She blushed and averted her gaze, looking to Catherine and Elizabeth.
“The hour is growing late,” George suggested as he drew close behind her, “we ought to think about making our way home.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“Anyone might think you were eager to get to the theatre this evening,” she jested, her eyes sparkling with playfulness.
Cecelia stiffened. At the mention of the theatre, she remembered, and her chest tightened. She was to attend. And that meant—
A shiver ran down her spine.
—she was to share a box with the duke.
“As I am sure you are aware,” George scowled. “I have a fondness for theatre.”
“Just not the theatrics of thetonthat come with it,” Walter added, and though she didn’t look at him, Cecelia sensed his agreement.
“It cannot be helped, I suppose,” he said, and Cecelia couldn’t help wondering if she was the only reason he was attending.
What a burden she must be, forcing him into the polite society he loathed so much.
“Well, I for one, am quite jealous,” Mary grumbled, and had she had the chance, Cecilia might have offered up her place. “I would cherish every second.”
“Then why don’t you attend?” Walter asked, and Mary’s eyes widened immeasurably.
“Do you mean to be my escort, Walter?” Her voice was almost shrill, the affection with which she said his name quite clear.
Cecelia shivered again.
Was she to put up with the stone-cold duke and the lovesick couple, crammed into a box all evening?
“I would be honoured,” Walter said, taking her hand before he looked to George, “if that is acceptable to you,Your Grace?”
Cecelia barely dared to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still close, much too close for comfort.
For a moment, his expression was entirely unreadable.
Then, he smiled.
It was a smile that appeared awkward on his face, though if anyone else noticed, they did not question it as he said, “I do not see why not. So long as Lady Westmere is amenable.”
Cecelia cringed at the expectant looks that turned upon her then.
The entire group stared at her as if she were the voice of their overbearing mother. And her stomach twisted.
Could she bring herself to dash her sister's hopes to the wind?
“Do you think Mama would have any objection?” Mary asked when Cecelia found no words.
Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her bottom lip quivered slightly as she tried to find the words to let her sister down gently.
How was she to cope with their affection at one end and George's coldness at the other?
It was as if she were forever locked in a battle of fire and ice, totally exposed to the elements with nowhere else to turn.
Yet, she found herself saying, “I think Mama would be amenable.”
Chapter 20
