Valentine’s gaze held hers. “Then it seems we know enough,” he said at last, his voice low, almost lazy. “More than many do before they are married.”
“No, Your Grace,” she argued, snapping out of whatever trance his gaze had held her captive in. “You have to marry Lucy. That was always the arrangement.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
“She’s expecting it,” Cecilia went on, rushing now. “You know as well as I do, nothing happened between us. Nothing that should change what was decided.”
Valentine squinted his eyes. “Miss Lockhart, are you truly naive, or merely pretending not to understand?”
She blinked.
“You speak of Lucy as though she’ll be the one ruined,” he said flatly. “She will not. Even if word of what transpired gets out, she will remain unharmed. In fact, society might show her pity. You, on the other hand, will be ruined.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, but he cut her off, stepping closer.
“You,” he continued, “will be the one dragged into parlor gossip. You will be the one whose honor is picked apart over tea and sherry. You, Miss Lockhart, will bear the brunt of what happened tonight whether something happened or not.”
Cecilia looked up at him. “I don’t want your pity.”
“You don’t have it,” he said plainly. “What you have is my name caught in this farce, and I am not about to let it spiral into a scandal. If rumors begin to stir, they will not come for Lucy. They will not come for Lord Lockhart. They will come for me.For you, and I have no intention of watching my name—my title, dragged through the mud because you want to do what’s noble.”
“What is wrong with being noble?” she questioned.
Valentine’s lips thinned into a line. He placed both hands behind him and tilted his chin up. “There is nothing wrong with nobility in principle, Miss Lockhart. But in practice? Nobility, when left unchecked by reason, becomes a luxury only the untouched can afford.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she answered quickly, not taking even a moment to try and understand him. From where she stood, he was simply a stubborn man, unyielding, immovable, and altogether determined to see reason only when it resembled his own.
Without warning, he stepped toward her. Cecilia’s breath caught, and her heart gave a ridiculous flutter as she instinctively stepped back. She felt the press of the air between them shift, drawn tighter somehow. His nearness did not touch her, yet it stirred something inside her that tightened her throat.
“You couldn’t possibly understand,” he said, almost in a whisper, taking another step forward. “You probably still believe that all things may be made right by good intentions. That honor is a sufficient shield.”
“And you do not?” she asked.
He met her gaze evenly but said nothing. Cecilia’s heart lurched as he took another step forward, his eyes never leaving hers. She stepped back again, compelled more by instinct than thought.
“What would you have me do?” Cecilia questioned him. “You must understand that nothing needs to change. We can take that chance. You marry Lucy as planned, and whatever happens can be dealt with in the aftermath. I don’t care much about what the ton says about me. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve spoken about my family.”
“You do not care. I cannot afford not to,” he continued, drawing closer still.
She swallowed, acutely aware of the space closing between them. But it was too late to do anything about it. Her back met the wall with a muted thud, and she froze in the spot with nowhere to go.
He stopped before her, so near she could see every detail of his face...the precise set of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple...the steady rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders, broad and solid, all but eclipsed the candlelight behind him. His eyes looked green. She could not entirely be certain unless she saw him again during the day. But there was something piercing about them. Something she had noticed from the very moment they met.
She stood perfectly still, save for the fluttering of her breath.
His voice dropped, softer now, as if the nearness between them demanded a different register. “I am not changing my mind, Miss Lockhart.”
Cecilia swallowed hard and, without thinking, she lifted a hand and placed it gently on his chest, her fingers trembling ever so slightly, willing him to create distance between them. She hated how nervous she was, hated the heat that crept up her neck, betraying her calm facade.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, eyes lifting to meet his. “Please, step back.”
The words were spoken with every ounce of decorum she could still summon, but her voice was tight. It was difficult to breathe. He was far too near, far too present. The heat of his body radiated toward her like a hearth in winter.
Valentine held her gaze for a moment longer, then wordlessly stepped aside. He walked to the door, pulled it open with a firm hand, and stood back.
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Good night, Miss Lockhart.”
She said nothing. Words would not form. Instead, she stepped past him, keeping her chin lifted and her spine straight even though her knees threatened betrayal with every step.
