“I do not relish it,” he replied.

  “No?” Her tone suggested she did not quite believe him.

  “No,” he repeated, more firmly. “I have been thinking about what you said.”

  “I say a great many things.”

  “You accused me of treating you with disregard,” he said.

  She slowed, her gaze fixed ahead. He could see the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself a fraction more rigidly.

  “And you think you have not?” she asked, though her voice had softened despite herself.

  “I see you as not as a furnishings or ornamentation or merely something in the background. I see you, Eleanor,” he answered. “Even when it has sometimes been painful to do so. What you interpreted as disregard was my attempt to hide my true feelings…because pressing them was infinitely more dangerous.”

  Her lips parted as though she meant to retort, but before she could, her foot slipped slightly on the uneven ground where the earth dipped beneath the shade. It was no dramatic stumble—merely a misstep—but Adrian reacted without thought. His arm came around her waist, drawing her firmly against him before she could pitch forward.

  Her hand caught at his coat, bracing herself against him. For a suspended instant they remained thus, too close and too still, as though the world had narrowed to the space between their breaths. Other than the odd dance here and there, it was the closest he had ever been to her physically. And his reaction to that was rather shocking in its intensity.

  “I am a graceless ninny,” she said with embarrassment. And while she laughed a bit at herself, she did not move away, allowing the closeness to linger.

  He became acutely aware of the warmth of her through the fabric of her gown, of the rapid cadence of her breathing. He could have stepped back. He ought to have stepped back. Instead, he found himself reluctant to relinquish her.

  “Have you ever been kissed?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes widened. “You are insufferable.”

  “Answer me.”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  He studied her face, saw the flush deepen, saw the way her gaze flickered briefly away. Understanding dawned, and with it something unexpectedly gentle rose within him.

  “You deserved better than my poorly crafted illusion of indifference,” he said softly.

  He did not rush her. He did not seize the moment as he might once have done with some careless flirtation. He bent his head slowly, giving her every opportunity to turn away.

  She did not.

  His lips touched hers gently.

  There was no practiced charm in it, no flourish meant to impress. Only warmth, and the triumphant smile of a man who, finally, after far too long, had taken action.

  For a heartbeat she remained still, startled. Then her fingers tightened faintly in his coat, and she exhaled against him. That breath undid him.

  He deepened the kiss only slightly, careful, reverent, aware that this was not conquest but confession. When he drew back, it was because he must, because if he lingered another second he might forget the world entirely.

  Her eyes were wide and luminous, her surprise and something that might have been hope visible in their depths. “This changes nothing,” she said, though her voice trembled.

  He could not help the faint curve of his mouth. “You have never been able to lie to me… It has changed everything. For both of us.”

  Chapter

  Nine

  Eleanor sat rigidly at Adrian’s side in the phaeton as they drove back toward Harcourt House, and she could not seem to collect herself. The breeze that tugged at her bonnet ribbons ought to have cooled her, but she felt flushed to the bone. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, determined not to do something foolish—like touch her lips as if she were a girl just come out of the schoolroom. She had always prided herself on being sensible, on being steady. And yet she felt unsteady now in a way she could not easily name.

  He had kissed her.

  Adrian Grant—who had looked at her for years as though she were simply part of the scenery of his life—had kissed her with such careful tenderness that it left her more shaken than any boldness would have done. There had been no rakish triumph in him, no teasing flourish meant to make her feel ridiculous after. He had waited. He had been gentle. And he had drawn back first, as though he feared going too far.

  His words came back to her then. It had changed everything. That was painfully true. Because now there was no going back.

  It had been, she realized with a pang that made her chest tighten, the first time he had ever treated her as something precious. The thought ought to have delighted her. Instead, it filled her with dread.

  Because there was Lord Marklynne. Because there was an agreement—practical and reasonable, entered into in good faith. She had meant what she said to Marklynne. She had meant to give him a fair trial, to see if they might suit. She had done so not only for herself but for Julien as well, because she could not ignore the truth that her brother’s stubborn bachelorhood was tied to her continued presence in his household. She could not pretend she did not feel like an obstacle sometimes, however kindly he might treat her and however much he might deny that she was at least partially responsible for it.

  And now she had allowed Adrian to kiss her beneath the trees, as though nothing else mattered.

  When the phaeton halted on the street just before their house, Eleanor lifted her gaze and felt her stomach drop.

  Lord Marklynne stood upon the steps, hat in hand, his posture straight and composed. There was a faint crease between his brows, not suspicion but impatience. He watched as Adrian slowed the horses and brought them to a halt.

  For a suspended instant, Eleanor remained seated beside Adrian, painfully aware of how the scene must look to anyone watching. There was nothing discreet about a private drive in a phaeton. Nothing that could be softened by the fiction of a coachman or the barrier of carriage walls. They had returned together, seated side by side, as plainly as any courting couple.

