She frowned. "What?"
"Ask."
"That sounds dangerously sensible."
"If I remember something you said, ask whether it means something, and I will answer truthfully."
"Yes?"
Caroline studied him. "All right." She touched the compass. "Did this mean something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
Nicholas's eyes remained on hers. "That I pay attention to you."
Caroline swallowed. "Anything else?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"That I wanted you to know I pay attention to you."
Her breath caught. He smiled faintly.
"You see? Much faster."
Caroline laughed, and in that laugh, something changed—not dramatically, but truly. For the first time, she began to understand that love with Nicholas might not require guessing. That alone felt almost radical.
The invitations to Rivenhall became more frequent. So did Nicholas: sometimes he came to Everly Park; sometimes Caroline's parents accompanied her to Rivenhall; sometimes they met among friends. Once, entirely by accident, Nicholas and Caroline found themselves alone in a bookshop for nearly twenty minutes while Lady Frances and Sir William argued outside about whether a new history of Rome was worth buying.
Nicholas picked up a volume. "You already own that."
Caroline looked at him. "How do you know?"
"I saw it in your drawing room."
"You remember my shelves?"
"I remember most things about you."
She gave him a look. "That is either romantic or alarming."
"I had hoped for romantic."
"Still under review."
He placed the book down. Caroline moved toward another shelf. "Do you read novels?"
"Yes."
She turned. "You?"
"I object to that tone."
"I am surprised."
"Why?"
"You look like a man who reads legislation for pleasure."
"I do."
"Good God."
"I also read novels, which—" Nicholas hesitated.
Caroline's eyes widened. "You are embarrassed."
"No."
"You are!"
"I am deciding whether I trust you."
"With what?"
He lowered his voice: "I enjoyed Persuasion."
Caroline stared. Then she smiled. "Very much?"
"Moderately."
"That means very much."
"It does not."
"You are blushing."
"I am not capable of blushing."
"You are!"
Nicholas looked away. Caroline laughed so brightly that the bookseller looked up. Nicholas gave her a warning glance; she lowered her voice.
"The feared Duke of Rivenhall reads Persuasion."
"If this reaches London, I shall deny everything."
"Too late."
"What will you demand for silence?"
Caroline considered. "Dinner."
He stared. She realized what she had said. "I mean—no."
Nicholas smiled slowly. "Do continue."
Caroline felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I meant that you may invite us again."
"Us? My parents?"
"Of course."
His expression remained entirely too pleased. Caroline narrowed her eyes. "You are intolerable."
"You invited yourself to my house."
"I did not!"
"History will decide."
She turned away, but she was smiling.
Later, in the carriage home, Caroline realized she had spent nearly the whole afternoon happy: not distracted, not recovering—happy. There was a difference. And when she thought of Samuel that evening, the memory did not hurt; it simply belonged to another version of herself.
A week later, Cecilia came home. Not permanently—only for three days. She arrived at Everly Park in the afternoon and walked into the drawing room without ceremony, because old friendship rarely waits to be announced.
Caroline stood. For one uncertain moment, neither woman moved. Then Cecilia crossed the room.
"I'm sorry."
Caroline closed her eyes. "No. I am."
"You must not be."
"But I should have known."
"How?"
"I know you. So did Samuel."
Cecilia flinched. Caroline immediately regretted the words. "That was unfair."
"No."
"Yes."
Cecilia sat. Caroline joined her. For a moment, they simply looked at one another.
Then Cecilia said, "He never knew."
"I know."
"I asked him."
Caroline's heart tightened. "You did?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
Cecilia swallowed. "He said he had always thought of you as family."
The words hurt—not like before, but enough. Caroline nodded. "Of course."
"Caroline—"