And Nicholas, for all his determination, did not press. He courted her with patience: he asked questions, he listened to answers, he did not agree with everything she said. Caroline discovered she preferred that. Samuel had often indulged her arguments; Nicholas challenged them—not cruelly, seriously, as though her mind deserved opposition.
One afternoon, they spent nearly an hour disagreeing about whether charity administered by landowners did more good than local mutual aid. Caroline became so annoyed that she stood.
"You enjoy this."
Nicholas remained seated. "Immensely."
"You enjoy provoking me."
"I enjoy seeing what you actually think."
"I tell you what I think."
"Eventually."
Caroline stared. "What does that mean?"
"It means you are polite first."
"I am not polite to you."
"Exactly."
That stopped her. Nicholas smiled. "You are yourself with me."
Caroline felt something inside her tighten. She sat slowly. "And that pleases you?"
"More than almost anything."
She looked down. For years, she had tried to become the version of herself Samuel might eventually love—not consciously, but subtly: she softened certain opinions, ignored certain silences, waited. With Nicholas, she did not wait. She spoke, disagreed, laughed, objected, was difficult—and he loved her more for it.
That realization frightened her. Not because it was unpleasant; because it was powerful.
Three days before Christmas, Nicholas stopped courting her. Not entirely: he still called, still spoke to her, still looked at her in that unbearable way. But something changed: the invitations became fewer, the notes stopped, he did not mention marriage, he did not mention the future.
Caroline noticed immediately. She lasted two days. On the third, she arrived at Rivenhall with her parents and cornered him in the long gallery.
"You are avoiding me."
Nicholas looked genuinely surprised. "No."
"Yes. I saw you yesterday for twenty minutes at your house with twelve people."
"I did not arrange the twelve people."
"You could have spoken to me."
"I did. You asked whether I preferred tea or coffee."
"A serious question."
"Nicholas." He went quiet. Caroline crossed her arms. "What happened?"
Nicholas looked toward the windows. "Nothing."
"Do not lie."
His jaw tightened. She knew that look: he was deciding whether to tell her. Caroline waited.
Finally, he said, "I decided I was becoming unfair."
"To whom?"
"You."
She stared. "How?"
Nicholas exhaled. "When Hartley became engaged, I allowed myself to hope that perhaps—" He stopped.
"Perhaps what?"
"That by Christmas, I might ask you to marry me."
Caroline's heart stopped. There it was: the secret plan. Not a threat, not a scheme—a hope. "By Christmas?"
"Yes."
"Why Christmas?"
"No particular reason. It seemed far enough away to be possible and near enough to be hopeful."
Caroline almost smiled.
Nicholas continued: "I thought if I had several weeks to show you—"
"To show me what?"
"That I could make you happy." Her throat tightened. "And now?"
Nicholas looked at her. "Now I think the deadline was selfish."
She frowned. "I never knew about it."
"I knew; that makes it selfish. It made me measure your feelings against a calendar." Caroline said nothing. Nicholas looked away. "I realized two nights ago that I had begun wondering whether you were close enough to loving me."
The honesty hurt—not badly, deeply.
"I do not want to do that."
"Why?"
"Because your heart is not a task I am completing." Caroline's eyes burned. Nicholas continued: "If Christmas comes and you do not love me, nothing has failed."
"Nicholas—"
"If January comes and you do not love me, nothing has failed." His voice softened. "If spring comes..."
Caroline looked at him. "What if spring comes?"
"I wait."
"And if I never—" His face changed; the possibility hurt him, she saw it. He answered anyway.
"Then I shall be grateful I was allowed to know you honestly."
Caroline stared. Something inside her broke open: not from pain, from recognition.
Samuel had once occupied her imagination; Nicholas occupied her life. There was the difference. She had spent years wondering whether Samuel would choose her; with Nicholas, she had spent weeks discovering that she was already chosen. Not because of beauty, not because of rank, not because she would make a suitable Duchess of Rivenhall—because she was herself. Because he had listened, because he knew when she needed silence, because he had danced with her while she was breaking and never once asked gratitude in return. Because he had waited when she loved another man. Because he was willing to wait again.
Now Caroline felt suddenly, profoundly foolish: not foolish for loving Samuel—that had been real enough—foolish for believing that love should feel like waiting for signs; foolish for not understanding what it meant to be seen.
"Nicholas."
He looked at her. She stepped closer; he did not move.
Caroline laughed softly.
"What?"
"I am an idiot."
His brows rose. "I will not allow your father to hear you say that."
"I have spent weeks telling myself not to confuse your attention with love."
"That seems prudent."
"And years confusing Samuel's friendship with love."
Nicholas's face softened.
Caroline continued: "I thought love meant hoping." He waited. "I thought it meant reading every kindness twice." Her voice shook. "I thought it meant waiting for someone to become certain." Nicholas looked at her. "And now..." Caroline's eyes filled. "Now I think perhaps love is much simpler."
"How?"
She reached for his hand. Nicholas went utterly still.
"It is being able to stop guessing."
He inhaled. Caroline smiled through sudden tears.
"I know you love me."
"Yes."
"I know."
"Yes."
"And I think—" She laughed nervously.
"What?"
"I think I have been in love with you for several days and too embarrassed to admit how long it took me to notice."
Nicholas did not move. Caroline stared at him. "Well?"
He seemed unable to speak. This was so extraordinary that Caroline almost laughed again. "The feared Duke of Rivenhall has no answer."
Nicholas's hand closed around hers. "Say it again."