Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Saturday Evening
By the time Julien withdrew to his study, the evening had long since ceased to resemble anything he had intended it to be.
The ball, held several evenings after Eleanor’s wedding breakfast, had been in full swing for hours, the rooms of Harcourt House were filled with guests who had come, as they always did, for music, spectacle.
The quiet sport of observation that accompanied any well-attended gathering was also a not insignificant lure.
Thus far, by every outward measure, it was proving a rousing success.
The musicians were excellent, the supper well received, and the company precisely as fashionable as one might expect.
There was nothing in the arrangement of the evening that could be faulted, and yet, from the moment it had begun, Julien had found himself increasingly at odds with it.
He had initially begun the evening with a plan, and that was now the source of his current irritation.
As plans went, it had not been a complicated one, nor even particularly bold, but it had been, in his estimation, entirely sufficient.
After years of delay that he could no longer justify, and with his sister’s future well settled, he had determined that he would speak to Caroline that evening—not in any way that would invite remark, nor with any declaration that might place her in an awkward or untenable position.
Still, he wished to convey with enough sincerity and meaning the nature of his regard for her.
Enough to alter everything between them and possibly prompt them along a new and infinitely more satisfying path.
It had been a reasonable plan, a carefully considered one, and one that should have worked had he been permitted more than a handful of uninterrupted seconds with her at a time.
He had accounted for the practicalities, approaching her only when she stood with Eleanor, where his presence would draw no comment and his attention could be easily explained without prompting speculation.
Eleanor, as anticipated, had not lingered.
She never did. She would remain only so long as courtesy required and then drift away, leaving them precisely as he required—unremarkably alone in a crowded room, with no one inclined to question them about it.
It should have worked. It would have worked.
Certainly, should have worked. And yet, each time he had been within a hair’s breadth of acting upon it, he had been thwarted.
Julien shut the door to his study with more force than was truly necessary, though the gesture offered little satisfaction.
For a moment, he remained where he was, his hand resting upon the latch, his jaw set in a way that had very little to do with the ordinary duties of hosting such an event and everything to do with how thoroughly his true objective for the evening had been undone.
It was not his habit to abandon his guests, nor to remove himself from a gathering in which his presence was expected, but there had been little point in remaining when his every effort to accomplish a single, specific purpose had been systematically frustrated.
Indeed, his efforts had been thwarted with what appeared to be such deliberate consistency that it would have been almost admirable had it not been so confoundingly irritating.
He crossed the room with restless purpose, irritation lending a rare edge to his movements.
It had happened once, then again, and then with such frequency that coincidence could no longer be credited.
By the fourth interruption, he had begun to suspect a pattern.
By the sixth, he had been entirely certain of it.
Lady Ensley—or rather, Lady Ensley and the small, determined coalition of well-meaning matrons who had apparently taken it upon themselves to correct what they viewed as a long-standing deficiency in his personal circumstances, namely his bachelorhood.
As campaigns went, it had been executed flawlessly and with a precision that might have been admirable under different circumstances.
Each time Eleanor had obligingly wandered away, each time Julien had opened his mouth with the clear intention of finally speaking to Caroline as he had planned, he had found himself intercepted with unfailing accuracy.
“Mr. Harcourt, you simply must meet Miss—”
And there she would be. Another agreeable young lady, another eager introduction accompanied by a list of accomplishments and virtues that left no room for objection.
Each encounter required just enough attention to render abrupt dismissal impossible without rudeness, and rudeness, in such a setting, would reflect not only upon him but upon his sister.
They had all been perfectly lovely. Perfectly accomplished.
Any one of them would have satisfied the expectations of society with admirable ease.
And yet every single one of them had been possessed of one singular, insurmountable flaw. They were not Caroline.
He paused at his desk, one hand braced against its edge, and drew in a slow breath that did little to ease the tension that had settled in him.
He had wanted to speak to her—properly, directly, with intention.
Not in the distant, polite manner to which he had been confined for years, not as the brother of her friend, but as a man who had grown tired of pretending indifference where none existed.
It had not even been a decision, not in the usual sense.
It had been a certainty, a quiet recognition that the time for restraint had passed.
And yet, at every critical moment, he had been prevented from acting upon it.
The knock came sharp and immediate, cutting cleanly through his thoughts.
He straightened at once. “Come in.”
The door opened without hesitation, and the very object of his great consternation stepped inside. Miss Caroline Ashworth stood there in the dimly lit entrance, her pale gown seeming to catch every bit of dim light existing within the confines of the room until she glowed like a beacon herself.
Shaking off his uncharacteristic and inconvenient moment of poetic drivel, he took a moment to study her.
And it was clear to him instantly that something was wrong.
The composure she had worn so carefully in the ballroom had slipped, not entirely, but enough that the urgency beneath it was unmistakable.
