That won a small laugh, and because it was real, Aurelia felt absurdly grateful for it. They dressed together as they had begun to do since arriving in London, helping one another with hooks and pins, passing gloves, debating bonnets with the seriousness of generals arranging a campaign. Aurelia chose a gown of soft gray, plain enough not to invite notice, though Clara wrinkled her nose at it.
“You always dress as if you are hoping no one will remember you were there.”
“That is because I am very sensible.”
“That is because you are impossible.” Clara studied her with sudden mischief. “Captain Harrow would never let me wear gray to vanish.”
“Captain Harrow hasn’t yet been given authority over your wardrobe.”
“No,” Clara mused, and her color rose prettily. “But perhaps one day.”
Aurelia smiled at her reflection. “Perhaps.”
Clara turned, suddenly eager and uncertain at once. “Do you truly think so?”
“I think Captain Harrow admires you very much.”
“That is not the same as love.”
“No,” Aurelia agreed gently. “It is not. But admiration is a very good beginning.”
Clara looked down at the gloves in her hands. “I know you think me foolish.”
“I think you young.”
“That is worse.”
“It is only more temporary.”
Clara laughed again, though it softened quickly into something more vulnerable. “Do you think he could really care for me? Not merely be kind because he is kind to everyone, but truly?”
Aurelia hesitated. She thought of Captain Harrow’s face at the theater, the quick concern in him whenever Clara grew quiet and the way his cheer altered around her into something more careful and more sincere.
“Yes,” she decided to be utterly honest. “I think he could.”
Clara’s whole expression changed, with hope returning so swiftly that Aurelia almost regretted giving it room to breathe.
“And Lord Westbridge?” Clara asked, far too innocently.
Aurelia turned back to the dressing table. “What of him?”
“Oh, nothing. Only that you received a letter this morning and have looked less like a person awaiting execution ever since.”
“Clara.”
“I merely observe. You taught me to observe.”
“I fear I have created a monster.”
“A romantic monster,” Clara corrected. “The finest kind.”
Aurelia tried to smile, but something in her faltered. Perhaps it was the letter still warm in her thoughts. Perhaps it was the tenderness of Clara’s hope. Perhaps it was the blue gown, the afternoon light, the fragile illusion that they were only two women dressing for tea, not standing in the path of old ruin.
“In another life,” she said quietly, almost before she knew she meant to speak, “perhaps I might have imagined something with Lord Westbridge.”
Clara stilled.
Aurelia reached for her gloves. “But not in this one.”