  Adrian descended first, then turned to assist her down. His hands were steady, his touch brief, and yet as he set her upon the gravel she felt again the echo of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his mouth upon hers. She stepped away quickly, as if distance might restore her sense and immediately felt the lack. As if, by moving away from him, she had lost something precious.

  “Miss Harcourt,” Lord Marklynne greeted her, bowing. “I had hoped to find you at home.”

  “I was out for a drive,” she replied, and hated how thin her voice sounded and how very obvious her answer was. Any fool with eyes could have discerned that and she did not think Lord Marklynne a fool. But he was a proper gentleman and he understood the implications of just such an outing.

  “I see that,” he said mildly. There was no accusation in it. Only observation. “I have been waiting some time.”

  His gaze flicked toward Adrian—once, briefly—and returned to her. There was no flash of jealousy, no tightening of the jaw, no hint of possessiveness. If anything, his expression suggested only that he found waiting tiresome. He was mildly irritated, like being inconvenienced by livestock on the road when traveling in the country.

  That unsettled her far more than jealousy would have. Jealousy was something that would have been perfectly normal under such circumstances. She had been out for a drive with another man, and he did not appear to care. Not in the way that mattered. But this annoyance at having to wait for her when he had not even been expected? That was something else altogether.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Lord Marklynne, though I wasn’t aware we had arranged to meet today,” she said, because it was the only thing she could say. It was a mild reproof, but she hoped it made her point very clear. If he wished her to receive him she must first know he intended to call.

  “We had not arranged to meet. I suppose I was a bit presumptuous. Still, it is no matter,” he replied. “I wished to speak further regarding our understanding. If you have a moment, of course.”

  Our understanding.

  The words landed like a weight upon her conscience. She had agreed to a practical courtship. She had given him her word, and she had meant it. And now she stood at the foot of the steps with her lips still warm from Adrian’s kiss and guilt tightening in her chest like a knot.

  Along with it came countless doubts. Marklynne’s interest had been immediate and always at the forefront. He hadn’t needed prompting to see her as a potential bride. Unlike Adrian who had only been spurred to reveal his interest when someone else had. A bit of dog in the manger behavior, quite honestly. The warmth of his kiss faded entirely under that cold reality.

  Marklynne offered his arm.

  Eleanor hesitated. It was only a breath, only the smallest pause, but in that pause she felt the full measure of what she had done. Adrian stood a step behind her, silent. She could feel his presence without looking, could feel the way it drew at her as surely as gravity.

  Then she placed her hand upon Lord Marklynne’s sleeve.

  “Of course,” she said quietly.

  As they mounted the steps, she did not look back. She could not. Not when she already knew the truth pressing at the edges of her composure: she had entered into one arrangement in good faith, and yet her heart had never been free to keep it.

  Once inside, the Harcourt residence closed around them in a hush of well-ordered domesticity. The butler relieved them of hat and gloves, and Miss Harcourt directed him toward the drawing room with the composed assurance of one long accustomed to managing such formalities.

  “If you will come this way, my lord,” she said, sweeping her hand toward the drawing room where she had received him only the day prior. Her voice was steady, though her movements carried a deliberateness that suggested recent exertion or lingering fatigue. He did not comment upon it. A lady’s composure was her own province.

  He followed her into the drawing room, noting again the room’s quiet respectability. Furnishings, while luxurious, had beenchosen for comfort rather than ostentation. The polished wood surfaces had mellowed by years of use and all of it arranged in a way that suggested prudence rather than vanity. It was a household governed by sense. That, among other things, recommended her. And, he reasoned, Mr. Grant was a family friend. An old acquaintance of long standing. Had there been any understanding between them he had little doubt that Miss Harcourt would have mentioned it.

  She indicated the settee and seated herself; he chose the chair opposite, allowing a proper distance. “I do regret that you were kept waiting,” she said. “Had I known you intended to call, I should have remained at home.”

  “I arrived without sending ahead,” he replied. “The inconvenience is therefore entirely my own.” And it was. He didn’t like it any better, but he had to own some measure of responsibility for it. Though in all fairness, everything he’d learned about Miss Harcourt suggested that she was very much a wallflower. Why wouldn’t he have assumed she would be at home?

  The apology seemed nevertheless to trouble her. Her hands came together in her lap, fingers briefly tightening before settling into stillness.

  “At the steps you mentioned wishing to speak further,” she prompted.

  “Yes.” He regarded her steadily. Clarity, in his experience, prevented unnecessary complication. “I wished to address a practical consideration. Yesterday’s conversation was entered into with admirable frankness, but circumstances may appear differently upon reflection. I wanted to be certain that you understand that an offer is not the only outcome that is possible. There is much to decide in a month’s time for both of us. If you feel that is too much⁠—”

  “Lord Marklynne,” she said, holding her hand up to halt his speech.

  He paused, waiting to hear what she might say.

  “That is most considerate of you,” she said at last. “But no. I entered into the arrangement in good faith, and I see no cause to alter it. We agreed upon a month and that is what we shall do. I hope you understand that, in spite of our arrangement, I do have other social obligations to meet. Naturally, your company is most welcome when our schedules allow.”

