“What is the matter?” she asked as if she could clearly see the lack of colour in Cecelia's face.
“Not here,” she whispered.
“We shall return in but a moment,” Mary assured Walter, dipping her head to Lord Greystone before she allowed Cecelia to urge her into a corner of the room.
They were obstructed from view by a large plant pot brimming with gloriously golden flowers. And yet, Cecelia was all too aware of their would-be audience, were she not to keep her voice down.
“What did you do?” she demanded, her tone low.
Mary's brow furrowed. “I don't know what you mean.”
She snatched her wrist from Cecelia's grip, and when she rubbed it with her other hand, Cecelia realized she must have been holding on far too tightly.
“George told me everything,” Cecelia hissed under her breath. It wasn't entirely true. She didn't know the ins and outs of the arrangement that had been made between the duke and her sister, but she knew enough to be furious.
Just the thought that George had taken on his role of chaperone as a promise to Mary, as a call to duty – and not for his caring for her – made her insides turn to water.
She felt so sick that it was a struggle to speak.
“You went to him, didn't you?” she continued when the confusion on her sister's face became overshadowed by knowledge. “You pleaded with him. He did not have a changeof heart at all. He never wished this. He never cared enough to come to his senses alone.”
“Cecelia, it wasn't like that at all,” Mary protested, shaking her head. She reached for her hand, but Cecelia snatched it away.
“You thought I couldn't do this alone, and so you went behind my back. What did you say to get him to agree? Did you tell him that I was desperate? That I couldn't possibly do any of this without his help?”
Even as she spoke, she realized she did not want to know the answer.
It didn't matter, truly, all that mattered was that her sister had gone behind her back.
“You should be thanking me!” Mary said, her voice louder than before, and Cecelia cringed.
She was relieved when she glanced over her shoulder to see that everyone appeared preoccupied in conversation.
“Thanking you? For what? Making a fool of me?”
The rage boiled so violently in her veins that she felt like her chest might burst.
“I am the eldest. I am the one who is supposed to fix these problems, not you!”
Mary glowered at her then.
“Perhaps if you weren't so stubborn and you had gone to speak with him yourself, you might have been able to,” she said, her tone dark. “But it was left to me to fix because you couldn't see past your own pride!”
“This is all so easy for you, isn't it?” Cecelia snapped. “You just bat your pretty lashes, and any man you come into contact with will do exactly as you wish. We can't all have men wrapped around our fingers like you do.”
Mary's mouth fell open. She took a step backwards, stopping only when the flower pot got in her way.
“It wasn't like that, Cece. I was trying to help.”
“Well, all you did was make trouble for me! You made me a burden to the duke. You made him loathe me because he was blinded by duty. You made him believe I needed his help when I might have been able to do all of this on my own.”
Mary looked as if she were about to argue. Unable to bear the thought of what she might say, Cecelia raised her hand.
“Do not try to justify your actions to me,” she said, looking away. “We both know your intentions were entirely selfish.”
“Excuse me?”
Mary's tone was baffled.
