“I know,” she replied. “But I could not stand idle while my dearest friend was so cruelly and undeservedly maligned.”
His chest tightened at that.
He had admired her for years — admired her kindness, her steadiness, her quiet courage. But if he were to be honest, it was far deeper than admiration. It was a thing he had never dared put a name to because she was promised to another.Had been. Had been promised to another.It was in the past now andshe was unencumbered by promises to another. Adrian’s words came back to him in that moment. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. There would never be a better opportunity to express that to her.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
Julien reacted without thought. He reached for her, drawing her swiftly into the narrow space behind the door, his hand braced against the wall beside her shoulder as he shielded her from view. The movement was instinctive, protective — the only way to prevent discovery. Even if someone opened the door, they would not see her. Not well enough to identify her other than to know he had a woman closeted with him.
They stood only scant inches apart, pressed close in the dimness. In the quiet of his study, the sound of their breath mingled, falling into a rhythm with one another’s.
He was acutely aware of her — the warmth of her breath against his throat, the faint scent of orange blossom, the delicate rise and fall of her chest as she stilled herself to silence. He had held women before, danced with them, offered polite embraces when propriety allowed. Indulged other desires in private when his needs became burdensome. None of those moments had ever felt like this — charged, precarious, impossible to ignore.
If anyone opened that door and recognized her, then her reputation would be irreparably damaged. The knowledge tightened every muscle in his body. He kept his arm braced, forming a barrier between her and the world beyond, determined that no harm should come to her through his carelessness.
The footsteps passed. The risk of discovery receded with them. Still he did not move.
Caroline remained very still against him, her gloved hand resting lightly against his coat as though she had forgotten towithdraw it. He felt the faint tremor in her fingers and wondered whether it was fear — or something else entirely.
In all her years with Sutton, she had been courted openly, no doubt shared kisses with him in secluded gardens, admired before the world. And yet she was looking up at him, her lips parted softly in surprise, and an acute awareness passed between them. They were in uncharted waters here, touching one another, standing intimately close to one another. Her lips were but a scant breath from his. It would take nothing at all to lean in and capture her lips and finally know the taste of her. And it would be an absolute breech of trust. It would be taking advantage of her while she was vulnerable and hurting. And he could not do that. Because she was more than a kiss to him, more than a momentary diversion. A stolen moment with Caroline Ashworth would never be enough for him and if that was all he might ever have, he did not wish to be further haunted by it.
He stepped back at once, restoring the space propriety demanded.
“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “It was necessary.”
“I know,” she replied.
Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them — fragile, electric, impossible to name.
Julien cleared his throat and forced himself back into practicality. “I will see that this gossip is silenced before it can take root. Lady Lyndehurst may be reasoned with, if not her goddaughter. They have their own secrets to conceal and I am well aware of them.”
Caroline inclined her head. “Thank you. Eleanor deserves better.”
“As do you,” he said before he could stop himself.
The words hung between them.
He moved toward the door and opened it cautiously. The corridor lay empty.
“You should return to the ballroom,” he said. “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.”
She nodded, but lingered a moment, as though reluctant to step back into the world beyond the threshold.
“Thank you, Mr. Harcourt—Julien,” she said softly.
Julien watched her go, the sound of his name on her lips both exquisite and torturous. But both of them were aware that something had shifted irrevocably — not only in the course of the evening, but in the quiet, guarded region of his own heart he had long refused to examine.
And he knew, with a certainty both unsettling and undeniable, that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Julien Harcourt did not call upon Lady Lyndehurst impulsively. He did very little impulsively. Every action he undertook was measured, considered, and executed with calm deliberation. It was precisely that reputation which secured him an audience within the hour.
Lady Lyndehurst received him in her morning room, a cool and orderly chamber that reflected her own temperament. Miss Verity Langford sat beside her aunt, posture rigid, gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap. The girl’s expression suggested injured dignity, though the flush high in her cheeks betrayed unease.
“Mr. Harcourt,” Lady Lyndehurst said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
