She did.
"Not at them."
Caroline's breath shook. "Everyone will see."
"No."
"How can you possibly know?"
"Because everyone is looking at me."
She stared. His mouth moved slightly.
"One occasionally finds a use for being a duke."
That did it. Caroline laughed through the tears she refused to let fall.
Nicholas turned her again, and for the next three minutes, the most feared man in the room did something no one there would ever know enough to praise him for: he made himself conspicuous so Caroline could disappear.
People watched the Duke of Rivenhall dance. They commented on the rarity of it. They wondered why he had chosen Miss Everly. They noticed his hand at her waist, his dark head inclined toward hers, the astonishing fact that he appeared to be speaking more than three consecutive sentences to a woman at a ball. And because they were watching Nicholas, they did not notice that Caroline Everly was quietly putting her heart back behind her ribs.
When the music ended, Nicholas did not immediately release her. "Can you manage?"
Caroline nodded.
"That was not convincing."
"I can manage better." She looked toward Cecilia. Her friend was surrounded by well-wishers. Samuel looked happier than Caroline had ever seen him. The truth struck again, but this time she remained standing. "I should congratulate them properly."
"You already have."
"I should do it without looking as though I have been struck by furniture."
"A demanding social standard."
Caroline breathed. Then she looked at Nicholas. "Thank you."
Two words. Nicholas had been thanked by ministers, tenants, bankers, peers, and men whose fortunes he had saved; none had ever cost him so much to receive calmly.
"You are welcome."
She began to move away.
"Caroline."
She stopped. It was the first time he had used her Christian name. Perhaps she noticed; perhaps she was too wounded to notice anything.
Nicholas said, "You have nothing to be ashamed of."
Her face changed. He knew. Of course he knew. For one horrible second, Caroline wanted the floor to open.
Nicholas continued before she could speak: "Nothing."
She looked at him. No mockery, no triumph, no pity—just certainty. Caroline nodded once, then she walked back toward her friends.
Nicholas remained where she left him. Only now, as he watched her embrace Cecilia again, did another thought begin quietly beneath the concern: Hartley was marrying someone else. Caroline was free.
Nicholas hated himself for the hope immediately. But it came anyway—not because she was hurt, never because of that, but because for the first time in two years, loving her was no longer an act that required him to remain still.
He watched Caroline smile at Samuel. He saw the effort it cost her. And something in Nicholas Ravenscroft—something patient, disciplined, and long denied—finally made a decision.
He would not rush her. He would not use her disappointment. He would not offer a dukedom as consolation for a gentleman who had chosen another woman. But he was done pretending he wanted nothing. The road had opened, and when Caroline was ready to walk again, Nicholas intended to be somewhere upon it: not as the Duke of Rivenhall, but as the man who had loved her long before she knew to look.
Caroline cried at home, not elegantly. She had intended to. There had been a plan: she would dismiss her maid, remove her gown, sit beside the fire, and permit herself perhaps six dignified tears.
Instead, her mother entered the bedchamber without knocking. Caroline looked at her, and four years of hope collapsed all at once.
"Oh, Mama."
Lady Everly crossed the room. That was all it took. Caroline cried against her mother's shoulder like a girl half her age.
Frances Everly did not tell her Samuel was unworthy—he was not. She did not tell Caroline she had been foolish—she had not. She did not say another man would come; some griefs should not be answered with replacements. She simply held her daughter.
Later, Sir William came in, wearing his dressing gown because fathers who love their daughters are rarely as obedient to bedroom conventions as society prefers. He sat at the foot of the bed.
"I could shoot him."
Caroline lifted her tear-streaked face. "No, Papa."
"A very small wound."
"William," Frances said.
"The leg."
Caroline laughed unwillingly. Her father looked satisfied.
"There. Useful already."
"He did nothing wrong."
Sir William's face softened. "I know. That makes it worse."
"I know that, too." Caroline wiped her eyes. "I thought he loved me."
Neither parent answered too quickly. Finally, Frances said, "Did he ever tell you that?"
"No."
"Did he behave cruelly?"
"No."
"Did he deliberately encourage you?"
Caroline thought. That was harder. Samuel had sought her company, trusted her, brought her books, asked her opinions, written when he traveled. But he had done those things because she was his friend. Had there been flirtation? Perhaps. But Caroline herself had laughed and flirted lightly with men she had never intended to marry. Affection was not a contract.
"No," she whispered.
Frances took her hand. "Then perhaps what you have lost tonight is not a man who belonged to you."
Caroline looked at her. "What have I lost?"
"A future you had begun loving before it existed."
The words hurt because they were true. Caroline closed her eyes. "I feel so stupid."
Sir William immediately said, "Absolutely not."
"Papa—"
"No. I shall permit heartbroken, disappointed, furious, embarrassed, and unreasonable quantities of chocolate. I will not permit stupid." Despite herself, she smiled. He leaned forward. "You loved someone. You hoped he might love you. There are greater crimes."
Caroline looked down. "I told him blue."
Her mother frowned. "What?"
"The sapphire. Weeks ago. He asked which stone I preferred."
Understanding crossed Frances's face. "Oh, darling."
"I thought he was asking for me."
The tears returned. Frances held her again. Outside, December rain moved against the windows. No one mentioned Christmas. No one mentioned dukes. And Caroline fell asleep believing that the greatest love of her life had ended before it ever began.
She was wrong, but it would take Nicholas Ravenscroft to prove it.
Three days later, Nicholas called at Everly Park. Caroline considered escaping through the garden. Her father prevented this by noticing her moving toward the side door.
"Cowardice?" Sir William asked.
"Exercise."
"It is raining."
"I enjoy rain."
"You have hated rain since 1812."
"People change."
"Not that much."
Caroline glared at him. Sir William returned to his newspaper. "The Duke is in the blue drawing room."
"I did not ask."
"No."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because your mother told me to."
"Traitor."
"Marriage requires sacrifice."
Caroline entered the blue drawing room five minutes later. Nicholas stood beside the window. He turned. She stopped. There was something irritating about a man looking exactly as he always did when one's own internal life had recently been demolished: dark coat, immaculate cravat, controlled expression.
"Miss Everly."