Then another.
He stopped just close enough for her to feel the shift in the tension between them. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “But was that jealousy I sensed, Miss Lockhart?”
“Jealousy?” she repeated as a small, incredulous laugh escaped her. “You think I was jealous?”
He tilted his head slightly. “You demand that I keep my ‘mistress’ away from our home.”
Cecilia’s hands clenched at her sides. “It was not personal. It was principled. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His brow arched.
She took a step back, more flustered than she cared to admit. “In a situation like that, I would not care what you do with your life, Your Grace. But if I’m to be part of your household, I expect at least the basic dignity of not having to share a roof with mistresses.”
“Ah!” He nodded.
Cecilia crossed her arms, chin lifted. “It is about appearances, respect, and some degree of civility.”
Valentine regarded her for a moment, as though weighing her words against something invisible only he could see. Then he stepped closer. “Thankfully, this is not the case,” he started by saying. “However, I feel the need to remind you, Miss Lockhart, that this will be a marriage of convenience. We agreed to that, did we not?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You agreed to it. I was given no such choice.”
“That may be so,” he replied. “But you accepted it, and with that acceptance comes an understanding. You must not have expectations.”
“Expectations?” she scoffed, taking a step back as though he had insulted her. “What expectations do you imagine I harbor?”
He smiled then. “The kind that makes you jealous of a name. Or imagine mistresses hiding behind doors that do not exist. The kind that grows when you are not careful, until they become feelings, and feelings have no place in this arrangement. The only person you will ever need to bond with would be my daughter, Abigail.”
She stared at him, truly stared at him and her moment went dry in that moment.
“You think I would fall in love with you,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.
Valentine merely looked at her, one brow lifted. “That would be unwise,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t end well.”
Cecilia’s pride flared. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to cool the heat rising in her chest. “Trust me, Your Grace,” she said. “Nothing could be more unthinkable.”
He smiled again. This time, it was real. Almost dangerous. “All right. I’ll see you at the altar, Miss Lockhart.”
Cecilia stood frozen, with her arms still crossed, as he walked out of the room. Slowly, she let her arms fall and moved to the nearest chair, sitting down with a heaviness that startled even her.
Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them, but she blinked them back furiously and swiped one away before it could fall. This was not the life she had dreamed of. Not the kind of romance she had once foolishly imagined after hearing many stories. But it was her life now, and she would have to learn to live it. To endure it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“How many letters did you send to the Hemroad residence in the last four days, Cecilia?”
The question came as Howard stood behind her, adjusting his cravat.
Cecilia didn’t turn around. Her gaze remained fixed on the window before her, watching the guests arrive. “Four,” she replied quietly. “No, five. I tried again last night.”
There was a pause before a deep breath came from her father. “You’ll become a bother at this point.”
Guilt still clung to Cecilia like a second skin. It felt damp, uncomfortable, and impossible to peel off. Every day since the announcement and since her engagement had been made public, Cecilia had written to Lucy. Apologies. Explanations. Pleas. But none had been answered. Not a word, not even from Marianne, to say Lucy refused them.
“You need to give Lucy time and space, Cecilia. She’ll be fine. You both will be. Right now, you need to concentrate on your wedding. It’s a beautiful day, wouldn’t you agree?” Howard said to her.
The only thing beautiful about the day was her wedding gown. The dress, custom-made by Madame Dervaux herself, fit her with flawless precision, hugging her frame in a way that made her look like she belonged to this life of opulence. But she didn’t feel like she belonged, not in this gown, not in this story.
It was clear that a great deal of thought had gone into creating the bodice. It was embroidered to perfection. Tiny cap sleeves kissed her shoulders, and the lace overlay fell in sweeping patterns down her arms and across her neck like frost on glass. The skirt was full but not heavy, layers of tulle and silk billowing softly around her feet, trimmed with whisper-thin lace. Her hair was swept up and pinned with a few white blossoms that matched the ones in her bouquet. The veil hadn’t been lowered yet, so it sat perched on her head like a crown of clouds, waiting.
