"Not as well."
"That is almost a compliment."
"Don't become accustomed to it."
She recognized her own words and smiled.
They turned homeward. Caroline did not know that Nicholas had wanted to tell her he loved her. Nicholas did not know that for almost half the journey back, Caroline forgot to think about Samuel. It was not much, but love, when it is real, does not always enter with trumpets. Sometimes it begins with an hour in which grief forgets to occupy every chair.
Over the next fortnight, Nicholas appeared with a frequency Caroline initially attributed to coincidence: he attended dinner at Everly Park (coincidence); he encountered her at the village assembly (coincidence); he sent Sir William a book on agricultural drainage and included another volume because, according to his note, "Miss Everly will disagree with chapter seven and ought to be given the opportunity" (annoying coincidence).
Then he appeared at Mrs. Hargreaves's musical evening—an event Nicholas had once described as "three hours of society being punished for having ears."
Caroline found him beside the refreshments. She stopped. "What are you doing here?"
"Eating a tart."
"You hate musical evenings."
"I am developing character."
"You are following me."
Nicholas ate the tart. Caroline stared. He swallowed. "An extraordinary accusation."
"Is it inaccurate?"
"Yes." She waited. "Entirely." Nicholas looked at the ceiling.
Caroline's eyes widened. "You are!"
"Do lower your voice. I have a reputation."
She laughed. Across the room, two mothers immediately looked toward them. Nicholas noticed; Caroline did not. That, too, was becoming familiar.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why do you keep appearing?"
He could evade again. He discovered he no longer wanted to. "Because I enjoy your company."
Caroline's smile softened. "So do several people."
"I am not responsible for their poor judgment."
"Nicholas."
He looked at her. She had begun using his name more often. Every time she did, something foolish happened inside him.
"I enjoy yours," he repeated. No joke this time.
Caroline's expression changed. A tiny silence opened. Then Mrs. Hargreaves announced a soprano. The moment vanished, but not entirely.
Later that evening, Caroline found herself watching Nicholas while he spoke to an elderly gentleman near the fire. She wondered what London saw when it looked at him: power, certainly. A title, Rivenhall, wealth, influence—a man whose displeasure could close doors.
Caroline had always seen those things, too. Perhaps that was why she had never looked further. Samuel had seemed safe, familiar, simple. Nicholas had belonged to another world: not socially—Caroline's family was respectable enough to move easily in his circles—but imaginatively. She had never wanted to be a duchess. She had never pictured herself at Rivenhall, never wondered what Nicholas looked like at breakfast.
The thought arrived unexpectedly: What did Nicholas look like at breakfast?
Caroline nearly choked on her lemonade. Cecilia would have laughed.
The thought of Cecilia brought a softer ache now—not gone, softer. A letter had arrived that morning: Cecilia was happy; Samuel was happy. Caroline had read the letter twice. The second time hurt less.
She looked again toward Nicholas. He caught her watching. Instead of looking away, he raised one eyebrow. Caroline immediately turned toward the soprano. Behind her, Nicholas smiled.
It happened slowly enough that Caroline did not know when to become alarmed. She began expecting him. That was all. At dinner, she noticed whether Nicholas had arrived. At a gathering, she wondered whether he would be there. When something absurd happened, she found herself storing it because Nicholas would appreciate the absurdity properly. Once, while her father argued with a tradesman about a gate hinge, Caroline thought: Nicholas would say Papa has finally found an opponent worthy of him.
She stopped walking. That was how Samuel had once lived in her mind. Not the same way, but near enough to frighten her.
She withdrew. Nicholas noticed within four days, though of course he did. He did not pursue her immediately; that surprised her, too. He simply gave her space.
A week passed. Then an invitation arrived from Rivenhall Abbey: not for Caroline—for the entire Everly family. Dinner.
Sir William accepted before Caroline could invent an objection.
"You like him," her father said.
"I like many people."
"You don't argue with many people for recreation."
"That proves nothing."
"It proves you inherited your mother's courtship habits."
Frances looked up. "I never argued with you."
"You once called me an intellectually decorative man."
"You had just said women should not read political pamphlets."
"I improved."
"You did."
Sir William looked at Caroline. "Marriage."
Caroline groaned. "I am not marrying anyone."
"No one asked you."
"Exactly."
Her parents exchanged a glance. Caroline pointed at them. "Stop that."
"What?" Frances asked innocently.
"Being married at me."
Sir William returned to his newspaper.
Rivenhall Abbey was not an abbey, at least not anymore. The original monastery had been dissolved centuries earlier, rebuilt twice, damaged by fire once, and eventually transformed into a sprawling stone house overlooking a broad valley. Caroline had expected grandeur; she had not expected warmth. Books were everywhere. Dogs occupied furniture with aristocratic confidence. A suit of armor in the entrance hall was missing one gauntlet because, Nicholas explained, his younger brother had stolen it when he was eight, and no one had ever found it.
The Duchess Dowager, Nicholas's mother, greeted Caroline without inspecting her like livestock. This was encouraging. Lady Margaret Ravenscroft was sixty-two, silver-haired and elegant, with eyes suspiciously similar to her son's.
"So," she said.
Caroline waited. "So?"
Margaret looked toward Nicholas. He gave his mother a warning glance. She smiled. "Nothing."
Caroline immediately knew there was something.
Dinner was lively: Sir William and Nicholas disagreed about trade; Frances and Margaret discovered a mutual acquaintance they both disliked; Caroline laughed more than she had expected.
Afterward, Nicholas showed Sir William a collection of maps. Caroline wandered into the long gallery. Portraits watched from the walls: Ravenscrofts, generations of them. Men in armor, women in silk, children holding dogs.
Caroline stopped before a portrait of Nicholas at perhaps twenty.
"You looked insufferable."
His voice came behind her: "I was."
She turned. He stood several feet away. "You admit it?"
"I was twenty. That is not a defense; it is the best one available."
Caroline looked back at the portrait. "You look angry."
"I was bored with being painted. With being told who I was expected to become."
She glanced at him. "And did you become him?"
Nicholas came to stand beside her. "Some of him. The terrifying parts."
"Especially those." She smiled. Then her gaze moved down the gallery. "This place is extraordinary."
"It is large." That sounded almost apologetic. "I have discovered size impresses people who do not have to repair roofs."
Caroline laughed. "You truly don't care whether I'm impressed, do you?"
Nicholas turned toward her. "No."
The answer came too quickly, too honestly. Caroline's smile faded. "Why not?"
"Because I know you aren't."
"That should offend you."
"It is one of the things I like most about you."
Silence. The gallery suddenly seemed very long. Caroline's heart began doing something she did not trust. Nicholas looked at her. He could have stepped closer; he did not.
"You have never wanted Rivenhall," he said.
"I hardly know it."
"I don't mean the house."