Frances Everly looked toward the drive. "Then the elm trees must be unusually compelling today."
Caroline turned from the window. "I am not waiting for Nicholas."
"Of course not."
"I am not."
"I agreed with you."
"You agreed in a way that suggested disbelief."
"I have been married thirty years. I have developed several forms of agreement."
Caroline frowned and returned to the embroidery she had not meaningfully advanced for twenty minutes.
Her father entered from the corridor carrying two letters and a small wooden box. "This came for you."
Caroline looked up too quickly. Sir William saw; Frances saw. Caroline hated both of them.
The box was plain: no crest, no ribbon, no dramatic insignia announcing that a duke had turned his attention upon her. Her name was written across the top in a firm, unmistakable hand: Miss Caroline Everly.
Caroline opened it. Inside lay a brass compass: not jeweled, not especially expensive—old, perhaps. There was a folded note beneath it. She opened that, too:
You once told me that people become lost less often from not knowing the road than from refusing to admit they have left it. I have been thinking about that ever since.
— Rivenhall
Caroline read it twice, then a third time. Her mother said nothing. Her father lasted fourteen seconds.
"A compass?"
"Yes."
"He courts very strangely."
Caroline closed the box. "I like it."
Frances smiled into her tea. Sir William looked at his wife. "Should I have sent you navigation equipment?"
"You once sent me a dead pheasant."
"I had shot it."
"That did not improve matters."
Caroline laughed, and for the rest of the afternoon, she kept the compass in her pocket.
Nicholas arrived the next day. He made no mention of it; this irritated her further. They walked through the lower gardens, which had mostly surrendered to winter.
"You sent me a compass."
"I did."
"That was an unusual gift."
"Would you have preferred diamonds?"
"No."
"Excellent. They are expensive."
Caroline looked at him. He looked ahead. "You knew I would like it."
"I hoped."
"You remembered something I said months ago."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Nicholas turned. "Because you said it."
She stopped walking. There were moments when the simplicity of him disarmed her more completely than any practiced charm could have. Most men answered such questions with ornament; Nicholas rarely did. He remembered because she had spoken, as if that was sufficient reason.
She began walking again. "You are making this difficult. I had been told courtship was meant to be pleasant."
"For whom?"
"An excellent question."
Caroline smiled. They reached the small stone bridge over the stream. The water beneath was dark and quick. Nicholas rested one hand against the parapet.
"I have invited your parents to Rivenhall next week."
Caroline looked at him. "For what?"
"Dinner."
"That sounds harmless."
"It is intended to be."
"Which makes me suspicious."
"I shall tell Cook."
"Tell Cook what?"
"To make something threatening."
Caroline laughed. Then she studied him. "You really are serious. About dinner. About me."
Nicholas did not smile. "Yes."
The answer moved through her quietly. She looked at the stream. "You make it sound easy."
"What?"
"Wanting someone."
"It is not."
"No?"
"No." Nicholas's voice lowered. "Wanting you has been one of the least convenient things I have ever done."
Caroline glanced at him.
He continued: "It would have been much easier to want someone impressed by Rivenhall."
"Why?"
"Because I know how to manage Rivenhall."
"And me?"
"No idea."
That made her laugh.
Nicholas watched her. "Though I am learning."
"What have you learned?"
"That flowers would annoy you if sent daily."
"Yes."
"That jewels would make you suspicious."
"Yes."
"That you enjoy gifts with a thought attached to them." Caroline touched the compass in her pocket. "And that you pretend not to enjoy being pursued."
She turned. "I do not pretend."
"You checked the drive yesterday."
Caroline stared at him. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Your father."
She gasped. "Traitor!"
"I like him."
"He will never recover from that compliment."
Nicholas smiled. Caroline shook her head. Then, quite suddenly, she said, "Samuel once brought me roses every year on my birthday."
Nicholas's expression changed only slightly. Caroline noticed; she had not meant to mention Samuel. The old name had simply appeared.
"He remembered," she added.
Nicholas nodded. "That was kind."
Caroline looked at him: no jealousy, no irritation, no attempt to compare. That steadiness made her continue. "I used to think everything he remembered meant something." Nicholas waited. "I suppose now I am wondering whether I am doing the same thing again. With you."
"Yes." Nicholas considered the question. Then he said, "Do not interpret."