The words hit Louise like a physical blow to the chest.
Memory crashed over her with violent intensity. She was back in Aaron’s library, the fire crackling in the grate, his mother’s book of poetry between them. His fingers, so careful with the pages, tracing annotations written by a woman who’d died bringing him into the world. The way his mother had challenged every poet’s assumptions, finding her own truths in their pretty words.
The poet continued, his voice rising and falling with practiced emotion that rang false as copper coins, but Louise heard only Aaron’s voice reading to her. The way his face had softened with wonder at discovering pieces of his mother’s thoughts. The reverence in his touch for something precious that connected him to a love he’d never known.
Her fingernails dug crescents into her palms through her gloves, using pain to anchor herself in the present. George glanced at her, concern creasing his features, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. She’d become an expert at hiding heartbreak.
The poet moved through his own compositions to classical pieces, his voice taking on what he probably thought was a mystical quality. “Time’s chariot draws near, yet love stands still, frozen in moments that memory distills.”
Memory. Yes, she had those in abundance. Aaron’s hands in her hair. His voice saying her name. The way he’d looked at her as if she were sunlight and he’d been living underground his entire life.
“Kingdoms rise and fall to dust,” the poet intoned with dramatic gestures that would have made Emily giggle, “yet still the heart remembers what it must.”
Louise thought of Aaron’s study, grand and imposing, filled with treasures that meant nothing compared to the warmth they had found in stolen moments. The way he’d looked at her across his desk, desire and denial warring in his eyes. All that remained now were ruins of what might have been, crumbling monuments to cowardice disguised as nobility.
During the interval, George brought her a glass of wine she didn’t want but accepted to avoid questions. The burgundy liquid caught the light like blood, like the color that flooded Aaron’s cheeks when they’d kissed that first time.
“You’re thinking of him.” George kept his voice low enough that only she could hear, though his eyes tracked the room for potential eavesdroppers.
Louise took a sip of wine that tasted of bitter regret. “I’m thinking of Emily. We should have brought her. She enjoys poetry.”
“Louise.”
She turned away from the gentleness in his voice, focusing instead on a terrible watercolor of Venice that Lady Huffington had prominently displayed. The proportions were wrong, the perspective skewed, yet the owner gazed at it with pride that suggested she considered it a masterpiece.
“Lord Bradenton approaches.” Louise kept her voice level. “Remember to look appropriately weakened.”
George sighed but arranged his features into wan exhaustion as Lord Bradenton reached them, his approach as inevitable as winter.
“Lady Louise, Lord Sulton. How wonderful to see you both.” Bradenton bowed with an excessive flourish that suggested too many dancing lessons and not enough practical application. “I trust the poetry meets with your approval?”
“It’s quite affecting.” Louise managed appropriate enthusiasm while her heart slowly froze in her chest. Another man, another possibility, another future that would never measure up to what she’d lost.
“Perhaps, when Lord Sulton is fully recovered, you might enjoy a private reading?” Bradenton’s eagerness made him look impossibly young, though he had to be near thirty. “I have a small collection of rare manuscripts that might interest you. I acquired those recently at auction.”
The invitation hung between them, weighted with possibility. Lord Bradenton was everything a young woman in her position should want. Titled, wealthy enough to clear their debts, kind enough to treat her well, and available enough to offer immediate security. He would make someone an excellent husband.
Someone who hadn’t already given her heart to a man who chose fear over love.
Someone who didn’t compare every man to dark eyes that saw too much and hands that touched with reverence.
Someone who could settle for contentment instead of passion.
“You’re very kind, Lord Bradenton.” The refusal came gently but firmly, practiced from too many similar conversations. “However, I’m focused entirely on my family at present. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps once George is fully recovered.”
Disappointment flickered across his features before good breeding reasserted itself like a mask sliding into place. “Of course. Family must come first. Though perhaps, in time …”
He let the suggestion hang, hope clear in every line of his eager face. Louise was neither encouraged nor completely discouraged, having learned that absolute rejection often bred resentment that could damage their fragile social standing.
The second half of the reading passed in a blur of words that meant nothing. The poet had moved on to more of his own compositions, dreadful things about morning dew and lost love that would have made Aaron’s mother write scathing annotations in every margin. Louise sat perfectly still, perfectly proper, while inside something quietly died. This was her future, stretching endlessly ahead like a road through wasteland. Polite conversations with men who stirred nothing in her soul. Poetryreadings that reminded her of what she’d lost. Smiling when she wanted to scream.
As they prepared to leave, Lady Huffington pressed Louise’s hands between her own, her rings cold even through Louise’s gloves. “My dear, you look pale. I hope the poetry wasn’t too melancholy? Mr. Brightwater tends toward the tragic.”
“Not at all.” Louise extracted herself gently, though the woman’s grip suggested reluctance to release her. “Simply moving.”
“You must come to my card party Thursday next. Lord Bradenton specifically asked if you’d be attending.” Lady Huffington’s eyes gleamed with matchmaking fervor.
“You’re very kind. We’ll see if my brother’s health permits.”
