Caroline understood: the title, the position, the life. "No."
"I know."
"Does that bother you?"
Nicholas's expression softened. "Caroline, half the unmarried women I meet begin imagining themselves Duchess of Rivenhall before I have remembered their names."
"That is a terrible thing to say."
"It is also occasionally true."
"And I?"
"You once forgot my title while telling me my opinion about enclosure was idiotic."
"It was idiotic."
"I know."
She stared. "You agreed with me?"
"Eventually."
"You never said."
"I have dignity."
She laughed. Nicholas smiled. Then, slowly, the laughter faded.
They were standing too close now. Caroline had not noticed when that happened. She could see the small line beside his mouth, the darker ring around his gray eyes, the way his expression changed when he stopped being amused. Her breath caught.
Nicholas saw. This time, he stepped back—not because he wanted distance, but because she did. Caroline felt the absence immediately. That frightened her more than his nearness had.
"I should find Mama."
"Yes."
She walked toward the door.
"Caroline." She turned. Nicholas's voice was quiet: "You needn't be afraid of enjoying yourself."
Her defenses rose. "I am not afraid."
"No." He watched her. She hated that he could do that: look without demanding, wait without retreating. "Good night, Nicholas."
"Good night."
Caroline left. Nicholas remained in the gallery. His mother appeared from a doorway thirty seconds later. He closed his eyes.
"You were listening."
"No."
"You raised me. You taught me to detect lies."
"I regret that now." Nicholas looked at her. Margaret walked toward the portrait. "She likes you."
"She is recovering from loving someone else."
"Both things may be true."
"I will not hurry her."
His mother studied him. "No."
"No what?"
"You won't." Nicholas frowned. Margaret touched his arm. "You've loved her too long to settle for gratitude."
He looked toward the doorway Caroline had passed through. "That is precisely the problem."
"What?"
"I don't want her gratitude."
"What do you want?"
Nicholas answered without hesitation: "Everything."
Caroline lay awake that night, not thinking about Samuel. That was what finally frightened her: she had gone an entire evening without thinking about Samuel, until she noticed she had not thought about Samuel. Instead, she had thought about Nicholas: his house, his ridiculous portrait, the way he stepped backward when he sensed she needed room, the way he had said, "It is one of the things I like most about you."
Caroline rolled onto her other side. "This is absurd," she whispered.
The room did not disagree. She closed her eyes. Samuel's face appeared. For years, it had come easily; tonight, it seemed strangely distant. Then another face replaced it: gray eyes, dark hair, an infuriating mouth.
Caroline opened her eyes. "No." Nothing happened. "Nicholas Ravenscroft, get out of my head."
He did not. The man had never been particularly obedient.
A letter from Cecilia arrived the next morning. Caroline opened it at breakfast. Cecilia wrote about wedding arrangements, Samuel's inability to choose between two houses, her mother's insistence upon a larger breakfast, and an argument over flowers. Then, near the end:
I hope you will forgive me for asking something strange. Were you unhappy the night Samuel proposed? I have thought of your face several times since. Perhaps I imagined it, but I know you too well to dismiss the feeling. If something is wrong, please tell me. I would rather know an uncomfortable truth from you than a comfortable lie.
Caroline read the paragraph three times. Her stomach tightened. Her first instinct was to deny everything. Then Nicholas's voice returned: You have decided that because neither of them did anything wrong, you have no right to need distance.
Caroline put down her toast. She went upstairs. She sat at her desk. And for nearly twenty minutes, she stared at blank paper.
Then she began: "My dearest Cecilia, you did nothing wrong." She stopped, started again.
By the time she finished, the letter was four pages long. She told Cecilia the truth: not every detail, not every foolish dream, but enough. She had loved Samuel; she had misunderstood his affection; she had believed the ring might be for her. She was hurt, and she loved Cecilia still.
At the end, she wrote: "Please do not make your happiness smaller to accommodate my disappointment. I may need a little time to become entirely myself around you both again, but that is my work, not your punishment."
Caroline read it, cried, sealed it, and sent it. She felt lighter afterward. Not healed—lighter.
That afternoon, Nicholas arrived. Caroline met him outside because Orion had apparently developed a philosophical objection to entering the new transport box.
Nicholas stood in the stable. "Your horse is a criminal."
"He is your horse."
"I rescind ownership."
"You cannot return affection after purchase."
"Watch me."
Caroline laughed. Nicholas looked at her. Something was different. "You are better." It was not a question.
"A little."
He nodded. No demand for explanation.
Caroline surprised herself: "I wrote to Cecilia."
Nicholas waited.
"I told her."
His eyes sharpened. "Everything?"
"Enough."
"How do you feel?"
"Terrified."
"That usually follows honesty."
"And relieved."
"That, too."
Caroline looked at him. "Were you always this irritatingly sensible?"
"No. At twenty, I was insufferable. You saw the portrait."
She smiled. Then she became serious. "Nicholas."
"Yes?"
"Why did you know?"
He went still. "At the engagement?" He understood.
"How did you know what had happened to me when no one else did?"
This was the moment. Not the declaration, but the door before it. Nicholas looked at Caroline Everly, the woman he had loved quietly, carefully, uselessly for two years. He could lie. He was tired of lying by omission.
"Because I was watching you."
Caroline's breath caught.
Nicholas continued: "I have been watching you for a very long time."
Silence fell over the stable. Even Orion appeared, for once, to have exhausted his opinions. Caroline stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
Nicholas's face was calm; his eyes were not. "It means exactly what you think it means."