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His elder brother had been Merewood when they first met. He had never thought he’d inherit the title. She had read the death notice in the Times. She had paused over the familiar family name in the newspaper before setting it aside with a small, unsteady breath. She had not considered what the succession meant. She had certainly not expected Alexander to walk into Elizabeth’s drawing room this evening. At least not until she had arrived and realized the depth of her friends’ scheming.

His dark blond hair still curled above his brow, the candlelight catching the gold in it. The years had broadened his shoulders and etched firmer lines into his face. A faint crease at each corner of his mouth, but his blue eyes were unmistakable. They were as deep as a summer evening. So was the mouth that had once made her forget what she intended to say.

It threatened to do so now, and a slow, treacherous warmth crept up her throat. Charlotte steadied her glass and lifted her chin. Lord Rosedale stepped forward to greet him, Elizabeth following. Alexander answered them with the ease of a man accustomed to company. He smiled and extended a hand, though his gaze returned to Charlotte almost immediately. It pulled across the room as though by a thread.

“I believe you have not met Lady Sylvan,” their host said.

“We are acquainted,” he said. Alexander’s voice had deepened, rich and low. Charlotte disliked noticing that quite so readily, and she lowered her lashes against it.

She inclined her head, composing her face into something polite and cool. “Lord Merewood.”

“Lady Sylvan.” He bowed. With his gaze lowered, she took one careful, slow, silent breath, drawing it deep into her lungs.

“I had not realized,” Elizabeth said, looking between them, her brows knitting.

“It was some time ago,” Charlotte replied, lightly.

“Yes,” Alexander said, straightening. “It was.”

He offered no explanation. She was grateful, though gratitude wasn't among the feelings she wanted to entertain toward him. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Thank you.” A shadow crossed his face, quick and quiet.

“And your mother?” Charlotte asked. “Is she well?”

“She is,” he answered. “She has remained in the country.”

Charlotte nodded. His mother had once approved of her, pressed her hand, and called her "my dear girl" across a tea table. Or perhaps she had merely approved of a young woman who could be relied upon to behave sensibly. Charlotte had behaved very sensibly when Alexander left.

She had stood in her father’s garden and listened while Alexander explained that managing a family property abroad would improve his circumstances. Two years would make all the difference. Then he would return and ask her to marry him. He had held her hands as he spoke, his eyes bright with plans. He had arranged their future so neatly that her presence seemed unnecessary. Except, of course, for her to agree.

She had declined to make the promise he expected. By the time he returned, she had married Sylvan, and the memory still tasted faintly of ash. “And do you intend to remain in London?” she asked, her voice cool.

“For the present,” he said, his gaze never leaving her face.

Charlotte lifted her glass to cover the small, startled pause in her chest. For the present. It was a careful answer, the sort a man gave when he didn't want to promise anything, and she was annoyed she had noticed. “Then Lord Rosedale will be glad of another gentleman for his card table,” she said, in the same cool tone she used for tradesmen and tiresome gentlemen.

Alexander glanced toward it, where the green baize glowed under the candles, then back at her. Something flickered across his face, hopeful and a little wary, as though he were stepping onto ice. “Do you still play?”

“When I can find agreeable opponents,” she said, tilting her head.

“I recall that winning improved your opinion of them.”

She remembered it too. A rainy afternoon in her father’s library, his tongue caught between his teeth as she beat him three hands in a row. He laughed afterward instead of sulking. The memory slid beneath her guard before she could stop it. “Losing rarely did,” she said, and was dismayed to feel the corner of her mouth lift.

His mouth curved, and Charlotte remembered his laugh before she heard it. It had been like a low, warm sound that had once rolled through a summer evening. The memory struck so sharply that she looked away. She looked toward her friends. Amelia had turned away from Dominic and was studying them with undisguised interest, one elegant brow raised.

Charlotte met her gaze, hard and level. Amelia abruptly resumed her conversation, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Elizabeth was called away to greet another arrival, and Lord Rosedale went with her, his hand at her back. Charlotte stood beside Alexander, with no one between them and far too many people in sight. The hum of voices pressed in.

He watched their hosts retreat, then looked back at her. “Was that deliberate?”

“The introduction?” she asked. “Entirely.” His brows lifted, and amusement flickered in his blue eyes. “My friends have taken an interest in my happiness.”

He frowned. “I hope they have reason to believe you are happy already.”

The answer surprised her, quiet and sincere, and it slipped beneath her guard before she could raise it. “They do,” she said, after a moment.

“Good.” He said it simply, without flourish. Charlotte searched his face and found no easy opening for the sharp remark she had been preparing. No triumph, no pity, only a steady, gentle regard that made her chest ache.