Prologue
Six Years Earlier…
Julien had anticipatedanother tedious evening in society, one more in a long line of them. Normally, he would not have accepted so many invitations, but it was Eleanor’s first season. As her brother and guardian, it was his duty to squire her about and ensure that every propriety was maintained and that her options were not limited by his proclivity to keep to himself most of the time. He wanted to see her succeed. He wanted to see her be the belle of the ball. Not just because it would improve her chances of making an excellent match. It had far more to do with all the losses they had endured in their lives. His sister deserved a bit of joy.
The ballroom was already a crush on their arrival, the air warmed by the mass of bodies crowded together and the candlelight that illuminated the glittering affair. A hum of anticipation echoed throughout the space, every available inch occupied by people who meant to see and be seen. Like any young lady in their first season, Eleanor moved through it with a brightness that suggested she intended to enjoy every momentof it. He kept close enough to ensure she was not imposed upon and far enough not to interfere, settling himself into the role he knew best—watchful, mildly skeptical, and prepared to be bored.
He was not.
“Julien,” Eleanor said, appearing at his side with unmistakable purpose. Accompanying her was an exceptionally lovely young woman with golden hair. “You must meet my friend, Miss Caroline Ashworth.”
Eleanor had been regaling him with tales of this paragon, Miss Ashworth, for weeks. They’d met years ago, both of them attending a the same finishing academy for young ladies there in London. But they’d recently reconnected after a chance meeting at the modiste. Since then, every other word from Eleanor’s lips had been about the lovely Miss Ashworth. And now he fully understood why.
Instantly, he was struck dumb, taken aback by the vision before him. Blonde curls piled artfully atop her head with soft tendrils left to frame her face. And what a face it was! Everything about her appeared deceptively delicate. If he’d been asked to describe, in great detail, what a beautiful woman looked like, that description would have been indistinguishable from Miss Caroline Ashworth.
She curtseyed, not perfectly, but well enough. A sign, no doubt, of her nervousness at what was to bethe first significant ball of the Season. and when she rose she met his gaze directly. There was no hesitation in the gesture, no careful arrangement of expression, no practiced coyness. She looked exactly as she was: new to the whirl of society, curious, filled with anticipation and entirely unguarded. It was, in a word, enchanting.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Harcourt.”
Her voice—soft and light—carried a trace of eagerness she had not yet learned to conceal, and for reasons he could not immediately account for, he found that he liked it. It suited her,matching the delicateness of her features and the soft, golden beauty that was intrinsic to her. And the very nature of his gushing thoughts and atrociously poetic sentiments was enough to fill him with some degree of disgust with himself.
“Miss Ashworth… My sister has spoken very highly of you. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” It sounded stiff to his own ears, not at all indicative of the fact that she had shifted his entire world with little more than a glance.
Eleanor chatted about something. What it was, he truly could not say. Typically, he did not simply ignore his sister. She was bright and sensible with insightful observations on most things. It wasn’t by choice that his attention was fixed on another to the exclusion of all else. His gaze remained firmly locked on the woman before him. Then his sister was claimed for a dance by someone of little consequence and less threat. When she had gone, the pair of them were left standing together without ceremony. He might have asked her to dance, had he been of a mind to throw himself into the marriage mart. If he were seen dancing with one deb, he’d be expected to dance with them all. That was precisely the fate he was attempting to dodge.
Caroline did not retreat to the wall or pretend to occupy herself elsewhere. Instead, she stayed near his side and watched the dancers with open concentration. Her attention flickered between couples as though she meant to understand the pattern rather than simply admire it.
“You have not yet danced,” he observed, sparing a glance at her dance card dangling from her wrist. The temptation to rectify that was beyond what he’d imagined. But what it signified would distract from Eleanor and it was her time to shine, her time to be center of attention.
“Not yet,” she replied. “I have been told I must wait until a suitable dance—and partner— is in the offing. My mother finds the waltz to be scandalous. And the only gentleman who hasasked has beendeemed… ineligible. It was only a dance, after all.”
She said it as though it was ridiculous, and that, to his mind, was only proof of how innocent she was. The waltz could indeed be scandalous. The waltz with the wrong partner could be disastrous. “You will not have long to wait, I’m sure. I predict the next set shall be a country dance… Lady Farnsby is nothing if not a creature of habit.”
She glanced at him, a small, curious smile touching her mouth. “That sounds very certain.”
“It is speculation born from years of observation,” he said. “The lemonade shall be weak. The cake shall be dry. There will be one waltz, followed by a country dance, a reel, a break for the orchestra and a few parlor games, then there shall be a cotillion.” Lady Farnsby’s events played out like clockwork every time.
Her eyes widened but a smile curved her lips. “You certainly seem to know the order of things very well, Mr. Harcourt! Eleanor must be so relieved to have you to guide her through society.”
“Hardly that. She thinks I’m a stick in the mud,” he murmured with a laugh. “It’s true enough, I suppose… Ah, the waltz is ending.” Even as he said it, he saw a gentleman making a beeline for them. With his approach came an intense regret. He should have claimed a dance prior, he realized. Claimed the dance, consequences be damned.
“I see there are already several gentlemen queuing to request the honor of a dance, Miss Ashworth,” he noted. “I shall leave you to it.
Her gaze moved briefly across the room before returning to him, as though confirming the truth of it for herself. “Then I suppose I ought to be prepared.”
“For what?”
“For being delightful when I do not wish to be,” she said, with simple matter-of-factness. “To be talked down to as though I were dim witted by virtue of being female. But you do not make such assumptions. With Eleanor as your sister how could you?”
The answer was immediate and unpolished, and it caught him off guard more than it should have. There was no calculation in her, no careful awareness of how such a statement might be received. She spoke as she thought, and the honesty of it set her apart from every other young lady in the room. “Indeed,” he said. “I could not. Though I fear you are wrong about one thing, Miss Ashworth. You will always be a delight. On that you have no choice.”
A gentleman—one no overprotective mama could find fault with— approached then, requesting the next dance. Caroline accepted, her composure settling into place with surprising ease. Julien stepped back at once, removing himself without hesitation and allowing the moment to pass without interference. It went against every urge that he possessed, but it was the proper thing to do.
He found himself studying her more closely, watching as she made her way to the floor. She was young—not a child, but new enough to the social whirl that she had not yet learned how carefully one was required to move through it. There was no practiced ease in her manner, no subtle management of attention. What she thought, she said. What she felt, she showed. It made her stand out in a way that was both refreshing and, he suspected, temporary. No rose bloomed forever, after all.
It was the right decision to keep his distance for a time. He liked her. He was charmed by her. And a man would have to be three days dead not to find her tempting. But he wasn’t yet ready for marriage. He couldn’t even consider it until Eleanor was well settled in her own life. She was also a true friend to Eleanor.He hadn’t seen his sister so happy and carefree in a very long time. Not only that, but Miss Ashworth was so painfully young. He would not rob her of the joy of a season she had so clearly looked forward to by staking some claim to her as though she were naught but a piece of property.
He told himself it was the right decision as he watched her take her place among the dancers. She moved through the steps with practiced ease, graceful and airy—better than he might have expected—though there was still a trace of uncertainty in her movements that lent her a natural grace rather than detracting from it. She paid attention, adjusted quickly, and seemed to take genuine pleasure in the movement itself.
