That sense of calm did not last.
As the carriage came to a halt and the footman stepped forward, her mother was helped down first, roused gently from her slumber. Caroline gathered her skirts and prepared to descend with the composure she had long practiced, but the instant her gaze lifted toward the terrace, she saw him. He stood some distance away, in easy conversation with Adrian, one hand resting lightly against the balustrade, his posture familiar and yet, in that moment, entirely arresting.
For a brief and disorienting instant, everything else fell away.
Julien.
The recognition brought with it a rush of sensation so immediate that she could not have named it even had she tried. Relief came first, swift and unguarded, followed closely by something brighter, sharper, that set her pulse to an unsteady rhythm. Beneath it all lay that same thread of nervous awareness, though now she understood it for what it was, no longer mistaking it for awkwardness or propriety but recognizing it instead as something far more personal and far more difficult to dismiss.
Eleanor’s greeting followed, warm and familiar, drawing her forward and restoring, if not her composure, then at least the outward appearance of it. There was comfort in her friend’s presence, a grounding familiarity that steadied her even as her awareness remained divided, keenly attuned to the man who stood not far away. Conversation followed, polite and expected, but Caroline found herself only partially engaged in it, her attention pulled again and again toward the figure she could not quite ignore.
When the suggestion was made that she should retire and rest after her journey, she found herself resisting it with an immediacy that surprised her. The thought of withdrawing indoors, of placing distance between herself and the gardens, and by extension Julien, was unexpectedly unwelcome. She requested instead a walk, citing the stiffness of travel, and though the explanation was reasonable, it did little to disguise the underlying impulse.
“There is no need,” came his voice before Eleanor could summon another to attend her, and Caroline turned at once.
Julien had crossed the distance between them with a quiet assurance that seemed entirely in keeping with his nature. Standing at her side, he inclined his head slightly, his expression composed, though there was something in his gaze she could notimmediately name. If she wished to walk, he said, he would be pleased to show her the gardens, and there was nothing in his tone that invited refusal.
She did not refuse.
They moved away from the house together, the gravel giving way beneath their feet as they stepped onto the garden path, the air soft with the scent of roses and warmed earth. For several moments, neither spoke, the silence between them carrying the weight of absence and the quiet acknowledgment of all that had gone unaddressed. It was not uncomfortable, but it was not without tension, and Caroline found herself acutely aware of it, of him, of the proximity that felt both familiar and entirely new.
“I had not anticipated that I would see you here,” she admitted at last, her voice pitched softly, aware that he would hear her and equally aware that she did not wish anyone else to.
Julien’s gaze shifted toward her, intense but measured, enigmatic and still, somehow, honest. He told her that he had anticipated it, that in truth he had not anticipated at all but had known that he would see her. He explained, with quiet certainty, that he had arranged with Eleanor before her departure from London that should Caroline be invited to spend the summer, he himself would come as well.
Caroline’s steps faltered, and she turned to face him fully, the motion instinctive, driven by the need to understand what he had just said. Questions rose too quickly for her to give voice to them, leaving her grasping for something simpler.
“Why?” she asked.
He did not look away. He told her that he had held her in esteem for a very long time, for a time when she had not been free and when giving voice to his admiration would have served only to burden her. He had believed, after Sutton’s very public foolishness, that he might at last have the opportunity to speak plainly, but that circumstance had intervened.
Caroline could only stare at him, the meaning of his words settling over her with a force that felt both startling and inevitable. She had sensed something once, had felt it in that charged stillness months ago, but she had not trusted it, had half convinced herself that it had been one-sided or imagined altogether.
“I had no inkling of… of your esteem,” she managed at last.
He answered that she had not been meant to, that at the time it would have placed her in an untenable position, one he had no wish to create. The explanation was entirely consistent with the man she knew him to be, and yet, hearing it now, she understood it differently—not as distance, but as restraint, not as absence of feeling, but as deliberate choice.
“I fear it has been a poorly kept secret. Both my sister and Adrian had sussed it out long ago,” he admitted ruefully.
“And now?” she asked quietly.
“Now, with significant scheming on my part—though with the best of intentions—we find ourselves enjoying the countryside together. And we have the summer, Miss Ashworth—Caroline—to determine whether or not thatesteemmight be mutual.”
“I rather think I would not need the entire summer to decide such a matter,” she said lightly. In truth, she felt giddy inside. As if her heart were beating with such intensity that it rattled her like a child’s toy.
“If you say that because you already have some esteem for me, then I am glad to hear it. If you say it because you think you may never, I would beg you, do not disabuse me of hope just yet… but allow me time to persuade you otherwise.”
“I require no such persuasion, Mr. Har—Julien. I require no persuasion at all.”
Above them, the sky darkened, the portent of a summer rain storm. It did nothing to dampen her mood as they resumedtheir walk, this time turning back toward the shelter of the house. But the silence that settled between them was no longer uncertain. It was altered, shaped by what had been spoken and what remained unspoken still. Caroline found that she could not return to the easy familiarity that had once defined their acquaintance. Whatever had existed between them before had changed, or perhaps it had only been revealed for what it truly was.
For the first time, she did not look away from it. She no longer had any reason to do so—not her commitment to another nor her fear that such feelings might go unrequited. If this first hour at Lakewood House was any indication of how her summer should go, it would be remarkably eventful… in only the best of ways.
Chapter
Seven
In the days that followed Caroline’s arrival at Lakewood House, the household settled into a rhythm so natural that it felt less constructed than discovered, as though it had always existed and merely awaited their participation. Mornings were spent apart, not by design but by inclination, with Adrian and Julien riding out across the estate while Eleanor and Caroline occupied themselves within the house or the gardens. There was no sense of obligation in it, no pressure to account for each hour, and Caroline found, to her quiet surprise, that she adapted to it with ease. The restlessness that had once plagued her gave way to something steadier, something that required neither examination nor justification, and in that steadiness she discovered a contentment that felt both unfamiliar and entirely welcome.
