They laughed. Two friends, two women dressing for the same evening: one imagining she might receive a proposal, the other secretly hoping she would, neither knowing they were imagining the same man on opposite sides of the question.
Nicholas saw Caroline within thirty seconds of entering Ashford House. He wished he had not. The green gown was unfair. He stood at the top of the ballroom steps while the footman announced him and thought with the resignation of a man confronting an old and incurable problem: Still her. Two years. Still her.
Caroline stood beside Cecilia Morton near the long windows. Samuel Hartley approached them. Caroline's face changed. Nicholas looked away.
"Rivenhall." Lord Ashford appeared beside him. "Glad you came."
"You invited me three times."
"I know your habits."
"You know harassment."
Ashford laughed. They had known one another since university, though not intimately. Nicholas liked him precisely because Ashford had never attempted to make more of the acquaintance than it was.
"Come, there are people determined to meet you."
"There always are."
"One of them has a daughter."
"They always do."
"Very pretty."
"They always are."
"Excellent dowry."
Nicholas stopped. "Ashford."
"Yes?"
"If you continue, I shall leave."
Ashford grinned. "There he is. London's most romantic man."
Nicholas's gaze betrayed him and returned to Caroline. Ashford followed it. His grin disappeared. "Oh."
Nicholas looked at him. Ashford wisely said nothing.
Across the room, Samuel Hartley handed Caroline a glass of champagne. She smiled at him. Nicholas felt the old, familiar ache. Then Samuel said something to Cecilia. Cecilia blushed. Nicholas's attention sharpened. Interesting.
Caroline did not see it. Nicholas did—perhaps because Caroline was watching Samuel, and Nicholas was watching Caroline.
The musicians began a quadrille. Nicholas was immediately intercepted by Lady Benton and her daughter. He performed the required civilities. Miss Benton was attractive, intelligent, and perfectly pleasant; Nicholas wished her every happiness, preferably with someone else.
When he looked back, Caroline was dancing with Samuel. That hurt more than it should have. She was smiling. Samuel was saying something. Caroline laughed. Nicholas turned away. He had endured this before; he would endure it again.
What he did not know was that Caroline, while dancing, was thinking about the ring. Samuel seemed nervous. Surely tonight—she could feel it. When the dance ended, he escorted her back to Cecilia. Then he disappeared.
Caroline's pulse quickened. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.
Lady Ashford ordered the musicians to stop. A murmur moved through the room. Caroline saw Samuel near the doorway. He was pale. He reached into his coat. Her breath stopped. The velvet box.
For one ridiculous instant, Caroline became aware of everything at once: the warmth of the room, the pressure of her gloves against her fingers, the candlelight reflected in the windows, her mother standing beside Sir William near the card tables, Cecilia at her left, Samuel walking toward them. Toward her.
Caroline's heart rose so quickly it almost hurt. He had told her: Before Christmas. He had bought a ring. He had asked about sapphires. He was coming toward her.
Samuel stopped. Caroline smiled.
And then he turned slightly. Not toward Caroline—toward Cecilia.
The world did not stop. That was the terrible thing: it continued perfectly. Someone coughed. A log shifted in the fireplace. Silk whispered behind her.
Samuel took Cecilia's hand. Cecilia stared at him. Caroline's smile remained on her face because her body had not yet received instructions to remove it.
Samuel went down on one knee. Cecilia gasped. The velvet box opened. Inside was a sapphire surrounded by small diamonds. Blue. Caroline had told him blue.
"Cecilia Morton," Samuel said, and his voice shook, "I have rehearsed a speech for eleven days, and now that you are standing in front of me, I cannot remember a word of it."
Laughter moved softly through the room. Cecilia was already crying. Samuel smiled up at her.
"So, I shall ask the only part that matters: will you marry me?"
Caroline heard herself inhale.
Cecilia whispered, "Yes."
Applause exploded around them. Caroline applauded, too. She did not know how, but she did. Cecilia bent toward Samuel. He stood. People surrounded them.
Caroline stepped backward. No one noticed—except Nicholas.
He had been standing perhaps twenty feet away. He saw everything. Not the proposal: Caroline. He saw the instant expectation disappeared from her face. He saw recognition replace it, then pain. Not dramatic pain—that would have been easier to hide. This was worse: Caroline simply became still.
Nicholas understood. Every small thing he had observed over two years rearranged itself into one brutal certainty: she had believed Hartley meant to propose to her, and Hartley had just proposed to her closest friend.
Nicholas felt no triumph. None. The hope that would come later had not yet been born. All he felt was the unbearable instinct to cross the room and put himself between Caroline and every eye that might discover what had happened inside her.
Cecilia was embracing her. Nicholas could not hear what they said. Caroline smiled. God, that smile. He had seen her smile hundreds of times; this one was constructed entirely out of courage. Cecilia pulled back, glowing. Caroline said something. Samuel came to her. He kissed her cheek. Nicholas saw Caroline's fingers tremble.
Enough.
He moved. Lady Benton attempted to speak to him; Nicholas apologized without stopping. A gentleman stepped aside, then another. People generally did when Rivenhall walked with purpose.
Caroline saw him only when he was directly before her.
"Miss Everly."
She blinked. "Your Grace."
He bowed. "Dance with me."
It was not phrased as a question. Ordinarily, she would have punished him for that. Tonight, she merely stared.
"Now, unless you have developed an objection to music since dinner."
"I—"
Nicholas held out his hand. Behind her, people were still congratulating Cecilia. Caroline looked at his hand, then at him. His expression revealed nothing, but his eyes did. Not pity, thank God—something steadier.
"Come," he said more quietly.
Caroline placed her hand in his. Nicholas led her away.
The musicians had begun a waltz. It was new enough to remain slightly scandalous in some houses, and fashionable enough to guarantee that everyone else wanted to watch themselves dancing it. Perfect.
Nicholas placed one hand carefully at Caroline's back. She rested hers against his shoulder. They began to move. For the first several measures, she said nothing. Neither did he. Caroline stared somewhere near his cravat. Nicholas guided her through the turning couples.
"You needn't speak," he said.
Her eyes lifted. "What?"
"You look as though conversation might currently constitute an act of violence."
A sound escaped her—half-laugh, half-something else.
Nicholas continued, "I am fond of my teeth."
"Then silence would be wise."
"I thought so."
They turned. Caroline swallowed. "Why did you ask me to dance?"
"Because I wished to dance with you."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"You never wish to dance."
"An exaggeration."
"You once told Lady Sutton that dancing was proof civilization occasionally moved backward."
"She stepped on me."
Caroline almost smiled. Nicholas saw it; he did not allow himself to react.
They moved again. She became aware of the room beyond his shoulder: Samuel, Cecilia, the ring. Her stomach tightened. Nicholas changed direction. Suddenly, his body blocked her view.
Caroline looked at him. He had done it deliberately; she knew he had. Something inside her nearly broke.
"Don't," she whispered.
His expression remained calm. "Don't what?"
"Be kind to me."
The words surprised them both. Nicholas's hand tightened fractionally at her back. "I beg your pardon?"
"If you are kind, I may do something unforgivable."
"What? Cry on a duke?" Nicholas considered this. "I have several coats."
She laughed, and because laughter and grief sometimes use the same door, tears immediately burned behind her eyes. Nicholas saw. He lowered his voice.
"Look at me."