“What about me?” she asked softly, almost against her will.
Valentine’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look at her. “You are the Duchess of Ashbourne. That is not a trifle. I told you once before that this is a marriage of convenience.”
Cecilia said nothing at first. She merely watched him, this maddening, unreadable man, whose every word seemed chosen to keep her at arm’s length. In that moment, she realized that she had no reason to be upset. It was all communicated to her before they ever got married.
Although she feared the expectations of family, of duty, of legacy, she could hardly press for a future that was never meant to be hers, not when this marriage had been born of a misunderstanding, not intention.
It wasn’t even a marriage she wanted to begin with. Why hold on to anything?
She loved children. Truly, she did. Having grown up in a noisy household with younger siblings clinging to her skirts and crawling into her bed during storms, she had been more nursemaid than sister long before she ever had the title for it. But while affection for them came naturally, the idea of having children of her own had never quite settled in her mind. It had always been a conversation for other women, those who dreamed of nurseries and names. Those who had prepared their minds for the journey long before they got married.
She could, she supposed, pour her attentions into Abigail, Valentine’s daughter. The girl seemed spirited. There would be satisfaction in winning her over, in nurturing something tender there. Cecilia had never been adept at softness, but for a child, perhaps she could learn.
“You’re quiet,” Valentine noticed, walking back to her side. “Are you starting to regret agreeing to this arrangement?”
Cecilia turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. “I regret assuming it would make more sense up close,” she said crisply. “But the more I try to understand, the more ridiculous it all seems.”
Her response earned a faint twitch of his brow. “Ridiculous?”
“You don’t want an heir,” she said, counting on her fingers. “You don’t want a partner. You certainly don’t want a wife in any meaningful sense. You do not want companionship, or conversation, or even the appearance of warmth. If all yousought was a stable household and someone to care for your daughter, you might have hired a governess.”
Valentine’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
She pressed on. “I know I have asked you this question multiple times before with no clear answer, but I’ll ask again. Why marry? Why drag someone else into a life you have so clearly walled off for yourself?”
Valentine exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. His gaze slid away from her for a moment, toward the dying fire in the hearth.
“This marriage,” he said at last. “Has nothing to do with me. Abigail deserves a mother. That is the reason this arrangement was born. I do not want anything from you, Duchess.” He looked back at her then. “Not your affection, not your sacrifices, not your concern. You will be provided for. You will want for nothing, and in return, I ask only that you be kind to my daughter and maintain the household.”
Cecilia swallowed, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. He said it so plainly, so coolly, that she had no reason to doubt him. He truly wanted nothing. Not from her, not from this marriage, not even from life, it seemed, beyond what duty demanded. No affection, no intimacy, no claim to happiness.
Yet, as she stood there, processing all he had said, Cecilia felt something hollow open inside her.
She had dreamed of love. Not boldly, not with the indulgent certainty of girls raised to expect grand love stories, but she had dreamed all the same. In her quiet moments, in borrowed books...in ballrooms.
She had dreamed of something warmer than this. She had not set her hopes high. But she had set them somewhere.
But this?
This arrangement and promise of absence bruised her in places she hadn’t realized were tender. What she had not prepared for was a life of being entirely untouched.
She thought, absurdly, of dancing. A waltz before the ton, in grand ballrooms, even private ones. The kind of quiet, unexpected thing she’d once seen between her father and her late mother when they’d dance in the corridor and giggle so loudly, it echoed through the walls. Just two people, moving with no music but the sound of each other’s breath.
Would she never even have that?
“If that is all,” she said softly, folding her hands before her as though to steady herself. “Then I believe I shall retire, Your Grace. It has been a long day, and I think rest would serve me well.”
Valentine stood where he was, watching her with an unreadable look on his face.
“Goodnight, Duchess.”
She nodded once, then left the room. She closed the door behind her with careful hands, each step away feeling heavier than the last. Her heart felt oddly weightless and full at once, like something suspended in water. Now, all she wanted was rest. Her thoughts were a tangle she could not unravel tonight. Perhaps with sleep, the ache in her chest would dull, and she could begin to accept this strange, emotionless arrangement she had agreed to.
After all, this was her life now, not a dream, not a fantasy, but reality in all its cold, graceful civility.
CHAPTER NINE
“You’ve had enough of the housekeeper, I imagine.”
