Mary sat bolt upright in the bed, looking down at Cecelia with sheer astonishment on her face.
“I beg your pardon? When?”
Cecelia gulped. Her secret, their secret, was out. She couldn't take it back now.
“We were on the terrace at the ball two nights ago,” she explained, “we talked, and George admitted several things to me. Then we … we kissed.”
“But I thought the two of you had fallen out!” Mary protested, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “The two of you barely spoke at the theatre, and your attention was entirely upon Lord Greystone. You were so cold to each other.”
The truth of her sister's words stung.
“That is entirely why I am so confused,” Cecelia admitted. She closed her eyes once more, exhaling deeply. “Every time I feel George and I are growing closer, he pulls away again. I cannot bear the thought of being with a man like that. I cannot live a life unable to be truly sure of where I stand.”
“And you know where you stand with Lord Greystone?” Though it sounded like a question, Cecelia sensed the statement in her sister's words, and so, she simply nodded.
Lord Greystone's intentions towards her had been abundantly clear from almost the very moment they had met. He had never made her question, never left her feeling cold and unwanted.
But nor has he made my heart race as George does,Cecelia thought, quickly pushing the thought away as she opened her eyes to look at Mary. “What am I to do?”
Mary's gaze softened, and she brushed Cecelia's hair back behind her ear.
“I don't know,” her sister admitted, lifting one shoulder nonchalantly. “One thing I do know is that I ought to grab George by the ear and demand to know why he has the gall to kiss you when he cannot bring himself to court you.”
Cecelia blushed. Her heart ached. If only he would. Maybe then all of this might be clearer.
“I don't believe that George and I courting has ever been an option,” Cecelia admitted. She remembered all the times during their childhood when they had grown close, all the intimate moments during games, all the times they had stumbled into each other's arms, and the opportunity had been there.
Not once had either of them uttered a word towards the notion, though Cecelia had certainly felt the urge to. She could not be so sure that George might feel the same way.
“James is kind and charming, and he clearly knows what he wants,” Cecelia pointed out, trying to convince herself as much as her sister. “He has never given any hint that our courtship shall not end in marriage. George, on the other hand, has never shown an ounce of wishing in courting me.”
“What of the kiss?” Mary protested.
Cecelia's body lit up at the mention of it, but she quickly stamped the fire out.
“It came in the heat of an emotional moment,” she said, her insides flipping with anxiety. “It cannot be relied upon.”
“Then, it sounds to me as if you have decided upon Lord Greystone,” Mary said, her gaze pointed as if she wished to draw the truth from Cecelia's lips.
“I suppose I have,” she said, the hairs on the backs of her arms standing on end. “What of you?”
She was desperate to change the subject.
Mary blinked. “What of me?”
“Do not play the fool with me,” Cecelia said, propping herself up against her pillows so she could meet her sister's gaze more firmly. “I have seen with my very own eyes the way you and Walter have been inseparable these last few weeks.”
Even in the silver moonlight, Cecelia saw how her sister's cheeks started to burn.
Mary glanced down, fiddling with the embroidery on her dressing robe.
“He and I have grown close, yes,” she admitted.
Hearing her sister admit the truth, finally, she pressed, “Do you think it shall lead anywhere?”
For a second, her sister remained silent, her gaze utterly on her working fingers.
Then, she met Cecelia's gaze as she whispered, “I do hope so.”