Whatever had driven her from the ballroom and to his door had done so with force, and her distress was evident in a way that immediately dispelled the last of his irritation.
He moved toward her without conscious thought, concern replacing frustration in an instant.
“Miss Ashworth. Is something amiss?”
Caroline shut the door behind her. He noted that she pressed her gloved hands against the wood, as though the solid surface might anchor her in place.
The impropriety of the moment must have dawned on her, no doubt more keenly felt now that she stood within his private space than when urgency had first driven her there.
“This is terribly improper, I know, and I would not have come,” she said, her voice low but urgent, “had it not been of the utmost importance.”
Julien did not hesitate. “You are safe here.” And he meant that to the very depths of his soul. He’d move both heaven and earth for her if need be. “Tell me.”
Something in his tone—steady, unyielding, entirely without judgment—shifted the air between them.
For Caroline, the awareness came swiftly and with surprising force.
She had been warned all her life against precisely this circumstance, had been cautioned against placing herself alone with a gentleman, had been taught to guard her reputation as something fragile.
Something, she now knew with certainty that once lost could not be easily regained.
And yet, standing there with Julien Harcourt, she felt no fear.
No apprehension. No instinct to retreat.
Instead, she felt something far more disconcerting: certainty.
Certainty that he would not take advantage, that he would not presume, that he would not misuse the moment in any way.
And beneath that certainty, something else stirred—something less easily named.
It was not the first time she had felt some level of discomposure in his presence.
In the past, she’d blamed it on feeling so incredibly silly when he seemed to always be possessed of such unflappable composure.
But she’d known, even then, that was not entirely the case.
What it was, she was hesitant to put a name to.
If she even could. So instead, she focused on the matter at hand.
“Miss Langford is spreading the most vile gossip imaginable…”
Her words came more quickly then, indignation lending clarity to her purpose as she explained what she had heard, the calculated cruelty of it, the careful pretense of reluctance that made it all the more damaging.
Julien listened without interruption, though the shift in him was unmistakable.
The steadiness remained, but beneath it lay something colder, something edged with a restraint that suggested effort rather than his normal ease.
“And you heard this yourself?”
“I did,” she answered, firm despite the circumstances, and went on to explain how she had remained at the edge of the room, unnoticed, while Miss Langford repeated her tale.
Julien turned slightly away, not to distance himself but to master the temper that had clearly taken hold.
“You should not have come here alone.”
“I know,” she replied, without offense, recognizing the concern beneath the words. “But I could not stand idle while my dearest friend was so cruelly maligned.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke through the moment, close enough to prompt immediate action.
Julien’s hand closed around her arm, firm but careful, and in the next instant he had drawn her behind the door, placing himself between her and the approaching sound.
The movement was swift, necessary, and left no space between them at all.
Caroline became acutely aware of him then, of the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his breath, the quiet restraint that held him perfectly still.
Her hand had come to rest against his coat without her realizing it, and the contact seemed suddenly far more significant than it ought.
The footsteps paused, lingered, then moved on, and still he did not move. Neither did she.
He was so close. Closer than she had ever been to him, even on the one or two occasions when they had danced over the years.
Close enough that when she lifted her gaze, she could see the faint shadow of evening growth along his jaw, the subtle roughness of it an unfamiliar and strangely compelling detail.
Close enough that the thought came to her, swift and shocking, that if she were to rise even slightly onto her toes, their lips would meet.
The realization startled her not because it existed, but because some quiet, reckless part of her did not immediately reject it.
He would not move closer. She knew that with absolute certainty. He would not take advantage. He would not even acknowledge the possibility that hovered between them, fragile and unspoken.
The footsteps passed.
Julien stepped back at once, restoring the space between them with careful deliberation. But some things, once done, could never be undone.
“I beg your pardon. It was necessary.” There was something in his gaze, in the fierceness of it as it locked on her, something indecipherable and possibly dangerous. Something that was wholly unlike the Julien Harcourt she knew.
“I know,” she said, her voice sounding strangely tremulous. Their eyes met, and something passed between them that neither could name.
“I will see that this gossip is silenced before it can take root,” he said, finally breaking the eye contact between them and widening the distance in an intangible but far more effective way.
“Lady Lyndehurst may be reasoned with, if not her goddaughter. They have their own secrets to conceal and I am well aware of them.”
“Thank you. Eleanor deserves better.”
His gaze cast over her once more, this time with a warmth that was both welcome and unsettling. “As do you.”
The words seemed to drift between them hovering with an unexpected lightness.
He moved to the door and opened it with care. “You should return to the ballroom. If you remain absent too long, someone may remark upon it. I would not have more scandal attached to your name when it is in my power to prevent it.”
Caroline nodded, though she lingered for a moment longer than she ought.
“Thank you, Mr. Harcourt—Julien.”
The door closed behind her. He was gone from her sight, but not from her mind. And nothing felt quite the same.