“You wish to invite his grace to dinner?” she exclaimed, forgetting herself a moment with her mouth open on a piece of fruit.
“Close your mouth, Cecelia. It is unladylike,” her mother instructed firmly. She took a sip of her orange juice before adding, “Yes, I think to invite him is the decent thing to do.”
“Decent thing to do?” Cecelia grumbled. “He did not do the decent thing yesterday. His behaviour was abhorrent.”
“To you, perhaps, but I saw nothing wrong with it,” her mother responded.
When Cecelia had gone to her mother to tell her all about how rude and obnoxious his grace had been, she had been expecting her mother to be as flabbergasted as she was. Yet, the countess looked quite pleased with the turn of events.
“Cecelia, do you wish to enter into a marriage that is wholly beneath you?” her mother asked now, arching her brow.
She looked much more herself with colour returning to her cheeks, though there was still a slight tremble in her hands whenever she reached for something.
“Of course not, but his grace did not even give a single one of my callers a chance,” Cecelia said.
Anger boiled up inside her again whenever she thought of it. He had been so self-assured, so condescending, and he had made her look entirely foolish.
No gentleman had sat more than five minutes in the drawing room with her the day before. It had been a terrible and frustrating ordeal that had left her quite speechless.
“If I had known he would flatten every one of my prospects, I would never have accepted his help,” she insisted, taking another bite of compote.
“He was merely trying to help thin the herd,” Catherine interjected, and Cecelia scowled at her across the table.
“He completely decimated the herd in a matter of an hour!”
At that, she thought she heard her mother laugh. She actually laughed as if it were something funny.
And that made Cecelia all the more angry. Her head whipped around, and her mother's lips pursed. “Do not look at me like that, Cecelia Anne Flannery.”
It wasn't often her mother chastised her so, and though she was still angry, she lowered her gaze back to her breakfast plate.
“Your father knew well what he was doing when he chose George to be your chaperone.”
Cecelia's gaze lifted once more, and she stared open-mouthed at her mother all over again.
“What happened to his being a duke? Is he merely George again now?” she demanded.
It was the first time she had dared utter his first name since his return, and it felt strange on her tongue. It tingled, and that tingle coursed throughout her entire body.
“Oh, Cecelia, I think we can dispense with formalities,” her mother said, shaking her head. “At least whilst he is not in our presence.”
So at home he shall be George, our George as he has always been, but I must treat him like the high and mighty duke that heis to his face,Cecelia thought bitterly. She would rather not have to face him at all after all that had happened the day before.
“Stop scowling,” her mother hissed at her, “you shall give yourself wrinkles.”
Her mother's words only aided in making her scowl more.
“Mama is right,” Mary said from where she sat beside Catherine. “George was only doing his best by you.”
“Well, his best is sorely lacking,” she snapped back, glowering at Mary as she wondered why everyone was suddenly on his side. “If he continues, my marriage prospects shall be entirely ruined.”
“I do believe that to be an exaggeration,” her mother said, scowling deeply. “His grace wishes the best for you just as your dear father would have.”
Cecelia scoffed, deciding it was best not to argue. She could already see it would do no good.
Likely, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands and talk to the duke herself.
The only problem was the mere thought of doing so made her feel all churned up inside.
