“No,” Owen replied. “But they may remember him for it.”
The general studied him, then flicked ash from the end of his cigar.
“You have your father’s pride.”
“I hope I have my own judgement.”
“For your mother’s sake, I hope so, too.”
There it was. Not a threat, not quite. Owen felt it settle between them like frost. Langley stepped back toward the doors.
“Come. We must not keep the ladies waiting.”
Owen remained where he was for a moment longer, breathing the cold, damp air until he trusted himself to follow. Behind the glass, Charlotte laughed at something his mother had said, all sweetness and candlelight.
Inside, everything was warm, elegant, and false.
Chapter 24
Two days later, Aurelia was ready for Lady Ashcombe’s garden party much earlier than the hour required.
This was not eagerness. It was merely the result of good habits, a practical gown, and the fact that Clara had taken possession of the looking glass for so long that Aurelia, having no wish to compete with ribbons, curls, and youthful indecision, had completed her own toilette with unusual efficiency.
Yet she did not go downstairs. Instead, she stood by the window of her chamber, and held Owen’s letter in both hands. He was not Lord Westbridge any longer. He was Owen.
The distinction was absurd. He had signed his full name still, had not abandoned propriety entirely, but beneath it, for the first time, had come that simpler, more dangerous word.
Aurelia looked down at it again, though she knew every line of the letter already. He wrote:
If I have made your time in London less formidable, I can only say that your confidence has done something similar for me. I had not expected, on returning to England, to find any person to whom I might write so freely. That I have found one is a happiness I do not take lightly.
Aurelia pressed her lips together.
A happiness.
After that, the letter had darkened. He had told her of the dinner at his mother’s house, of finding General Langley and Charlotte seated at his own table as though the arrangement were the most natural thing in the world. Then came the terrace.
I cannot yet prove what he has done, he had written, but I am daily more certain that he fears proof may be found. I will not be persuaded into silence merely because silence would better please him.
Aurelia’s fingers tightened around the paper.
There was more. He wrote of Captain Harrow with a fondness so dry and affectionate that it made her smile despite the gravity of the rest.
He believed Harrow to be more deeply attached to Clara than even Harrow understood, though, Owen added, Miss Blackmore seemed likely to make sense of the matter far sooner than any gentleman involved. He thought them well suited in temperament, if Clara’s sweetness might be protected and Harrow’s natural levity trained toward steadier purposes.
Aurelia had laughed softly at that line.
It was the kind of remark she longed to repeat to Clara, except that Clara would draw from it ten meanings, nine hopes, and at least one imagined wedding breakfast before the hour was out.
Then came the end.
I remain, yours faithfully,
Owen.
Aurelia knew very well that a signature was a small thing, just ink at the bottom of a sheet. Men of sense could not be tried for tenderness on the evidence of one name. And yet she had read it six times.
A knock sounded, and before Aurelia could answer, Clara came in with all the authority of youth, beauty, and impatience.
