There was nothing safe about this man.
Nothing young, either. He was well and truly grown.
He remained impossible, at least, swarmed with the citizenry of Highbury—fathers eager for a chat about whatever money and power he’d accrued in the last two decades, mothers eager to thrust their unmarried daughters in his path. Hetty watched them surround him with delight and curiosity, ignoring the twist of emotion that coiled through her. Refusing to confront that familiar wistfulness that had always marked their time together—a curling plume of what might have been, disappearing like smoke.
A young debutante was shoved into his path, the poor girl barely able to keep her balance, and he looked away from Hetty, setting her free as he delivered a patient smile to the sacrifice, inquiring about the young woman’s well-being. At Hetty’s elbow, someone heaved a feminine sigh.
She didn’t look to see who. Hetty didn’t begrudge the woman, as she would have done the same, truthfully, if she’d been able to breathe at all.
Because he was looking at Hetty again. No. Worse. He was crossing the room, headed for her. There was no escaping him, she realized. Nowhere to go in this room full of people—why did everyone have to like Emma Woodhouse so very much? Her gaze fell on the collection of palms in the corner. Perhaps she could—
“Hello, Hetty.”
Even his voice had changed. It had gone deeper, richer. More seasoned. And her name on his tongue sent a shiver through her, just as it always had. She turned back to him. “You shouldn’t—”
“No?” he asked. “Time may have passed, but we have been properly introduced, have we not? Is there a statute of limitations on introductions?”
How dare he joke? How dare he simply turn up after all this time? And looking like this? As though the world had done nothing but make him stronger, smarter, handsomer, more wonderful? And Hetty—she’d been left behind. She swallowed back the words, settling on “There is a statute of limitations on our friendship.”
Something flashed in his gaze, familiar and fleeting. “Then we must begin again.” His gazed flickered over her shoulder. “Mrs. Churchill, if you would be so kind as to introduce us?”
Jane stepped into view, looking absolutely delighted by whatever was to take place.Oh, dear. Jane.Before Hetty could stop her,the young woman said, “Captain Edward Harris, Baron Courtenay, may I present my dear aunt, Miss Hetty Bates.”
The irony of Jane reintroducing them was not lost on Hetty, and she loosed a hysterical bit of laughter before he reached out his hand and she was unable to make any sound at all, because manners and habit and her own desire to please everyone around her, at all times, had her placing her hand into his. Which was a mistake, because when they touched, it made her think of all the other times they’d touched. Of all the otherwaysthey’d touched. And she hated him for leaving her all over again.
She attempted to snatch her hand back.
He did not allow it, instead executing a perfect bow over it and saying, “Miss Bates, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looked up, his brown eyes sparkling as they’d done decades earlier. “And may I say, you look beautiful in blue.”
You look beautiful in blue.
He’d said it to her then, the night before he’d left. When he’d told her future and predicted she’d wear blue on their wedding day. Except there hadn’t been a wedding day, or any other.
Realization dawned. “You sent it.”
Edward didn’t have to admit it. She could see it in his eyes, along with a dozen other things she dared not name.
“Why?” Was it some kind of jest? With the world watching? She looked around, a dozen people nearby, trying desperately to look while appearing not to look. The Eltons. The Westons. The Martins. The Knightleys. All of Highbury, here to inspect their silly, dull neighbor and whatever nonsense this was.Awful.
She tried another snatch of the hand, but he once again wouldn’t allow it, instead inspecting her wrist. “Where is your dance card?”
The snatch became a successful yank. “I don’t have one.”
“Why not?”
Because forty-year-old spinsters don’t dance. They’re lucky enough to be invited at all.She lifted a chin. “I don’t dance.”
“That’s not true,” he said, the words coming on an edge of something like frustration. “You love to dance. I’ve watched you dance.”
“Well, I don’t dance anymore.”
“I want my dance, Hetty. I’ve been waiting for it.”
But he hadn’t been waiting for her, had he? Edward had lived a whole life without her. It had beenHettywho had waited. While her whole life had passed her by.
And whatever this game was, it was not entertaining. She shook her head. “You don’t get one.”
“Why?”
