It was difficult for Cecelia to sleep that night, very conscious of Sebastian lying in the room three steps across the corridor. It did not feel real. Six years she had been married, and six years she had neither seen a hair nor heard a whisper of her husband. At times, she had almost forgotten she had one. Once, in the blackest depth of the night, she got out of bed and crept across the passage to his door. She did not go in, but she listened for the sound of his breathing. The bed creaked, and she fled back to her room.

In the morning, she dressed with rather more care than usual then sat regarding her reflection in the mirror and trying to make up her mind what to do about all this. Her mind was still unmade when, ten minutes before breakfast, she crossed the passage and knocked at Sebastian's door. A sleepy grunt was her only response, so she walked in.

He was nothing more than a lump under the covers, the flash of a stained shirt collar peeping out from the blankets, and a tuft of fair hair sticking up at all angles. In the light coming through the windows, she saw now that his hair was darker than it had been six years ago, nearer the colour of sand than sunlight.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

"Mmph."

"It's ten minutes until breakfast — I always eat at nine. I get so hungry in the mornings."

"You always had an appetite," Sebastian said sleepily. "I think I'm hungry too."

Covers quaking and billowing, he rolled over and levered himself to a sitting position. His movements were awkward, slow, like an old man's, and the weary set to his eyes had not faded with rest. Her heart gave a leap of alarm which was not entirely subdued by telling herself that really she should be annoyed he had said nothing of being unwell last night.

"You look poorly," she said. "Should I send for the doctor?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"I was injured and took ill. That's all. I'm better now, but Sir William insisted I take leave. That's why I'm here."

Faint colour was seeping into his pale cheeks now. Cecelia relaxed.

"You're not going to die, are you?" she said. "If I knew you were, I'd have left you at Lady Peyton's."

He smiled briefly, but it wasn't like it used to be. "I promise."

"Then I'll send your breakfast up and you can stay in bed."

She did so, and he remained in his bedroom for long after, after his trunks came from Lady Peyton's, after Cecelia had gone down to the drawing-room for her usual visiting hour.

It was Miss Astley who came first. Cecilia had suspected she would. She came, worse, with her mother. Mrs Astley no doubt had heard the gossip of Cecelia's marriage and had told her daughter all of it. After the requisite round of greetings and how-do-you-dos, Mrs Astley started it.

"My daughter has been telling me how handsome your husband is," she said. "I tell you, Lady Cecelia, I do not take her word for it. My daughter is too easily impressed."

"If you won't take her word, you're hardly more likely to take mine," Cecelia said. "I've a reason to be biased."

"He was not so handsome," Miss Astley sniffed. "I merely said, I was surprised, since you kept him hidden away, that he was not an ogre."

"He is very busy with his work in Paris."

"I didn't even know you were married!"

Cecelia smiled pointedly. "There are so many things you do not know, Miss Astley."

"If I had a handsome husband" —Mrs Astley was a widow— "I would not let him hide away in Paris all year. Do you not miss him, Lady Cecelia?"

"Very much," Cecelia lied. "Though we write."

At least, two years ago Sebastian had written his condolences upon Paul's death, and she had thanked him very nicely for them. Sebastian had hated Paul. She had never quite managed to figure out if that made his condolences kind or cruel.

"You must be so glad he is back now — a wonder it is that he does not come more often. Paris is not so far."

"He is kept very busy with his work."

"Or that you do not visit him. All the fashions in Paris. And it is quite safe now, I hear."

"My parents wish me to be close to them."

"But of course," Mrs Astley finished with a sly wink at her daughter, "some couples are happier apart."

"Tea?" Cecelia asked as a distraction.

When the tea came, so, with a man's instinct for victuals, did Sebastian. He was now dressed in a proper, but very French, suit of forest green velvet, tapered and tight over his narrow waist, with narrow fawn trousers below. Cecelia felt rather overwhelmed seeing him in her own drawing-room. Again, he seemed more real than what surrounded him. She introduced him to Miss Astley and her mother, and he gave them stiff bows — there seemed something French about that too — then sat down to tea and petit-fours. Mrs Astley scrutinized him from top to toe then shrugged helplessly; Cecelia took that to mean she did not agree Sebastian was handsome. She wondered if Sebastian would find it funny if she told him. Women like Mrs Astley used to amuse him, but he seemed very grave and mirthless now.

"Why have you returned to London, Mr Price?" Mrs Astley asked. "So suddenly after six years — it caused quite the stir, you know."

Cecelia felt a sudden panic that Sebastian, not versed in the ways of London gossip, might say something to embarrass her. But he only smiled over his cup.

"Sir William gave me leave."

