Eugenia’s mouth went dry.
That kiss. A brief, breathless brush of lips in a candlelit passageway; the smell of beeswax and spilled champagne; the roughness of his jaw against her cheek. She had been eighteen, absurdly hopeful, and the world had tilted on its axis. For one precarious heartbeat she had believed every foolish, romantic notion she had ever read in a novel.
And then she had seen him later—laughing with Elizabeth, dancing with her pretty friend, his dark head bent so tenderly—and shame had rushed in like cold water.
How could she have imagined herself the heroine of the story when her friend was so much prettier, so much more charming, and almost as well-dowered? Of course that brief, stolen kiss had meant nothing to a man like Thornton. Handsome, well-born, admired by every debutante in the room.
He could have had anyone. Why on earth would he have chosen me?
So she had done what sensible girls did when they realized they had badly misread their own importance: She had pretended indifference. She had laughed too loudly with Lord Flexley at Lady Ridgeway’s soirée; had turned her head just as Thornton’s gaze sought hers; had built a careful shell of composure over the raw,humiliated ache.
The memories pricked now like pins beneath the skin.
“I see you blush, my dear friend.” His smile was fond, not mocking. “So youdoremember it. I always wondered if it meant anything to you, for you barely looked at me the following day when we met at Almack’s. And then, at Lady Ridgeway’s soirée, you cut me dead and danced the evening away with Lord Flexley. I had thought you must have some understanding with the gentleman.” He gave a rueful huff. “I was cut to the quick, I assure you. But Elizabeth clearly had feelings for me…and I developed a great tenderness for her.”
His look softened. “I am very happy for your friendship after all these years.”
Eugenia’s heart gave a curious, painful twist.
All these years, and she had never once considered that he might have been wounded byherbehavior. She had been so certain she was the one making a noble sacrifice—stepping aside for beautiful Elizabeth, burying an unrequited girlish infatuation, reinventing herself as the sensible friend, the amused observer. She had told herself she had imagined that brief flare of interest in his eyes; that a single stolen kiss could not possibly have unsettledhim.
And now, to hear that he had gone home from those glittering evenings nursing his own bruised pride because ofher…
What a waste. What a foolish tangle of youth and fear and misread glances.
She swallowed. Painfully. What good were regrets? She could not change any of it. Elizabeth had loved him, and he had loved her in return, and their marriage had been happy in its way. Eugenia would never begrudge her friend that. Indeed, in lonely hours she had taken comfort in knowing that someone she loved had been so cherished.
But to know, now, that she had not been entirely ridiculous at eighteen—that hehadseen her, hadwantedher, if only for a moment—sent a quiet warmth spreading through all the cold, locked rooms of her heart.
His hand was still on her shoulder, solid and reassuring. For thirty years that hand—offered in friendship, in support, in partnership over charitable ventures and matchmaking schemes—had anchored her. Whatever storms had shaken her life, Thornton had been the steady point by which she steered.
Perhaps, she thought, with the clear-eyed wisdom age sometimes granted,it does not matter that we missed our moment. What has grown in its place has been no small thing.
She covered his hand with her own, the gesture small but deliberate. “Then we have both been very foolish, haven’t we?” she said softly. “Once, when we were young… and ever since, in not speaking of it.”
His eyes searched hers, some new awareness flickering there.
Before either of them could say more, Catherine appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with importance.
“Thornton! Eugenia! Everyone is waiting for you in the blue salon,” she announced, beckoning with imperious urgency.
Eugenia stepped back, allowing her hand to fall from his. The moment folded itself away. But the acknowledgment was still there, still newly precious, even as duty called them back into the brightly lit world.
“Then we must not keep them waiting,” she said, though her pulse was still thudding from an entirely different urgency.
Thornton offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She took it, feeling once more that quiet, astonishing bloom of warmth in her chest.
*
The blue salonhad never felt so small.
Venetia stepped over the threshold with Captain Rizzi at her back and Edward at her side, and the room seemed toshrink around her. Candlelight gilded the pale-blue silk on the walls; the air smelled of beeswax, wilting roses, and the lagoon.
Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton rose so quickly their chairs scraped over the carpet. Catherine hovered near the mantelpiece, her expression a careful mix of concern andI told you sothat made Venetia want to throw something heavy.
“Mollie,” Lord Thornton said gently, “go and sit by the fire, my dear. You look as if you might turn to ice.”
