Aurelia felt the smallest, most humiliating flicker of heat in her face.
“My acquaintance with Lord Westbridge is no concern of yours.”
“Is it not? I have known him since childhood. We were once very close.”
Aurelia looked away before her expression could betray her.
Very close.
The words were nothing. Charlotte had likely polished them for that very purpose, trusting suggestion to do what fact could not. Yet the image came uninvited: Owen younger, unguarded perhaps, walking beside Charlotte in some country garden, their families pleased, futures quietly arranged before either had understood enough to resist.
It should not have hurt. It did.
“I am glad Lord Westbridge had friends in his youth,” Aurelia said. “All children should.”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed, but she recovered quickly. “Friends, yes. Though some friendships are expected to grow into something more suitable.”
“Expectations are not promises.”
“No. But they are often more durable.”
Aurelia wished suddenly, fiercely, that Owen were there, not to defend her. She did not need defending from Charlotte Langley. But because his presence would have steadied the ground beneath her feet, and she wanted, foolishly and unreasonably, to see how he looked at Charlotte now.
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to speak to Lord Westbridge about his expectations,” Aurelia pointed out. “It is not my place to say.”
Charlotte’s smile widened. “How disappointing. I had hoped to understand what he sees in you.”
“Then I fear you must remain disappointed,” she retorted.
Charlotte studied her for a moment, and the false sweetness dropped from her face just enough for Aurelia to see the contempt beneath. She smiled again, then turned and walked back toward the others.
Aurelia remained where she was.
Only when Charlotte had rejoined her circle did Aurelia release the breath she had been holding. The scent of roses seemed suddenly too sweet, the music too merry, the sunshine too bright upon the lawn. Her hands were steady, at least. She was grateful for that.
But at that exact moment, she saw a crying Clara rush toward her.
Chapter 25
Her cousin came across the lawn with her head bowed, with one gloved hand pressed hard against her mouth, the other clutching her dance card so tightly that the little ivory pages bent beneath her fingers.
For a moment, Aurelia thought she had been taken ill. Clara’s complexion, so bright all afternoon, had gone white, and her eyes shone with tears she was trying with all her strength not to shed before half of Lady Ashcombe’s guests.
Aurelia stepped forward at once. “Clara?”
At the sound of her name, Clara broke. She looked up, and the misery in her face was so evident that Aurelia felt the blow of it as sharply as if it had been dealt to herself.
“Oh, Aurelia,” Clara whispered.
Aurelia took her arm and guided her away from the edge of the dancing, toward a narrow walk partly screened by lilacs and a stone urn overflowing with geraniums. It was not private, for nothing in such company could ever be private, but it was at least removed enough that Clara might cry without being made an exhibition.
“What happened?” Aurelia asked, keeping her voice low. “Are you hurt?”
Clara shook her head, though the tears spilled over at last. “Not hurt. Not … oh, I do not know what I am.”
“Tell me.”
“It was Mr. Johnson,” Clara explained, with the name emerging in a broken rush. “He was engaged to me for the next dance. His name is on my card. See? I did not mistake it.”