Even Mrs Astley could not be so gauche as to ask why. She busied herself breaking a biscuit into her tea.

"My mother has told me so many interesting things about you, Mr Price," Miss Astley started slyly.

"Has she? Then I find myself at a disadvantage, for I know nothing of you."

That was almost flirtatious, which disconcerted rather than worried Cecelia. Sebastian didn't flirt. Had he learned that in Paris?

Miss Astley gave a fluttery laugh. "There is nothing interesting about me."

"Nobody," Cecelia said kindly, "is interesting at eighteen, so it's not your fault."

Beside her, Sebastian's lip twitched. But it had been wrong to goad the Astleys. Mrs Astley leaned forward.

"I do think it is cruel, what people are saying about you, Mr Price. I am sure it cannot be true."

"It probably isn't," Sebastian said, selecting a violet-iced petit-four from the cake tray. "My dear, I don't suppose you'd mind very much ordering Cook to make some good old-fashioned English seed-cake, would you? Having just left Paris, I'm in no desire to so hastily encounter it at home."

The endearment surprised Cecelia until she recognized that it was for the benefit of her guests. "The problem is my chef is French," she said apologetically. "And I'm sure he could cook seed cake if I asked, but he'd probably add almonds or orange jus or something French to it."

Sebastian sighed and licked sugar from his fingers. "That's the way of the world. Killing cats by drowning them in cream."

"We are very fond of French things in England, for all we dislike the French themselves," Miss Astley said. "You must be very cultured, living in Paris, Mr Price. Perhaps you will be bored in London."

"It's fashionable to be bored," Mrs Astley said. "Particularly for men. They declare themselves bored of their wives."

Sebastian gave a small, polite smile, as though he recognized that there had been a joke but it had not amused him. The conversation faltered. They drank more tea and ate more cake.

At length, Mrs Astley mused, "I remember when you married — well, about then. You would have been very young, Lady Cecelia. Not above fourteen, I imagine?"

"Flattering, but I was sixteen," Cecelia said drily. "Not so young."

"But a little young to be so certain of your choice? I married at seventeen, and that felt very young. But then, I do think my mother made most of my choices for me." A regretful sigh. "Not that she did not choose well in Mr Astley."

"I think it sounds romantic," Miss Astley said. "To marry so very young, I mean. But I am surprised your parents allowed it. Mama tells me I must wait til I am nineteen before she will consider a match."

Cecelia could not prevent herself from looking at Sebastian then, but he at least had enough control to appear devoted to the petit-fours.

"My parents are very fond of Mr Price," Cecelia lied. "My mother particularly."

"I am trying to remember about the wedding now," Mrs Astley said, frowning. "Where was it?"

"At home," Sebastian said. "Where we were living at the time."

"Lord Hatherington's house in Richmond Park? By special license?"

"Not special license." Sebastian gave a charming smile. "There is a chapel on the grounds."

He was so good at lying, Cecelia thought, that he had managed not to tell a single concrete untruth while giving the impression of an absolute falsehood.

"And when did you go to Paris? I hope it was not too soon after your wedding. It would be such a shame to part a newly-wed couple."

"It was not two months after," Sebastian said. "We had a little time together."

That was not a lie either, though it was untruthful. He had been gone in two weeks.

"If I had a husband," Miss Astley said, "I should not let him leave me two months after our wedding. I should make him wait at least two years. By that time, you see, I might be just a little bored of him. One does get bored of men — don't they, Lady Cecelia?"

There was a curious barbed smile with that one, directed not at Cecelia, but at Sebastian. He was choosing another cake; Cecelia hoped he had missed it.

"Men are very interesting creatures," Mrs Astley said. "But even two months — I would have cried my pillow damp every night. I cannot understand why you would want to leave, Mr Price. Not all the way to France."

"I won't promise my pillow wasn't damp every night too," Sebastian said. "But as Sir William's secretary, when he went to France, I had no choice but to go too."

────

Lord and Lady Hatherington had given Sebastian no choice about it. They wanted him out of sight, and Paris was as far out of sight as they could send him in haste; Sir William was in town to visit his sister, and Lady Peyton was a loyal friend whose discretion could be relied upon.

In due course, Lady Peyton called with her brother. The first thing Lady Peyton said to Cecelia was, "Well, my dear, I don't quite know if I should congratulate you or not."

Nobody else had, so Cecelia suspected she should not, but regardless Lady Peyton kissed her on each cheek and offered her hand to Sebastian.

"Commiserations would be more in order," Lord Hatherington groused from over by the drinks tray. "She has made a fool of herself. The boy has made a fool of her. Anyone for brandy?"

