"Your Grace."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You made a face."
"I did not."
"You did."
Caroline sat. Nicholas remained standing.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Why are you here?"
"To see your father."
"He is in the library."
"I have seen him."
"Then your work is complete."
Nicholas almost smiled. There she was: wounded, yes, but still Caroline. "I also came to see you."
Her defenses rose immediately. "Why? Must I submit an application?"
"With references. I can provide several from people who like you."
"That may prove restrictive."
She nearly smiled. Nicholas noticed. Caroline noticed him noticing. The room became dangerous. She looked away.
"Please don't, again."
She frowned. "You said the same thing at Ashford House."
"I know."
"I still don't know what I am prohibited from doing."
"Being—" She stopped. "Kind." Her cheeks warmed. "Yes."
Nicholas sat opposite her. "That is inconvenient."
"Why?"
"I had planned to be devastatingly unpleasant."
She looked at him. His expression was solemn. Caroline laughed before she could stop herself. "You are impossible."
"So I hear."
"You came here merely to irritate me."
"No."
"Then why?"
Nicholas could have told her: Because I have loved you for two years. Because I have spent three days thinking about you. Because I know you are hurting, and every instinct I possess wants to remain near enough to know when you stop.
He said none of those things. Too soon.
Instead: "Your father has agreed to sell me a horse."
Caroline blinked. "A horse?"
"Yes."
"You already own approximately the population of a small village in horses."
"Twenty-three."
"That is worse."
"One has retired."
"Tragic."
"I thought so."
She studied him. "Which horse?"
"Orion."
Caroline sat forward. "You cannot have Orion."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "I have already bought him."
"You have done no such thing."
"Your father appeared convinced."
"My father is easily corrupted."
"Apparently, for eight hundred guineas."
Caroline stood. "You paid eight hundred guineas for Orion?"
Nicholas stood, too. "I did."
"He hates strangers."
"He will become acquainted with me."
"He threw Colonel March out of a paddock."
"I disliked March."
"The horse did not know that."
"Then I admire his judgment."
Caroline stared at him. Nicholas stared back. And suddenly, she laughed. Not politely, not because he was trying to console her—she actually laughed. Nicholas felt the sound like sunlight after a long winter.
Caroline shook her head. "You are going to regret this. Possibly he will bite you."
"I shall bite him back."
"Nicholas."
Silence. They both heard it: his name. Not Rivenhall, not Your Grace—Nicholas.
Caroline's smile faded slightly; his did not.
"That," he said quietly, "is much better."
She sat again. "Do not become accustomed to it."
"Too late."
Something unfamiliar moved through her. Not love, not yet—not even attraction she was prepared to name. Awareness. For the first time, perhaps, Caroline looked at Nicholas Ravenscroft and saw not the title everyone else saw, nor the formidable reputation that preceded him into rooms: a man, a very handsome man, unfortunately. A man looking at her as though her saying his name had mattered.
Caroline broke eye contact. "Orion still won't like you."
"I shall survive."
"You are very confident."
"I have advantages."
"There the Duke returns."
Nicholas leaned back. "What does that mean?"
"You always expect the world to move."
"Not always."
"Often. Doors, perhaps. People."
His expression changed. "Do you believe that?"
Caroline hesitated. She had meant it lightly; he had not received it lightly. "I think people usually move for you."
"They do."
"And you expect it."
"Sometimes. At least you're honest." Nicholas studied her. Then he said, "I have never wanted you to."
Caroline went still. He allowed the words to remain: no explanation, no rescue.
Then he stood. "I should leave before your mother feels obliged to feed me."
"She will."