Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Tuesday Morning
Caroline had thought herself prepared.
She had known, in that vague and sensible way one always imagined such things, that witnessing a dear friend’s happiness—particularly when that happiness was long delayed and hard won—might stir in her a degree of introspection she would rather avoid.
It was only natural, after all, to measure one’s own circumstances against so vivid an example of what might have been.
She had anticipated it, had even resolved to meet it with good humor and the same generosity of spirit Eleanor would have for her.
She was determined that nothing in her own situation should diminish the joy of Eleanor’s long-awaited marriage.
However, the wound was deep. And there was no way she could have anticipated quite how deeply and painfully the dull blade of comparison would cut.
Eleanor stood across the room now, her hand resting lightly upon Adrian’s arm, her expression composed but unmistakably altered by the quiet certainty of what she had gained.
There was no artifice in it, no careful arrangement of features meant to suggest contentment where none existed.
It was real, and because it was real, it was all the more striking.
The happiness and supreme satisfaction displayed by both was complete in a way that left no room for doubt.
Caroline had known her friend for years, had seen her in every variety of social setting and under any number of pressures, and yet she could not recall ever having seen her look quite so deeply content.
Not merely pleased. Not merely relieved.
But certain, in a way that seemed to anchor her, as though she had at last arrived precisely where she had been meant to be all along.
It was a beautiful thing. And an envious one.
But even in her covetous heart, there was no begrudgement.
Eleanor deserved happiness. But that didn’t mean she was not equally deserving of it.
Further came the realization that, even if William had not fled, abandoning her for his actress, she’d have never known that happiness at his side.
That, perhaps, was the most telling part of it.
There had been a time when the sight of a wedding—particularly one born of affection rather than convenience—would have turned her thoughts immediately in his direction, prompting some familiar and weary calculation of where she stood, what she might expect, and how much longer she ought to wait.
That reflex was gone now, and in its absence she discovered something far less easily dismissed.
It was not the loss of him that troubled her. It was the loss of what had once seemed possible. Or rather, what had once seemed inevitable.
For years, she had occupied a peculiar position—neither fully claimed nor entirely free, held in a kind of suspended expectation that had allowed others to assume her future would resolve itself in due course.
It had been inconvenient at times, even frustrating, but it had also provided a certain protection.
There had always been the understanding, however ill-defined, that she was not truly available, that her path, however meandering, led somewhere definite.
Now, that understanding had been stripped away. In its place remained something far less comfortable.
Freedom, perhaps, if one wished to name it generously.
But it was a freedom accompanied by a degree of scrutiny she had not previously been required to endure, and by a narrative that had taken on a life of its own entirely beyond her control.
People did not speak of her as they once had.
They spoke of her with that particular mixture of interest and pity reserved for a woman who had been, if not quite jilted, then certainly disappointed in a manner sufficiently public to invite commentary.
She was no longer simply Miss Caroline Ashworth with her perpetual understanding as the almost bride of William Sutton. She was the young lady who had waited. Who had waited and been left.
It was not, she told herself firmly, a fair characterization.
But fairness had very little to do with how such matters were received, and she was not so na?ve as to believe otherwise.
Reputations, once marked, did not easily return to their former state.
And hers had been marked in such a scandalous way, through no fault of her own, that it would never be forgotten.
What man, she wondered—not for the first time, but with rather more clarity than before—would willingly attach himself to a woman whose name carried such associations?
Not any gentleman of consequence, certainly.
Not a man who had any real choice in the matter.
Fortune hunters and adventurers and those whom she could never trust and whose devotion to her would always be less certain than their devotion to her marriage portion.
The realization ought to have been sobering. Instead, it left her curiously hollow.
She had not, until recently, allowed herself to consider the possibility that she might wish for more than a sensible arrangement.
Now, confronted with the very real possibility that such a future might never materialize at all, she found that her indifference—if it had ever truly existed—had been something of a fiction.
She did want more. She wanted what Eleanor had. She wanted love—something she now recognized that had been absent even in her long standing fidelity to William.
Not the spectacle of it, nor the attention, nor even the certainty of a match well made in the eyes of society. She wanted the quiet ease she saw now in her friend’s expression, the sense of being chosen not out of convenience, nor obligation, but because there was no one else who would do.
It was a dangerous sort of desire. One she suspected she had no business entertaining given the nature of her current prospects, which were effectively absent.
“Caroline, my dear, you are brooding.”
She turned at once, summoning a smile, and found Lady Ensley eyeing her with unmistakable purpose.
“I assure you, I am doing no such thing,” Caroline replied. “I have simply discovered that if I remain near the window, I may admire the gardens and avoid being made to account for my recent change in circumstances.”
Lady Ensley laughed. “And what a pity that would be. A wedding breakfast is precisely the place to consider one’s future—a future that your recent change in circumstances has permitted.”
Caroline felt the familiar tension return. “It appears I have made a habit of choosing poorly.”
“On the contrary,” Lady Ensley said, already surveying the room. “You never chose at all, my dear. You were chosen and then held in reserve by a man who never appreciated you.”
Caroline had the distinct impression she was about to be made into the subject of Lady Ensley’s matchmaking schemes. And the last thing she wanted was another public romance or rejection.
Julien had not intended to eavesdrop. His intent, upon seeing Caroline staring out the window with such apparent consternation, had been to inquire after her and see if all was well.
Despite the fact that it had been his firm resolution, upon entering the breakfast and observing the arrangement of guests, to maintain a careful distance until such time as a more suitable opportunity presented itself.
The morning belonged, properly, to Eleanor and Adrian, and he had no desire to turn attention elsewhere by any action that might be remarked upon.
If there was one thing he had learned over the years, it was that timing mattered.
Acting too soon invited scrutiny. Acting too late invited regret.
He had, on more than one occasion, suffered from the latter.
Today, however, he had no intention of repeating the error.
He was waiting for a time when he could speak to her privately, to relay his feelings for her, or to at least hint at them.
He could hardly tell her, after all, that he’d been infatuated with her upon first meeting and had, over the course of their years long acquaintance, fallen maddeningly and infuriatingly in love with her.
Those were sentiments he had kept to himself. Sentiments he’d kept from everyone.
And in truth, until that time, it had seemed a pointless and wasted emotion.
As long as Eleanor’s situation had remained uncertain, had waited while Adrian hesitated, had waited through weeks and months of observing a circumstance that was not his to interfere with—he’d never been free to act on his feelings.
It would have been improper to pursue anything of his own while his sister’s future hung so precariously in the balance.
Not that it would have mattered as Caroline had doggedly held onto the slim and threadbare promises of William Sutton.
Now both impediments were mostly resolved.
One quite happily and the other decidedly less so, but both with a degree of certainty that had been eluded for far too long.
Which left him, at last, without excuse.
He intended to speak to Caroline. Not in any grand or declarative manner, not in a way that would invite speculation or place her in an uncomfortable position, but plainly enough that there could be no misunderstanding of his interest. It had been his intention from the moment he had resolved, some time ago, that his earlier restraint had cost him more than he had been willing to admit.
He would not make the same mistake twice.
He had even determined how it might be accomplished.
A quiet conversation. A moment removed from the immediate press of company. Something that might pass without notice, yet remain unmistakable in its meaning to her. It was, in his estimation, a sound plan.
It had been thwarted almost immediately.