William looked down at the glass, almost as if surprised to realize it had been drained. “If you don’t mind,” he said, all politeness despite his cold gaze. “I find myself suffering the most wretched aching head. Brandy should ease it tremendously.”
She rose then, her movements unhurried, crossing the room with the same composed ease she brought to all such actions, and as she poured, her gaze settled briefly upon the amber liquid as it gathered in the glass, her attention not on the drink itself, but on the quiet certainty of the process it now represented. There was nothing in the gesture to distinguish it from habit, nothing in her manner to suggest the direction of her thoughts, and when she returned to her seat, her voice continued as it had before, steady, unbroken, entirely inconsequential in its subject.
“Mrs. Grant looked positively dreadful in that walking costume she wore!” She handed the glass off to him as she spoke, knowing full well that it was the sound of her voice which was currently driving him to drink.
William did not look at her, which suited her perfectly well, for it confirmed what she had already determined, that he saw nothing beyond what he expected to see and would therefore miss entirely what he had no reason to anticipate. It was an oversight she had no intention of correcting, and as she observed him now, taking in the faint tension in his expression, the inward cast of his thoughts, she found nothing in it to suggest awareness, nothing that required adjustment to her approach.
“In truth,” she said, as though continuing some trivial point already well underway, her tone light, her expression composed, “I do not think the color suited her at all, though she seemed quite determined to insist upon it regardless.”
William lifted the glass to his lips, taking a healthy swallow. And Verity had to fight the urge to preen like a puffed up peacock. He thought her stupid and stupid people were never seen as a threat. “She should have remained in pastels,” Veritynoted, nodding her head decisively as she did so. “Those dark colors against her dark hair—why she’s likely to terrify small children. They will think her some sort of witch or devil!”
“Do stop talking about gowns and costumes, Verity,” William said, his voice sounding suddenly very tired. “I bet of you, speak on another topic if you must speak. In truth, I think I should prefer silence.”
“As you wish, husband,” she said with false meekness. And all the while, he continued sipping at the very tool she was using to orchestrate his bitter end. And her freedom.
Chapter
Eleven
Caroline had slept later than was usual. Certainly, she had slept later than she intended. But restlessness had plagued her, as had dreams far more vivid than she was accustomed to. Dreams of Julien closing his arms about her, of kissing her until she was both breathless and senseless. And mirroring reality, the dreams had broken off abruptly, because not even her most vivid imaginings could supply any notion of what followed such a kiss. Something did, of course. But the particulars of it escaped her, and she was helpless to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t the kiss that troubled her so, but the persistence with which it occupied her thoughts. Ignoring it was simply not an option. And her continued ignorance on such matters—well, that wasn’t optional either. There was far more beyond that kiss. Far more than even the brief and pleasurable madness it had provided. She knew enough to be curious. And also just enough to make rather a fool of herself. She had done that already, enough to last a lifetime.
There was only one person she could ask. One person who might actually tell her the truth. But that was complicated by one undeniable fact. The only person whom she could ask was Julien’s own sister.
That ought to have given her pause. And she supposed it did, in some ways, but not enough to stay her from acting. After all, she had never been given cause to doubt the constancy of Eleanor’s friendship. For six years, she had been her most trusted friend, sharing her secrets and her burdens with grace and generosity. But this felt different somehow, more baring. It left her with a vulnerability she was entirely unaccustomed to, and one she was not certain she ought to indulge.
Yet this situation was inherently different, because it was Julien—her brother—who would be the topic of conversation and speculation, and that distinction carried a weight she could not ignore, however much she might wish to do so. Caroline sat up, pressing her face to her hands as though she might gather her thoughts by sheer dint of will, though the effort proved only partially successful. It was one thing to think of him, to remember the warmth and heat of that moment, to replay it in her mind with such persistence it bordered on obsession, and quite another to put it into words, to confess something aloud to another that she had only recently admitted to herself. Her feelings for William had died long ago, stamped out by his impotence in the face of his grandfather’s disapproval of her, though she had clung to their attachment out of nothing more than stubbornness on her part. And all the while, without quite realizing it, she had been falling—slowly, steadily—under the quiet, inescapable spell woven by Julien Harcourt.
