited too long, if he allowed himself too much time to consider alternatives, he might slip back into old habits – the sort of habits that were entirely inappropriate for a duke seeking to establish his legacy.
Jane Fenwell was the obvious choice. She would make a perfectly adequate duchess.
Cecil's thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps, and he turned to see Jane entering the foyer. She was dressed in a pale green day dress, her hair arranged neatly in a bun at the base. He offered her a warm smile, the sort that usually put young ladies at ease.
“Miss Fenwell,” he greeted, bowing. “Good morning.”
“Your Grace,” she replied, curtsying.
Almost immediately, Cecil could tell that something was different. Her voice was cooler than it had been the night before, and she did not quite meet his eyes. Cecil's smile faltered slightly, though he maintained his pleasant expression.
“I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time,” he said smoothly, watching her carefully.
“Not at all,” Jane replied, though her tone suggested otherwise.
There was an awkward pause, and Cecil found himself uncharacteristically uncertain. He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the windows that overlooked the garden.
“It is a truly wonderful day, is it not? The weather could not be more perfect. Perhaps we might take a walk in your lovely garden? I noticed the roses are in bloom.”
Jane hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Very well, Your Grace.”
They made their way outside, and Cecil fell into step beside her as they began to stroll along the gravel path. The garden was indeed pleasant – well-maintained, with carefully tended flower beds and neatly trimmed hedges. But even the attractive view could hardly distract from the growing sense that something was amiss.
Clearing his throat, Cecil adopted what he knew to be his most charming tone before he spoke up.
“I must confess, I enjoyed myself immensely last night. I had not expected you to be quite the dancer, Miss Fenwell. You move with such grace.”
Jane's expression remained stiff, her gaze fixed on the path ahead as she quietly responded.
“My mother loved to dance. She made sure I was given as many lessons as possible, so that I would not accidentally trip and embarrass myself at social events.”
Cecil laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. “Well, her efforts were certainly not in vain. You were the finest dancer at the ball.”
But Jane did not smile. She did not even glance at him. The laughter died in his throat, and a flicker of unease settled in his chest.
Perhaps another tactic could be employed then, he thought, deciding to steer the conversation in a different direction.
“Miss Fenwell,” he began, keeping his voice gentle, “Dancing is clearly a skill you possess in abundance. But tell me, is it a particular interest of yours? Do you have others –”
“I do not wish to continue our courtship, Your Grace.”
The words came out in a rush, cutting him off mid–sentence. Cecil stopped walking, a frown etched across his features as he turned to face her fully. Jane had stopped as well, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, shoulders tense.
“I beg your pardon?” he said slowly.
Jane took a deep breath, and he could see that it was taking considerable effort for her to speak. Her voice trembled slightly as she continued.