"It's not yet noon, my lord," Lady Hatherington said. "Put the brandy away. The boy will do his best, Sir William, if you will but give him the chance."

"Will you, my boy?" Sir William said. "And how good is your best?"

"I can promise it, Sir," Sebastian said woodenly. "And I hope it is good enough."

"He has great abilities," Lady Hatherington said. "He is capable of any task you put to him."

Sir William looked doubtfully at Sebastian. "And did you do your best by Lady Cecelia?"

"He would have done better to leave her well alone," Lord Hatherington grumbled, pouring a thick finger of brandy into a tumbler.

"You will make Sir William think Sebastian is a villain," Lady Hatherington protested. "He has always treated my daughter with kindness, Sir William. And pour that away, Hatherington."

Sir William grunted. "Did you, Sebastian?"

Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Hatherington cut in:

"Why, I remember he always made sure to pull out her chair when she came down for dinner. He never let the footman do it."

"That may have been kindness to the footman," Lord Hatherington said, tossing his brandy into the fire with a grimace.

"Kindness to all people, Sebastian is kindness to all people. Forgive my husband, Sir William. He is fond of the boy, really — he was very fond of his father — but his feelings at this moment, as a father himself..."

Lord Hatherington's feelings were of the sort that could never bear to be mentioned. He went to the door. "You know the situation, Sir William, and my wife can give you the details. When you have made up your mind, come to my study and we'll make the arrangements."

He left the room and shut the door loudly enough to leave it in a shock of silence. Sir William went to the window and looked out. The weather was clearing and sunlight sparkled through a gentle rain.

"Perhaps you will guide me around the garden, Sebastian," Sir William said. "I find fresh air clears my head."

"If you would like, Sir," Sebastian said.

Lady Hatherington made to get up from her seat, but Sir William held out a palm to stop her. "I should think it is too cold for the ladies today."

It was not cold. It was looking to be a rather steamy spring day. But Lady Hatherington knew when she was being gotten rid of and smiled gracefully. "How thoughtful you are, Sir William."

As Sebastian left, she shot him a warning glare before pressing more tea and biscuits upon Lady Peyton.

"He's a good boy for all my husband says," she said. "Young, but very dedicated."

"I am sure he is," Lady Peyton said. "But foolish, surely, to have married so young, before his future can be assured."

"Youth must have its follies," Lady Hatherington said. "He was to have a future. He planned for the law. He had the ability. Unfortunately, his poor father died and left him in no position to take to it."

Lady Peyton frowned. "Could not Lord Hatherington have provided?"

"We would have done, if only he had been content to wait for Cecelia. Haste led him to folly — his only folly. We need to expedite his future."

Lady Peyton selected a cream cake with the sanguine incaution of a woman who had said farewell to her figure twenty years and forty pounds ago. "Of course a position in politics requires a certain caution of manner."

"In only love for my daughter has he allowed his emotions to run away with him. In all other things, he really is very wise for his years."

It was not pleasant for Cecelia to hear such warmth about Sebastian from the same tongue which had recently lashed him. And Lady Peyton was looking at her very intently, as though trying to read her face. She tried not to look as though her mother was lying.

"And his abilities," Lady Hatherington said. "I cannot rate them more highly. He speaks fluent French, you know. His accent is like a native's. And Latin, he has very good Latin too, Lord Hatherington tells me."

"It is his character that is the real question. Any man of moderate abilities can be trained into intelligence, but a crooked soul cannot be made straight."

This flustered Lady Hatherington. "I have never known him to be dishonest."

"He did run off with your daughter. That speaks to a certain deceit."

Lady Hatherington coloured. "Or depth of feeling."

Lady Peyton narrowed her eyes at Cecelia, who still dared not speak. "Or depth of feeling, it is true."

"And depth of feeling, passion, is important for a man. It would be dangerous, I believe, for a man to care about nothing."

"That is true." Lady Peyton took another cream cake and ate it slowly, thinking it over. "Though he did not look to be a very passionate boy. Wooden, I thought."

"He doesn't show it," Cecelia blurted. She blushed hot as both women looked at her. "He has a face which doesn't show things, unless he wants to. That doesn't mean he doesn't feel them."

Lady Peyton raised her eyebrows. "Is that so?" She finished her cake. "Do you know, I would like to speak to him myself. I do not quite know what to make of him. I daresay I will catch Will up easily enough, Lady Hatherington; you need not come with me."

She got to her feet and strode out the French doors. Lady Hatherington turned to Cecelia. "Now you've done it!" she hissed. "What on earth did you say that for? Lady Peyton is no fool. If she sees through the boy, she'll tell Sir William not to take him on."

