Chapter 16
“The mind of a human being is formed only of comparisons made in order to examine analogies, and therefore cannot precede the existence of memory.”
Giacomo Casanova
Audrey battled mixed emotions as she stood at the drawing room window, the velvet drapery brushing her cheek like a curtain of indecision. Julius was to be driven off in Lord Filminster’s carriage to visit the vicar Stone, accompanied by two of the Johns disguised as footmen.
She had awaited his departure in solitude, pacing the parquet floor in restless loops, trying to sift clarity from the whirlwind of her thoughts.
On the one hand, it was an immense relief that she need not flee the country under a cloud of disgrace. The notion of journeying alone through foreign lands, vulnerable and unmoored, was far from enticing.
And she could not deny it. There was a flicker of warmth within, a quiet thrill at Julius’s willingness to surrender even a fragment of his liberty to offer her marriage. It had been entirely unexpected, and in that surprise lay a trace of flattery.
But acknowledging these truths did not soften the undercurrent of resentment simmering in her chest. She had no desire for the sort of marriage Julius had proposed. The offer of a babe was generous, perhaps even thoughtful, but the rest?
Nay! It would not do. Not in the least.
If they were to marry, it must be a union of equals.
A life lived shoulder to shoulder, as companions in both spirit and action.
The kind of marriage she had long envisioned for him, and which he himself deserved, built not on compromise, but on camaraderie, trust, and the quiet joys of shared adventures.
She would not be set aside to rusticate in Stirling like a trinket gathering dust whilst her husband decided, at leisure, whether he could forgo the arms of other women.
It was almost—almost—laudable that he intended to be honest about such things. But even so, he wished to have both wife and freedom. It was a contradiction too profound to accept. Did Julius have no real notion of what a marriage ought to be?
That thought stilled her pacing. Perhaps he did not. It was entirely possible.
Audrey herself was considered lower gentry by London society.
Her father had been a respected physician and modest landowner in the country, where a marriage was often a partnership of shared labor and mutual goals.
She had long suspected that Lord and Lady Stirling were estranged.
Neither the countess nor her daughter had visited Stirling in several years, three or four at least.
Might Julius’s odd notions of matrimony stem from that example? His parents’ cold distance? He had certainly spoken little of them beyond vague references to disappointment and disagreement. Audrey had overheard the sharp exchange between Julius and his father since their arrival in London.
She leaned a knee on the embroidered settee beneath the window, nibbling her lower lip as she craned forward to glimpse the street below.
Two cloaked figures emerged from the house and approached the waiting carriage.
The Johns, quick and efficient, unhooked the steps and shut the door behind them, their eyes alert and observant even as they performed these familiar tasks.
Moments later, the carriage rolled forward, turning the corner and vanishing from view.
That was all the cue Audrey needed.
Their understanding, if it could be called that, was merely temporary.
A truce, not a promise. But if they were to marry, truly marry, she had every intention of drawing Julius into a real partnership.
A union forged not of necessity, but of shared purpose and tenderness.
The marriage she had daydreamed he might find, back when she had watched him with quiet admiration at Lady Hays’s home.
And now, if she played her hand wisely, perhaps that future might still be within reach.
But Audrey was no practiced temptress who knew the art of beguiling men with sultry glances and murmured promises.
She was a young woman of the countryside, born and raised in a modest village where honesty mattered more than seduction.
She was but a maiden, her affections untouched and her knowledge of such matters limited to novels and overheard whispers.
That upbringing had not prepared her for what lay ahead, convincing her future husband not merely to wed her, but to love her as a wife in truth.
Yet Audrey did possess a skill, one well-honed and deeply intuitive. The ability to observe and diagnose the ailments that troubled both body and soul. And to make use of that skill, she would need to study the gentleman in question. She would need to understand Julius.
Rising from the settee with new resolve, she made for the door, her fingers brushing over the brass handle before pausing.
Asking Julius outright would achieve nothing.
