Caroline stilled. “You have?”
“It is not something he would ever say,” Eleanor continued, “but it has been evident nonetheless. In the way he watches you. In the way he is never quite unaware of you, even when he makes every effort to appear otherwise.” She paused, then added, “And it was not so very long ago that I began to suspect that you might return those feelings, though you seemed determined not to acknowledge them.”
Caroline drew a slow breath. “I suppose I was.”
“That, I think, was the greater obstacle,” Eleanor said lightly. “Not his regard, but your reluctance to see it.”
“And now?” Caroline asked.
“And now,” Eleanor replied, allowing a trace of her earlier amusement to return, “you are asking me what comes after a kiss.”
Caroline could not quite suppress her smile. “When you put it so plainly, it does sound rather obvious.”
“It is obvious,” Eleanor said. “At least to me.”
“That is because you understand it.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, and then, after a brief pause, “but not, it seems, in a way that can be easily explained.”
“Then I am left with no better understanding than I had before.”
“Not entirely,” Eleanor countered, her tone gentling. “Because you have already experienced the beginning, and that is rather more than you possessed yesterday.”
“That is not especially comforting.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed. “But it is progress.”
Caroline hesitated, then asked, more quietly, “And the rest of it?”
Eleanor held her gaze. “The rest of it is something Julien must show you himself,” she said. “Because I rather think it would be far more easily conveyed by demonstration than by any description I might attempt to provide.”
Caroline’s breath caught.
“I know my brother,” Eleanor continued, more firmly now. “And I have every confidence that his intentions toward you are entirely honorable. He would not presume upon your ignorance, nor would he lead you into anything that might cause you distress, and so I think it may be safely said that nothing which occurs between the two of you, if it is founded upon such regard and such anticipation of a future together, could ever truly be called improper.”
The words had scarcely left her lips before Eleanor became aware of the implication they carried, and she drew in a quiet breath as the realization settled with a clarity that might once have given her pause. She had, in effect, advised her dearest friend to place herself in a position no well-brought-up young lady was ever meant to consider, much less embrace. Under any other circumstance, she might have attempted to soften the statement, to retract it, or at the very least to temper it withsome measure of caution, which she had so conspicuously failed to provide.
But this was not any other circumstance, because this was Julien, and if there was one thing Eleanor understood with complete certainty, it was that her brother would never act without purpose, nor would he place Caroline in any position that did not lead directly and irrevocably toward marriage. Indeed, if anything, such a course—however improper it might appear in theory—would remove any lingering uncertainty that might otherwise exist, though she suspected there was very little of that left even now. Whatever had begun between them had not sprung from impulse alone, but from something long-standing and deeply rooted, something neither of them had fully acknowledged until it could no longer be ignored.
In that light, what she had said did not feel reckless so much as inevitable, and perhaps, in its own way, necessary, because Caroline deserved more than she had been offered thus far. More than tolerable affection and empty assurances. She deserved certainty. She deserved to be chosen without hesitation, without interference, and without the faintest shadow of doubt, and Julien—whatever else he might be—was at least a man capable of loving her, which was more than could ever be said of William Sutton.
Eleanor let out a slow breath, the last of her hesitation settling into something steadier, and though she did not amend her words, there was a quiet resolve in her tone when she spoke again. “You need not fear what comes next,” she said. “Not with him.”
Chapter
Twelve
Verity had no particular interest in church, but she understood its value, and so she attended as she attended everything else that mattered—not from inclination, but from calculation. She had expected, however, to attend without her husband that morning. The previous day had seen him indulge himself far beyond even his usual lack of restraint, and she had watched with quiet satisfaction as he consumed rather more of the tainted brandy than he ordinarily would. It had seemed a reasonable assumption that he would be indisposed, confined to his rooms with whatever consequence his excess—and her careful additions—might produce. Instead, he had rallied, and she found the development disappointing, not because she wished him gone so abruptly, but because it suggested a resilience she had not anticipated and because his recovery appeared motivated by something far more irritating than health or duty.
He had dressed with more care than usual and carried himself with a restless attention that did not escape her notice, and it required very little effort to determine the source of it.Miss Ashworth. The realization did not wound her. Verity did not love her husband, nor did she feel slighted by his lack of affection for her. She had never expected devotion and had no use for it now. But she did resent the notion that he might find anyone preferable to her, and that resentment lingered, sharpening her already diminished patience as she took his arm and allowed herself to be escorted into the church.
The village church was already filling when they arrived, the low murmur of conversation giving way, in increments, to the more subdued quiet expected within its walls, and it did not take long for Verity to locate those she had anticipated seeing. Caroline Ashworth was seated near the front, her posture composed, though there was something altered in it, something more aware than distracted, and near her—close enough to be remarked upon, though not so close as to invite immediate censure—sat Julien Harcourt. His expression was neutral, but there was a stillness to him that did not suggest indifference. William saw them at the same moment, and the change in him was immediate though subtle, his arm tightening beneath her hand, his gaze lingering just long enough to be noticed as it moved from Caroline to Harcourt and back again, carrying with it something more petulant than passionate, as though he objected not to losing her, but to the fact that she was no longer his to dismiss.
Verity inclined her head in polite acknowledgment as they took their seats, a gesture returned with composure by Caroline, who did not falter, though William’s attention refused to settle. The tension between them required no embellishment and no rumor to give it shape, for it was already present in the small glances from nearby pews, in the quiet shifts of attention, and in the unmistakable sense that something had altered and would not easily be set aside. Verity observed it all with interest, noting what others would soon begin to interpret for themselves.
The service itself passed without significance. Scripture was read, a sermon delivered, prayers offered, and none of it retained her attention. William grew increasingly restless beside her, while Caroline did not once look in his direction. When her attention strayed at all, it turned toward Harcourt, though always with restraint, and that restraint, more than any overt display, confirmed what Verity had already begun to suspect. By the time the congregation rose and began to disperse, she had seen enough, and she found herself rather looking forward to what would follow.
Mrs. Goodlet’s gathering was, as ever, inevitable. It had become a habit within the village, this informal continuation of the morning’s assembly, and though Mrs. Goodlet held no title, she commanded a degree of respect that rendered such distinctions largely irrelevant. Her late husband’s fortune had secured her position, and she had maintained it with a quiet authority that few questioned. Verity admired that authority, if not the quietness with which it was wielded, because widowhood, when properly managed, offered a degree of freedom that marriage could not.
