Valentine was gone.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing her thoughts into order, but all she could hear was the echo of her own foolishness. She hadfallen asleep in his bed. A tremor ran through her at the thought of it. He had seen her there; he must have. Watched her, perhaps in sheer rage.
“Oh, Cecilia, you have outdone yourself,” she mumbled, covering her face in embarrassment.
What would Valentine think? That she had come there deliberately? That she’d lost every ounce of decorum and tossed herself into his bed after he had explicitly asked for no contact. He’d be confused. Annoyed. Possibly furious.
Worse of all, he might not even recall that he was the one who practically dragged her into his bed, and she would be left arguing with no proof.
Her heart thudded as she scrambled out of bed, already rehearsing how best to disappear for the rest of the day. She couldn’t face him, not like this. Valentine always had a way of winning arguments.
She went about her day as usual, though her mind never settled. She tried to convince herself that she was not entirely to blame. He had pulled her in. It was his hand that had reached for hers, not the other way around. He had murmured her name in sleep. She had simply stayed. That was all.
Cecilia sat by the window in her chamber, dressed in a soft dove gray muslin trimmed with white embroidery at the cuffs and hem. Her hair had been gathered high with a few loose tendrils artfully escaping near her temple. She was still lost in thought when a quiet knock at the door stirred her. Gladis stepped inside, curtsying lightly.
“Your Grace,” she said, hands folded before her. “His Grace has asked that you take breakfast with him this morning. In the east drawing room.”
Cecilia blinked, the air stilling around her. “He did?” she questioned with wide eyes. Valentine had never asked her to take breakfast with him before. Not once since the day she had arrived. Why now?
What would he say? What could she possibly say in return? There was no version of that conversation that didn’t leave her mortified. Her only chance was to avoid him altogether until the entire thing could be safely…forgotten.
She drew a steadying breath and looked up at Gladis with a calmness she did not feel.
“Oh,” she said with a forced smile. “That is kind of him. But do tell His Grace I am fatigued this morning. I did not sleep well.” She paused, just long enough to sound thoughtful. “Also, I must write a letter to my sister, Emma. It has been some time, and I fear she will think me dreadfully inattentive.”
Mary curtsied. “Shall I tell him so, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” Cecilia replied, managing a small smile. “With my compliments.”
The moment the door closed behind Gladis, she breathed a sigh of relief and pressed both hands to her face.
What am I doing right now?
It was a question without an answer. Cecilia had always thought herself brave in matters of discomfort, but this strange dance with the duke, under the same roof, had reduced her to a trembling little girl ducking into doorways to avoid a scolding.
Still, she was determined. If she could simply stay out of his way until the memory faded, or he grew bored of the whole thing, then perhaps they might return to the civility they had managed before. She avoided the west corridor where he typically took his correspondence, and when the steward mentioned His Grace had ridden out that morning, she ensured she was nowhere near the stables when he returned. She took tea alone in her room, claimed to be sorting through old letters, and even feigned interest in poorly written books from the library just to keep her mind and body occupied. It was not a dignified strategy, but itwas better than getting an earful from Valentine for something that was clearly his fault.
By late afternoon, when the sun had shifted lower in the sky, Cecilia began to relax, thinking that perhaps she’d managed it after all. She was just settling into her chair with needlework she had no intention of completing when a knock came at her door. Gladis walked in again with a faint smile on her face.
“The dressmaker has arrived, Your Grace,” she said with a bow. “She awaits you in the small drawing room.”
Cecilia blinked. “The dressmaker?” she repeated, unable to hide a flicker of confusion.
She hadn’t requested a fitting, at least, not recently, and for a brief, absurd moment, she wondered if Valentine had discovered some new, imaginative way to confront her. But then the memory returned of their conversation in his study, where he had casually mentioned they would be attending a ball.
“Ah,” she said, recovering her poise. “Of course. Tell her I shall be there shortly.”
As Gladis withdrew, she stood and smoothed her skirts, her mind reluctantly returning to the present. She hesitated at the doorway, a small crease forming between her brows as she wondered if Valentine would be there.
Surely not.
He had gone out riding early that afternoon, and Valentine didn’t seem like the kind of man who involved himself in fittings, even under normal circumstances. Still, the possibility that she might walk into the small drawing room and find him there made her stomach tighten. She wasn’t ready.
But as she made her way down the corridor, her thoughts shifted. He had looked unwell the night before. Pale...distracted. She wondered if he was all right now.
She reached the drawing room, and her steps slowed.
If she had to guess, judging from how he looked, something pressed heavily on him from within. Strangely, she could tell from the way he held her. It hadn’t been out of desire or entitlement. It had felt more like a need. Like he simply couldn’t bear to be alone in that moment, as though sleep might only come if someone stayed close enough to quiet whatever ghosts stirred in the dark.
