Valentine didn’t smile, but his brow lifted slightly, like he found the question amusing. “Not always,” he replied. “But Abigail will be in attendance tomorrow, so I’d rather not leave anything to chance.”
There it was again—that name.
Cecilia gave no outward sign of recognition, but her mind stirred uncomfortably. “Abigail must be very important to you, Your Grace.”
Valentine glanced at her then, and Cecilia was surprised to see that his expression had softened a bit, in a way she hadn’t seen before. “She is,” he said quietly. “I’m a bit uneasy about her being at the wedding, truth be told. I don’t like exposing her to too many people, especially strangers.”
Cecilia tilted her head, studying him. The man who seemed so collected and precise was suddenly revealing a flicker of vulnerability. Protective didn’t quite cover it — it was something fiercer. Personal. Intimate. He loved this person and wanted to show her off to the world, but at the same time, he was being cautious about it.
A Mistress?
A gasp slipped from her lips. She blinked, startled by her own assumption. It wasn’t entirely far-fetched. Men like him, powerful, distant, often kept such…arrangements.
“Does Abigail live with you?”
The question slipped out before Cecilia could weigh its implications.
Valentine stopped. The silence that followed was as cold and immediate as a draught through a cracked window. He turned slowly, with an unreadable expression on his face at first. Then his brow furrowed, and the incredulity in his gaze hit her like a slap. It was the kind of look one gave to someone who had said something utterly absurd.
A flush rose to her cheeks, but pride overruled embarrassment. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. When he said nothing, she pushed further. “Well, does she intend to live with us after the wedding?”
The second question hung in the air too. Even before he reacted, she knew she had crossed a line. But it was too late to call it back.
Cecilia took a breath that barely filled her lungs. “I don’t care if you keep mistresses, Your Grace,” she pressed on. “It’s like you said, this is an arrangement. I have obligations I need to fulfill for you, and I’m certain these ladies would have obligations to you as well.”
“I truly don’t mind,” she continued. “But if you do, don’t insult me further by expecting them to live under the same roof as me. I might not have chosen this arrangement, but I still have pride, and I refuse to be humiliated.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cecilia saw it. That utterly confused look on Valentine’s face, as though she had suddenly become the absurd one. It was the final insult. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, jaw tightas she spun on her heel. She had no interest in continuing a conversation where she was clearly being treated like a fool. Let him keep his cryptic answers. She would not stand there and be mocked.
“Abigail is my daughter.”
Cecilia stopped in her tracks.
“She’s in her sixth year,” he continued.
Slowly, she turned around to face him. “I beg your pardon?”
Valentine stood exactly where she had left him, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “My daughter,” he repeated. “I don’t often speak about her because I don’t like exposing her to speculations, and if I seem overly protective, it’s because I am.”
Her throat went dry. “Oh.”
“Yes,” he said, almost dryly. “Oh.
She didn’t know what to say next. For the first time in days, her sharp retorts failed her. A part of her wanted to apologize, but another part, stubborn and sore, still stood on the fact that he did not pass the information clearly enough.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” she muttered, her gaze now fixed somewhere on the floor between them.
Valentine’s tone softened. “I apologize. I thought you knew. I assumed it had been mentioned at some point.”
“No,” she said sharply. “No one told me anything. You say that as though I’m supposed to know who you are or what your life contains, when in truth I know absolutely nothing about you, Your Grace. Nothing beyond your name and title.”
“There’s no need for you to know anything about me, Miss Lockhart,” he said. “This marriage is not about companionship or affection. I need someone to bear the title, and I need a mother figure for my daughter. That is all.”
A silence settled between them. Cecilia stood still, her spine straight, refusing to let her composure crack in front of him. But her chest rose and fell hurriedly.
Valentine did not speak at first. He only studied her closely, quietly. Then, slowly, he took a step toward her.