He would dance around the truth with charming evasions, and she would learn little of his true reasoning.
One thing had become clear in their time together—Julius Trafford was an intensely private man.
He cloaked himself in foppish garments and smooth irreverence, but beneath that polished veneer, she had glimpsed a fierce, calculating intelligence. He was a man of strategy, not vanity.
Whatever the reasons for his reserve, Audrey would not be deterred.
She would not be dismissed or gently placed to the side like a less favored possession.
These past days had proved that Julius was loyal to his friends.
He was loyal to the point of risking his own safety.
That loyalty was a crack in the wall he had built around himself, and she intended to reach through it.
If she could align herself with that part of him, then she might earn the love of the man behind the mask.
Since he had proposed marriage, Audrey had claimed a quiet but certain truth in her heart. He was now hers. And she would hold fast to that truth with gentle determination and steadfast faith. She had no intention of letting him slip away.
There was, however, one person Julius had implied he admired above all others.
A figure from the past, infamous and celebrated—Casanova.
Julius had spoken of him with something bordering on reverence.
Audrey believed that in those memoirs, scattered somewhere in his bedchamber, she might find the clues she sought.
She would read them. She would glean from those pages not the arts of seduction, but the pathways to understanding desire, loyalty, and how a man like Julius Trafford envisioned freedom, connection, and perhaps, even love.
It was time to employ strategy. Quiet, womanly strategy.
If Julius was a fortress, she would not storm his gates.
She would walk the long path about until she found the hidden entrance he had forgotten he had ever built, and through that entrance, she would forge the life she longed to share with him.
Julius drummed his fingers on his knee, the staccato rhythm betraying the unease that had lodged itself behind his breastbone.
Through the carriage window, London unfurled in restless detail—carts creaking, booted feet splashing through puddles, street vendors crying their wares.
And yet, his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Audrey. Again.
He did not wish to become one of those pitiable men who wed and then consorted with mistresses, juggling affection and dishonor with casual ease.
That kind of behavior had always struck him as contemptible.
For all the failings in his parents’ union, and there were many, he had never seen evidence of infidelity.
Indeed, he had investigated it himself during a particularly bitter year.
If Lord Snarling had kept a mistress, Julius would have uncovered the fact. And yet, there had been nothing.
Still, he could not escape the uncomfortable truth. Something about this situation with Audrey had stirred memories he had long sought to bury.
He had returned from his Grand Tour three years earlier, weary from a wretched Channel crossing and looking forward to a warm welcome.
The moment he reached his father’s townhouse, travel-stained and sodden, Julius had charged through the entryway eager to see his mother and his sister.
He had always shared a closeness with Lady Smiling, his mother, and during those long years abroad, her letters had brought welcome news.
He had folded them carefully into his trunk and reread them by candlelight when homesickness had curled around his ribs.
Little Penelope, he had imagined, would be far more grown than the bright-eyed child he had left behind. She would run into his arms with news of her studies and ponies and secret cakes in the schoolroom.
Lord Snarling would be no warmer than usual but, at least, predictable in his frost.
Lady Smiling would meet him with a kiss on the cheek, a cup of tea, and inquiries about Roman ruins and Venetian gondolas.
Except …
He had arrived to find that Lord Snarling was already away, off to the Continent on Crown business.
Nothing surprising there. What had startled him was the quiet revelation from a butler he had never before met.
Lady Smiling and Miss Penelope had departed for Paris two months prior and had not returned.
Julius had stood frozen, trunk in hand, the familiar hallway suddenly foreign in its silence.
He had written to his mother at once, directing his letter to his uncle’s residence.
Her reply had been lighthearted, even cheerful.
She was extending her visit, finding great enjoyment in her brother’s company, and Penelope’s French was improving admirably.
Julius had not believed a word of it.
There was a deliberate brightness in her tone, the kind that concealed rather than revealed. He had read between the lines. Something had been amiss.