Lady Ashford turned to him with a practiced smile. “Your Grace?”
“My Duchess,” William said, “gained nothing from that morning that she had not already earned.” He was looking at Lady Ashford directly, with the absolute certainty of a man who had chosen a position and was entirely comfortable in it. His voice had still not risen. It did not need to. “She found a man in difficulty and acted with more courage and more decency than most people would have managed. The morning was not fortunate for her. It was fortunate forme.”
Lady Ashford’s smile held, but only just. “I only meant–”
“I know what you meant.” He said it without heat, without any of the dramatic edge that would have made it a scene. “And I want to be equally clear about what I mean.”
His gaze moved briefly around the table, not in threat but with the particular steadiness of a man ensuring he had been heard by everyone in the room.
“My wife’s character is not a subject I will allow to be discussed in those terms. Not here. Not anywhere else.” He paused, and his voice grew firmer. “By anyone.”
The room fell quiet.
Lord Ashford cleared his throat and looked at his plate.
Lady Ashford inclined her head with the careful grace of someone doing the only available thing. “Of course. I spoke without thinking. I apologize, Your Grace.” She addressed it to William.
William looked at Cecily.
Cecily looked at Lady Ashford. “Thank you,” she said pleasantly and with complete composure, which she thought was probably the most devastating thing she could have done. “Shall we move on?”
The conversation resumed around her, tentatively at first, and then with the gathering momentum of a table full of people whohad decided that the most dignified response to what had just happened was to behave as though it had not happened, which suited her perfectly.
He did not have to do that.
That was the first thing that came to mind.
William did not have to say anything. She had been about to answer—she had an answer ready—and he had intervened anyway. Not because she was incapable, not because he needed to feign protectiveness before the entire room, but because he had watched Lady Ashford open her mouth and something in him had simply decided.
“The morning was not fortunate for her. It was fortunate for me.”
She reached for her water. Took a sip. Set it down with the careful deliberation of a woman giving her hands something to do while her mind did something else entirely till the dinner ended.
The carriage was brought around at half past ten. Lady Ashford saw them out with a warmth that was entirely reconstructed and entirely convincing, and Cecily matched it with equal conviction. The two of them smiled at each other on the front steps with the cheerful cordiality of women who had understood each other perfectly all evening.
William handed her in and followed. The ensuing silence lasted perhaps thirty seconds.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Cecily said.
“I know.”
“I had an answer.”
“I know that, too.”
She looked at him. He was watching the street, his profile in the lamplight clean and composed. He did not seem to feel the need to add anything, which was its own kind of maddening.
“Then why?” she asked.
He turned to look at her then. The lamplight caught his eyes—that specific green, direct as ever.
“Because she had no right to say it,” he said. “And because I was not going to sit four chairs down and watch her say it and do nothing.” A pause. “That is all.”
“That is not a small thing.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Especially given our circumstances.” He looked back at the window. “But it is a simple one.”
She sat with that for a moment. The carriage turned.
