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He turned her once more and grimaced as he brought her in. “I should not have asked you anything tonight, Miss Trent. It was ill done of me, and I hope you will forgive it.” When she did not answer, he pressed on, as if more words might earn a quicker pardon. “I shall give you a warning instead, if you will take it. There will be many gentlemen eager for your company now — Lord Flanders chief among them. That is why I did as I did.”

A small sigh. The pallor had not quite left her cheeks. “You mean that there will be impoverished gentlemen, and gentlemen of doubtful character, who want me only for Stoneleigh House.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I do. And you must know it.”

The dance parted them, then drew them together again, and this time her brow was faintly lined, her lips pressed in thought rather than in fear.

“I do not say it to alarm you.” He softened his voice. “Only to ask that you stay watchful.”

Her eyes rose to his, and for the first time since they had begun, something in her face eased. The corner of her mouth lifted. Her shoulders came down a fraction, the rigidity going out of them.

“I value your concern, Lord Carrington.” She held his gaze. “Your kindness, this evening, and yesterday both, is more than I expected, and the more so given your own loss in the matter of the house.”

The music played on, but their words ran dry. There was a strange pull in him to say more, to offer her some further comfort — yet everything that came to his tongue sounded like either an apology or another question, and he had given her enough of both. She seemed no more certain than he, glancing up now and again and then away, until the dance at last released them.

He stepped back from her. And was caught off his guard entirely by the reluctance that ran through him as he did — as if his arms were slow to learn that the dance was done.

He bowed. “Might I call upon you this week, Miss Trent?” The question steadied him; it returned him to his purpose. He was to learn what she knew of Lady Warrington, to understand why the house had passed to her and not to him, and to discover whether, through some arrangement, it might yet be set right. “If that would be agreeable.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face. Julian shifted on his feet, a prickling running down his spine. If she refused, he would lose his chance to press her as he meant to. If there was the smallest hope of regaining Stoneleigh, she would have to be willing to receive him.

“If you wish it,” she said at last, slowly, as if she did not altogether want him to come. “Thank you, Lord Carrington.”

Something that was nearly triumph stirred in him, and he drew himself up. “Capital, Miss Trent. I shall look forward to it.”

He bowed again, turned on his heel, and walked away — trying, and failing, to put from his mind the way her brown eyes had softened, the way they had lit when she thanked him for a kindness he had scarcely meant to show. Stoneleigh House was his purpose. Stoneleigh House had to be his only thought.

Brookmire was at his elbow before he had gone ten steps, a fresh glass in each hand and a look on his face that Julian remembered from every scrape of their boyhood.

“You danced.”

“I am aware of it.”

“With the young lady we were to forget for one evening.” Brookmire handed him a glass with elaborate courtesy. “I only observe it. Yarmouth observed it too. Indeed I believe the whole room observed it — you made rather certain they would.”

“Flanders was about to impose himself on her. It was common courtesy, nothing more.” Julian drank, and found his brother still looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing in the world.” Brookmire’s face was a study in innocence. “Only that I have seen you do a great many things from courtesy, brother, and not one of them ever made you scowl at Lord Flanders as though you meant to call him out.”

Julian opened his mouth, found nothing serviceable in it, and closed it again.

“Quite so,” said Brookmire comfortably, and drank his brandy.

Nothing else mattered to him but Stoneleigh. Nothing else could. Julian repeated it to himself twice more before the evening ended — and did not ask himself why a true thing should need repeating.

CHAPTER 6

Viola walked the length of the drawing room and back, and her sister watched her with concern. “I do not think I have the fortitude to go on like this, Hannah.” Her voice was brittle. “This endless stream of gentlemen come to admire me, and ladies come to gossip — it is draining every ounce of strength I have.”

“I understand your weariness.” Hannah’s voice was gentle. “But it must be borne. There is nothing else to be done.”

“I can go home.” Viola’s voice cracked. “There is no reason for me to stay in London.”

Her sister sighed and shook her head. “And what would you tell Father, if you went home now? You read his letter. He wrote me the very same.”

Viola closed her eyes against the quick rise of tears. Her father’s joy had filled every line — his delight at her news, his certainty of the happiness she must be feeling. She had not had the heart to answer him with the truth. It would only wound him, and he had so few joys to spare. To go home now would be to take that joy from him, or else to lie to his face, and she did not know which she had less stomach for. He meant to come and visit soon, once matters at home were settled, certain he would find her delighted with all that had befallen her.

“Perhaps he is right.” Hannah spoke more carefully now. “Perhaps we ought to make the best of the Season. And, Viola, you will need to reside at Stoneleigh House. I am more than glad to stay there with you. But society must see you take ownership of it.”