"But it's true," Cecelia said miserably. "He doesn't show his feelings on his face."

"Or he doesn't have them!" Lady Hatherington scoffed. "The boy tricked you, Cecelia. He has been out for all he can get from the beginning."

Cecelia sniffed back tears. "That's not true. You don't understand him."

"I understand him better than you do. I am not blinded by rose-coloured glasses."

────

Perhaps her mother had been right. After the Astleys left, silence fell over the drawing room. Cecelia found that now they were alone she did not know what to say to Sebastian. They used to be able to talk about nothing for hours on end. Now she found herself desperately in need of a something. There was none. Perhaps Sebastian felt the weight of the silence too. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He plucked at a loose thread in the upholstery of his chair. He ate another petit-four.

"They're too sweet," he complained.

That hadn't stopped him eating seven of them. Cecelia shrugged.

"I ought to apologize," he said abruptly.

"I'm not the one who made the cakes."

"I mean, I didn't think of the consequences of returning to London. People will talk, about me, about you, about us."

"You were sent back," Cecelia reminded him. "Besides, it's six years too late. That was when you should have thought."

"I should have thought?"

"Oh, me too," Cecelia said crossly. "It's my fault just as much as yours. If we'd waited, asked my parents their blessing..." She trailed off, realizing that her parents would never have granted permission for her to marry Sebastian. Perhaps that would have been better though, to have her heart broken once at sixteen than to forever live with the consequences of gaining her heart's desire. "It doesn't matter," she finished. "Let them talk. We did nothing improper, not really. You were very much the gentleman."

Cecelia thought she caught an emotion flickering beneath the surface of Sebastian's unreadable eyes. Perhaps not. He resumed plucking at the loose thread on the chair and silence fell once more over the room. Cecelia was relieved when it was broken by the clanging of the doorbell. A minute later, the butler announced Major Godfrey. Alarm flared in his eyes when he saw Sebastian, but he accepted Cecelia's introduction with practiced politeness and also her offer of a cup of tea.

"Back from France then, Mr Price?" he said, as though they were old friends.

"Back from France," Sebastian said, as though he had never seen the major before in his life.

"Will yours be a long visit?"

"The ambassador has given me six weeks' leave."

"It is a very good time to visit London."

Sebastian inclined his head. "So they say."

"Of course, having lived there so long, you might prefer Paris by now. I enjoyed Paris very much — once we got Bony out of it."

"A little too much, I think," Sebastian said drily. "But I won't talk politics in the drawing-room; my wife would not approve."

Cecelia had no objection to politics, but she did not wish to contradict Sebastian and say so.

"Quite right," the major said. "It would not do to bore Lady Cecelia with masculine topics." He paused, as though trying to think of a feminine one. "There are tulips coming out in the Park, Lady Cecelia."

"It is the time of year for them," Cecelia said.

"I thought you might like to drive with me this afternoon, actually." Major Godfrey shot a wary glance at Sebastian, who had once again returned his ardent attention to the petit fours. "You were talking about spring flowers last night."

"Not tulips." Cecelia kept her tone level and her face unsmiling. "Perhaps another time, Major Godfrey. I have a great deal to do today."

"I understand, of course. You must have a great deal to talk about with your husband. It is he who ought to be showing you the tulips and daffodils — except it wasn't daffodils, was it, that you were thinking of?"

"It was not."

Sebastian ate a cake in contemplative silence. Major Godfrey shot him another wary glance, seemed to take confidence in it, and turned his gaze back to Cecelia, a gaze suddenly uncomfortable with unspoken feeling.

"Let me guess then. Was it wood violets? There won't be any in the Park, but perhaps if we drove into the country."

"It's too early for violets," Cecelia said. "Perhaps another time, Major."

It was as close as she had ever come to dismissing him. All their communication so far had been through insinuation and irony. There was defence in that. You could never tell how strong a person's feelings were — how strong your own were becoming.

Major Godfrey was too polite to outstay his welcome. He made polite talk for another few minutes, finished his cup of tea, and excused himself.

When he was gone, Sebastian dropped the cake he had been nibbling back on his plate.

"I don't mind if you indulge in flirtations," he said. "Most married women do. And it's not like ours is a real marriage — not anymore. Perhaps it never was."

"It's not a flirtation," Cecelia said. She felt bad for ever encouraging the major. Was he in love with her? She did not think she was in love with him. Not really. But he was amusing company. "Major Godfrey is just a friend of mine."

"If that were true, you'd have gone for a ride with him," Sebastian said. "I suggest next time he asks, you do."

He left the room, and left Cecelia wondering if her husband had just granted her permission for an affair.

It was hard to tell, sometimes, with Sebastian.

*