There was no room for argument. Marianne, white as her pearls, moved first, practically dragging Lucy by the arm with her. Howard followed without another word, lips pressed tight as if he knew better than to push any further. Then Emma, Solomon, and Norman followed suit.
Cecilia remained where she stood, her spine rigid though her breath betrayed her. She turned slowly, catching Valentine’s gaze entirely focused on her. Cecilia’s thoughts swirled in chaos. Her hands, still cold from the shock of Lucy’s confession, hung limply by her side. She did not speak. She could not.
She could only brace herself.
For whatever he was about to say next.
“Are you miserable, Cecilia?”
The words left him before he could stop them. He stood with his back to the hearth, hands clasped behind him like they might steady the storm inside. Across the room, Cecilia hadn’t moved since the door clicked shut behind the last guest. Her face was pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her skirts.
She didn’t answer.
That silence. He’d heard it before. In those first few weeks of their marriage, when her smiles were forced and her voice clipped, and again tonight, when Lucy’s trembling confession poured across the room and collapsed everything he thought he knew.
He had been in complete disbelief at the mess of Lucy’s tears, her words, and her guilt, but the only part that rang again andagain in his mind was that she thought Cecilia was trapped in a miserable marriage.
Not unhappy for a time or struggling. Not uncertain. Miserable.
“I asked you a question,” he said, softer now. “I would appreciate an honest answer, Cecilia. Do you wish you’d never married me?”
She drew in a breath, and he watched her fingers tighten. “How am I supposed to answer that, Valentine?”
“You could start with the truth.”
Her eyes flew up to meet his, her spine straightening in something like defiance, but he saw the tears gathering there, and he hated himself for putting them there.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I do not regret marrying you, Valentine. However, I might be miserable for other reasons. But I do not regret marrying you.”
“Why?” he asked and crossed his arms.
Cecilia squinted her eyes. “Why do I not regret marrying you?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of question is that? Do you want me to regret marrying you?”
He turned away, unable to face the wreckage in her gaze. The confession sat heavy in his chest. Why would she not regret it? Why would she not look back on all of this and wish for another path, a simpler one, untouched by scandal, untouched by him?
He had not been the ideal husband. He knew that. He was not blind to his faults. He had married her without tenderness, without offering her the kind of warmth most young ladies dreamed of. He had brought into their union a heart locked in a cage of old bitterness and duty, a mind burdened with ghosts. He could not offer her gentleness when his own soul had never known it. He could not give her the kind of peace that would make her happy.
He was a man defined by his past, carved by it so deeply that he feared there was nothing left of him that was not shadowed by it. Whatever warmth he tried to give her now, whatever flickers of fondness or soft glances passed between them, it would never erase how it had all begun, and he did not know how to build a home from ashes.
So how could she stand there and tell him she did not regret it?
A part of him did not believe her. A part of him feared she said it out of guilt, or pity, or a sense of loyalty now that they had crossed some invisible line into companionship.
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Only a tremble. Then she blinked, once, twice...and the tears that had clung so stubbornly to her lashes began to fall, carving paths down her cheeks. Her shoulders heaved once, as if she could no longer contain the grief pressing against her ribcage.
“If anything,” she choked, voice barely above a whisper. “You should be the one regretting this marriage.”
She looked away, ashamed, pressing the heel of her palm to her cheek in a vain attempt to collect herself. “Everything about this feels so unfair to you. The lies, the manipulation. Lucy’s schemes. My aunt’s theatrics. My father’s rage. It’s like you were pulled into the chaos of my family without a choice. Like you were trapped in something you never asked for.” Her voice cracked. “Dragged into a scandal. Into some grand plan, and I hate it. I hate that it happened to you. That we let it happen to you.”
He stepped forward instinctively, but she shook her head and took a step back, almost afraid to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am so sorry, Valentine. I never wanted it to be like this. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
Her breath hitched, and then, as if the full weight of it all finally crashed upon her, she buried her face in her hands and wept, the kind of sobs that came from deep within.
