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Her maid dressed her hair by candlelight while Hannah sat on the end of the bed offering opinions that were not asked for and were mostly correct, and Viola watched the glass with a strange, gathering calm. There had been a time, only weeks past, when the woman in the mirror had been a stranger to her: a girl got up in another person’s finery, waiting for someone to come and tell her the mistake had been discovered. She looked now, and the stranger was gone. The silk was hers. The house beneath her feet was hers. The evening ahead, whatever it held, was hers as well — and she knew, with a certainty that had nothing of the old fear in it, what she meant to do with it.

She would dance the waltz with Lord Carrington. And when the moment came, she would speak. She had said it once already, softly, in the park, where only he could hear. Tonight, if the evening asked it of her, she would not whisper it. He had said his heart belonged elsewhere with his eyes full on her face, and a man could not be left to carry such a declaration about with him unanswered.

“You have gone very still,” Hannah observed from the bed. “The way you do when something has frightened you.”

“No.” Viola met her sister’s eyes in the glass and smiled, and the woman in the mirror smiled with her — familiar at last, from the pearl at her ear to the resolve in her face. “Not frightened. Decided.”

His letter had come that morning — the reply to the one she had sealed with her hand flat upon it — and it lay now on the dressing table, read to softness already. You write that I was better loved than I knew, and then say nothing more of it. What a thing to do to an old man, Viola. I have read the line forty times and am no wiser, only gladder. And, farther down, in the cramped hand he used when he had decided something: You ask me to London, and Hannah seconds you, and I find my objections have all worn out at last. When your great business there is done, send for me, and I shall come and see this house of yours, and you in it.

Send for me, and I shall come. She had the letter half by heart already, the way she had once memorized the other one — Lady Warrington’s. It struck her, pinning the last curl, that she carried two letters now instead of one: the woman who had given her the future, and the man who was her whole past, and both of them, in their different hands, telling her the same thing. Go on. Be glad. It was meant.

She took up her father’s watch chain from the dressing table, wound it once about her wrist, where her glove would cover it, and rose. Whatever the evening asked of her, she would go into it carrying the two things she had brought to London — her own name, and his gift — and all the rest that had been given her since.

“Come, Hannah.” She took up her fan. “I promised Lord Carrington a waltz.”

CHAPTER 17

Julian grimaced as he stepped down from his carriage, his brother beside him. He had no doubt half the ton now believed him near betrothed to Miss Galbraith, for all Lady Henderson had said that afternoon would be spreading even now. At the top of the steps he paused for a single, steadying breath.

“I must tell you, Carrington, that I am grateful, both for your understanding and your forgiveness.” Brookmire cleared his throat, his hands clasped behind his back as they entered. “I should not have behaved as I did in the park, and — ”

“And it need not be spoken of again,” Julian assured him. “We must think only of what is to be done tonight. By the end of this ball, I hope we shall both have found our happiness.” He had spent the afternoon in reflection, turning over every part of his acquaintance with Miss Trent, the notes among them. They had been written with just enough knowledge to wound, and just enough anonymity to escape blame. He would have suspected Miss Galbraith, but he had seen the astonishment on her face when Miss Trent spoke of them. There had been no deception there.

Which meant the notes had come from another.

“Here we are,” Brookmire murmured as they made their way past the receiving line toward the ballroom. “Let us pray it all goes as it ought.”

Within, the ballroom glowed, the chandeliers gilding the polished floor as music swelled from the far end. Julian was entranced by none of it. His gaze moved swiftly across the crowd, face after face, until it found her, and his heart threw itself upward, a broad smile of relief and longing breaking over him. Miss Trent stood near the side of the room in cornflower silk that caught the candlelight, her hands clasped, very still, a thing decided and held, he thought. Lady Manion was beside her, steady, murmuring something into her ear, and Lady Cordelia Asher stood at her other side, fan moving lazily, surveying the room with serene watchfulness. Miss Trent did not stand undefended tonight. Julian could scarcely look away. The quiet dignity with which she had borne the scrutiny of so many had never once faltered, even now.

“There.” He nudged his brother, who looked and nodded. “Do you see her?”

“I do.” Brookmire pressed his lips together. “And I cannot spy — ah. There she is.” He clapped a hand to Julian’s shoulder. “Let me go and play my part. I shall join you presently.”

Julian crossed the ballroom with deliberate purpose. A few glances were thrown his way, more than one whisper carrying Miss Galbraith’s name, but he paid no heed. He fixed his gaze on Miss Trent, and the joy in his heart when he reached her bowed him low. “Miss Trent. A pleasure to see you again this evening.” He glanced to her sister. “Lady Manion.”

“Lord Carrington.” There was relief in Miss Trent’s voice, her hand lifting as if she wished to set it on his and could not. “Is all well?”

“I did not speak with Lady Henderson this afternoon. But yes — all is well.”

“How can it be?” Lady Manion asked, concerned. “The ton already believe you are courting Miss Galbraith, and — ”

Miss Trent laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “It is quite all right,” she said softly. “I trust Lord Carrington. Whatever he intends will set everything to rights.”

He inclined his head to her, the simplicity of her trust stealing his breath. “I shall not fail you,” he swore. “Tonight there will be an ending to all of this, and after it, only happiness.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Lady Manion said, pressing a hand to her brow, her eyes darting about the room. “My poor sister has endured every manner of whisper, from the reading of the will to this very moment. They see you stand with Viola, and they wonder at it.”

“And so they shall a little while longer,” Julian confirmed, as a blush touched Miss Trent’s cheeks. “All the same, if you are willing, Miss Trent, might you stand up with me for the country dance?” His mouth curved as she nodded. “And you have saved me the waltz, I hope?”

“As you asked,” she answered, taking his arm. “Which is as well, for Lord Flanders came to me almost the moment I stepped inside, and begged it.”

“You would not have granted it to him? Even had I not asked you to keep it?”

She laughed softly as they walked to the center of the room. “No, indeed. I have learned quite enough of Lord Flanders to know better.”

“You are always wise, Miss Trent,” Julian murmured, his heart filling with fresh affection, delighting in the way her smile set stars flickering in her dark eyes. “I wish I could find the words to tell you how well I think of you.”

A faint smile touched her lips, her eyes near glowing. The musicians struck the opening notes, and the dance began. The couples around them turned in ordered symmetry, hands meeting and parting. For a few moments there was nothing but movement, music, and the nearness of her, and Julian understood, somewhere in the second figure, that they were steadying one another. Her hand in his was not nervous now. Whatever the evening still held, she had chosen her ground and meant to stand upon it, and the knowledge ran up through their joined hands and made him more certain of his own. Each time the dance drew them apart, the wish to have her hand in his again burned through him like a fire and pulled him back. Nearby, he caught sight of Brookmire dancing with Miss Galbraith, just as they had planned, a tension in her shoulders, her eyes darting from his brother and back. It could not be helped. This was a significant evening, and what was to come, momentous.