“Do not be ridiculous,” Owen frowned.
“I should not dream of it. I reserve ridicule for your denial, which was becoming tedious.”
Owen took up Ellison’s letter again, more to occupy his hands than his mind.
“I care about what happens to her,” he said carefully, “and that makes the matter more dangerous, not less. Still, we cannot abandon the search. We just need to proceed with greater care.”
“That sounds like the sort of compromise men make before doing exactly as they intended.”
“Then I must become a better man.”
“Ambitious,” Thomas teased.
“I shall require your assistance.”
“Then you are doomed, old boy.”
Owen smiled faintly, but only for a moment.
His mind had already turned toward Aurelia. He had to write to her. The thought displeased him because he knew what her answer would be. Aurelia would continue. Courage in her was not loud. It did not proclaim itself or seek admiration. It simply endured, and then moved forward. If he asked whether she wished to stop, she would likely refuse with all the quiet determination that made refusal impossible to dismiss.
Yet he had to ask.
It would be arrogance to decide safety on her behalf. Men had made decisions around and over her family for years, calling it prudence, order, necessity.
He would not add his own authority to that history, however protective its impulse.
Chapter 22
The following morning found Aurelia in a state of expectation which she would frown upon in any other woman.
It was not, she told herself, that she was eager for Owen’s visit. It was only that his letter had left certain matters unsettled, and she wished to answer them with the seriousness they deserved. The distinction was a fine one, but Aurelia had long been accustomed to surviving upon fine distinctions.
Unfortunately, Clara was not disposed to allow her any dignity in the matter.
“Oh, that gown,” she cried, clasping her hands as Aurelia turned from the glass. “Yes, that is the one. Not too fine, but very becoming. Lord Westbridge will think you look exactly as a heroine ought to look when escorted to a gallery.”
“A heroine who has had the good sense to choose brown silk,” Aurelia replied.
“Brown silk may be very romantic when worn by the right person.”
“Then I pity the decline of standards in romance.”
Clara laughed and spun once about the room. “You may speak as dryly as you please, but I know you are pleased. You have been smiling at nothing all morning.”
Aurelia bent to fasten her glove, chiefly to hide her face. “I was thinking of something amusing.”
“Yes … Lord Westbridge.”
Aurelia frowned. “Clara.”
“Well, Captain Harrow says he is a very grave man, and grave men are always most interesting when they begin to be less grave. I think you are improving him.”
“Oh?” Aurelia resisted the temptation to smile. “I was not aware he had been entrusted to me for correction.”
“No, only for courtship,” Clara corrected with wicked innocence.
Aurelia ought to have rebuked her. Instead, she laughed, and the sound surprised her by its lightness. There had been a time, not very long ago, when preparing for an outing in London had felt like arming herself for inspection. Every ribbon, every glove, every word she might later speak had seemed liable to become evidence against her.