That, more than anything, settled the matter.
Caroline rose then, not bothering to ring for a maid. She wanted to hurry things along, and dressing herself would be far quicker. Donning a simple morning dress and the appropriate underpinnings, she then fashioned her hair into a coronet of braids that were not the neatest, tendrils already escaping to curl about her face in a way that suggested haste rather than intention.
When her toilette, limited and simple as it was, had been completed, she quickly left her room in search of Eleanor. A battle raged within her, the need to preserve her dignity and modesty set firmly against the overwhelming desire to put an end to her complete ignorance. There was impetus enough to act upon that curiosity quickly, for she feared that too much time spent considering the matter might very well inhibit her from asking the questions she so desperately needed answered.
Moving through the house, the hush of early morning lingered, at least above stairs, though no doubt the kitchens below would already be bustling with activity. But here, in the corridors leading from the bedchambers to the grand staircase and into the more public portions of the house, the quiet remained, lending an almost conspiratorial air to her purpose. Slowing her steps as she neared the small sitting room nestled at the end of the corridor near the gallery, she drew in a deep and fortifying breath, then, with more bravado than actual courage, stepped inside.
Eleanor was already there, seated near the window with a book in her lap, though she did not appear to be reading it. Her gaze shifted at once from the window to Caroline, and it took only a moment for warmth to give way to speculation. “You appear to have slept not at all,” Eleanor observed. “Is there something amiss with your chamber, or does this have more to do with that rather unfortunate incident yesterday afternoon?”
“I did sleep some,” Caroline replied lightly, though not without a trace of self-consciousness. “Not much. My chamber is perfectly lovely and quite comfortable, as you well know, and while many things can be laid at the feet of both William Sutton and Mrs. Verity Langford, this cannot.”
“Still, you are troubled by something,” Eleanor pressed.
“Troubled might not be the most apt description,” Caroline said, allowing a faint, rueful twist of her lips. “I am ratherbeset by a curiosity that I have no means of appeasing except to ask you what may prove to be very impudent and somewhat improper questions. You are my dearest friend, after all. If I cannot ask you, then whom could I ask?”
Eleanor blinked in surprise, then leaned back slightly, amusement curving her mouth. “Improper?” she repeated, her interest clearly piqued. “Now I find myself quite beset by curiosity as well. Do go on. Tell me everything.”
“There are just certain matters that I, as an unmarried woman, have not been permitted to learn.”
“How delightfully vague,” Eleanor returned at once. “You are stalling. Tell me.” She leaned forward then, her tone turning more firm, though no less animated. “You know I would not betray your confidence, nor would I judge you harshly for anything. Anything short of murder, and even then I should require a full accounting of the circumstances before passing judgment.”
Caroline laughed, no doubt as Eleanor had intended, the sound easing some of the tension that had settled in her chest. Then she crossed the distance and seated herself in the chair opposite her friend, though the movement did little to steady her thoughts. “These matters are very personal,” she began, more carefully now, though no less determined for it. “I have come to realize that there were deficits in my relationship with William all along. I am now entirely certain that he never truly cared for me, but I must also question whether I cared for him.”
“Why would you question that?” Eleanor asked curiously.
“Because I have realized that, on the few occasions when William had kissed me, my response to his kisses was rather… lackluster,” Caroline admitted. “They were not unpleasant, but neither were they anything more. I was not swept away by any great passion, nor did I feel any particular temptation beyond that moment. And surely, if I had loved him as I ought to have—given that I intended to marry him—I should have thought being kissed by him more than something that was simply tolerable.”
“Any kiss described as tolerable is not a kiss at all,” Eleanor said at once. Then her expression sharpened with unmistakable interest. “But this does beg the question of how you reached such a conclusion.”
Caroline hesitated, though not for long. “You are making assumptions,” she said, though without conviction.
