Aurelia gave up. It was impossible to reason with someone who had already written the next three chapters of one’s life in her head. Still, Clara rattled on about all that was sure to come: calls, walks, perhaps concerts, perhaps flowers, certainly lingering glances across crowded rooms. Aurelia felt a prickle of guilt beneath her amusement. Clara was so sincere in her delight, so delighted for her, so eager to believe that happiness might unfold exactly as promised in all the prettiest stories. And Aurelia was allowing her to believe it.
By the time Clara had finally skipped away to dress for the day, Aurelia sat in silence for several moments on the side of the bed, her unease settling more heavily than before.
This was the danger of lies, even convenient ones. They did not remain tidy. They spread. They touched innocent people.
Still, there was no help for it now.
***
By noon, Owen did indeed call.
At the sight of his card in the maid’s hand, Aurelia felt a rush of something she refused to call anticipation. She only set aside the book she had been pretending to read, composed herself as best she could, and went downstairs to the drawing room with what she hoped was a proper degree of calm.
He was already there when she entered, standing near the mantel with one hand behind his back, his dark coat and severe bearing lending him an air of formal purpose that would have suited a diplomat or a judge.
“Miss Finch,” he said, bowing.
“My lord.”
The exchange was outwardly ordinary, exactly as it ought to be, yet Aurelia felt absurdly aware of the fact that this was now meant to signify something more.
Clara, of course, was delighted. She was all brightness and smiles for the first quarter hour, and Aurelia had the distinct impression that if left unchecked, her cousin would beginplanning a wedding breakfast before the tea tray arrived. Fortunately, propriety and good sense eventually sent Clara to another part of the room with her embroidery, though Aurelia suspected she remained very much within hearing distance.
Owen sat opposite Aurelia and accepted his tea with composed ease. Whatever he might have felt about their arrangement, he wore it well.
“It seemed wise to call today,” he said after the first few conventional topics had been dutifully addressed. “If our understanding is to appear credible, it must be seen.”
Aurelia inclined her head. “A very practical beginning.”
He gave the faintest hint of a smile. “I am glad you still find me practical rather than mad.”
“I have not yet ruled the latter out.”
Something almost like laughter moved through his expression, but it vanished quickly.
“I have informed my mother,” he revealed.
Aurelia blinked. “Already?”
He nodded. “I thought it best. She … did not receive the news with delight.”
Aurelia winced before she could help it. “I am sorry.”
He looked faintly surprised. “For what?”
“For placing you in such an awkward position.”
At that, his mouth changed in a way she was beginning to recognize. It was not quite amusement, not quite softness, but somewhere between the two.
“Miss Finch,” he said softly, “my mother has spent the better part of a month placing me in awkward positions. It is no hardship to return the favor.”
Aurelia laughed quietly.
“She made her views very plain,” he continued. “I made mine plainer. I told her that if I wished to pay my addresses to you, that was my concern and not hers.”
There was something quietly proud in the way he said it, and something in Aurelia’s chest tightened unexpectedly. She didn’t believe it was because she imagined he truly wished to pay hisaddresses to her, for that would have been absurd. Rather, it was because he had defended her name, however strategically, even against his own mother.
“She must think very badly of me,” Aurelia said before she could stop herself.