  He inclined his head.

  “As you wish.”

  The steadiness of her tone admitted no ambiguity. Whatever the morning’s exertions or recent social excitements, she had not reconsidered her position.

  “I hope you will not think me forward in calling today,” he continued. “I believed it best that we proceed with clarity from the outset.”

  “I appreciate clarity,” she replied. “It prevents misunderstanding.”

  “Precisely.”

  He studied her briefly. There remained a reserve about her that had not been present the previous afternoon — perhaps the natural consequence of recent attention — yet nothing in her manner suggested reluctance. She was a woman accustomed to weighing consequences, not indulging impulse.

  That steadiness, more than charm or novelty, distinguished her from the younger ladies currently circulating through society. He hadn’t the patience for younger ladies and their demands for near constant attention.

  “I shall not impose upon your afternoon further,” he said, rising. “I wished only to confirm that we remain of the same mind and to confirm that while our agreement was made in good faith, it is not binding… yet.”

  She stood as well. “We do remain of the same mind, my lord, and you are most amiable and gentlemanly.”

  He bowed. “Then I shall call again as propriety permits.”

  At the threshold he paused.

  “I am gratified, Miss Harcourt, that we proceed with mutual understanding.”

  “As am I.”

  He took his leave with the calm assurance that accompanies matters resolved by reason rather than sentiment.

  Whatever familiarity existed between Miss Harcourt and Mr. Grant did not alter the practical realities before them. Grant possessed ease and long acquaintance, advantages not without value. Yet ease was not permanence, and familiarity did not secure a household, protect a future, or confer position.

  Miss Harcourt was a woman of intelligence and maturity. She had managed a household, understood responsibility, and conducted herself with dignity in circumstances that would have unbalanced many. Such a woman would not entrust her future to uncertainty when stability lay plainly within reach.

  He did not consider this vanity. It was merely the natural order of things.

  Rank, estate, and consequence were not ornaments; they were assurances. They represented continuity, protection, and the structure upon which families—indeed, their entire society— endured. A sensible woman recognized the distinction between sentiment and security.

  Miss Harcourt had been given the opportunity to alter their terms if she wished. And, as expected, she had declined to do so.

  He stepped out into the afternoon air with the quiet conviction that the matter, in all meaningful respects, was settled.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Adrian knew the precise moment Eleanor had withdrawn from him the day prior.

  It had not been dramatic. She had not recoiled, nor spoken a word of censure. Yet when she had seen Marklynne standing upon the steps, something within her had closed as surely as a door locked and barred. He had felt it in the way she stepped away after he helped her down, in the careful composure that had settled over her features, and in the quiet finality with which she had placed her hand upon the other man’s sleeve.

  When she’d walked up those steps with him, into the interior of Harcourt House, she had not looked back. A telling gesture.

  The memory lingered with uncomfortable persistence as he made his way along Piccadilly that morning, the brisk air doing little to cool the unease that had settled beneath his ribs. He had known from the outset that his sudden declaration would not be met with ready warmth. Eleanor was not a woman to be swept away by impulse. She valued steadiness, reason, propriety — all the qualities Marklynne appeared to embody with effortless precision. His lack of action over the past years marked him as unreliable to her mind, suggesting that his affections were changeable.

  And yet, beneath the trees, she had kissed him back. Tentative but far from unwilling, it had been a moment of perfection. He had felt the tremor in her breath, the hesitation that was not refusal but wonder, and the fragile stillness that followed when he forced himself to draw away before temptation urged him further. It had not been conquest. It had been something far more dangerous. It had been a moment or recognition for them both. A moment where the entire trajectory of their friendship had altered into something… more.

  Now, where he felt hope before, it felt perilously like ground slipping beneath his feet. And that he could not allow.

  He paused before the windows of Hatchard’s, the familiar bookshop offering the comfort of polished wood, orderly shelves, and the quiet promise of ideas preserved in leather and gilt. The bell sounded softly as he entered, and the scent of paper and binding glue greeted him like an old acquaintance.

  He did not require assistance. He knew precisely what he sought.

  He had given Eleanor books before — sensible volumes, essays, histories, practical treatises he thought she might find useful or diverting. Gifts appropriate to friendship. Gifts that required nothing of the heart. Today required something different.

  He found it displayed among a small selection of finely bound editions: Pride and Prejudice, its spine a deep, restrained blue, the title stamped in gold that caught the light without ostentation. He lifted it carefully. The leather was supple beneath his fingers, the craftsmanship exacting. When he opened it, the endpapers revealed a delicate floral pattern traced in gold — understated, intricate, and unmistakably feminine without being fragile.

  It was exquisite without being showy. It spoke to their long acquaintance, to his deep understanding of her even when she thought he’d been inattentive. It was an effort to show that, despite what she might have believed, he had seen her all along. It was also precisely the sort of thing Eleanor would treasure.