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She nodded, then lifted her head and looked him directly in the eye, her gray gaze steady and clear, a small, brave smile on her lips. “Tomorrow night.”

He brought her fingers to his lips, letting them linger against her knuckles as her breath caught. “Tomorrow night.”

This time, when they returned to the drawing room, she kept her hand on his arm until they reached her chair, and he felt its light, steady weight all the way across the room.

Six

Elizabeth’s anxiety grew with each passing moment. Midnight had never seemed so far away… She had never thought herself impatient. She could sit through nearly anything. Yet by noon, she had looked at the mantel in the morning room so often she thought everyone must have noticed how preoccupied she was with the time.

Julian had asked her to meet him after the house was quiet. Even now, remembering the invitation, she felt the same mixture of pleasure and apprehension. It had kept her awake the previous night. A tight flutter beneath her ribs constantly reminded her of that impending meeting. Walking with him was familiar. Kissing him was becoming something she thought about at inconvenient moments. Leaving her bedchamber to meet him in a darkened garden felt different from either.

She wanted to go. That was the difficulty. She wanted it enough to worry about everything that might keep her from it. She pressed her palm flat against the open page of her book as though she could still her thoughts.

“Elizabeth?” She looked up, startled. Charlotte stood beside the table with a basket over one arm. Her head tilted, her light green eyes bright with quiet amusement. “Lady Wetherby has invited us to cut some flowers for the drawing room. Will you join me?”

Elizabeth set down the book she had been pretending to read, her cheeks warming. “You want me to arrange flowers?”

“Unless you would prefer to continue reading the same page.”

She glanced at the open volume, caught between embarrassment and amusement. “Have I been doing that?”

She nodded. “For some time.” Charlotte’s tone held no demand for an explanation, only gentle, patient warmth. Elizabeth slipped a marker between the pages, smoothed her skirts, and rose.

Outside, the garden was bright after the previous day’s rain, every leaf rinsed clean and shining. Sunlight caught upon the wet foliage beneath the hedges. The gravel had dried enough that their steps stirred a little dust. The air smelled of damp earth and sweet blossoms. Charlotte handed her the basket while she examined the flowers. For several minutes, they chose stems. Elizabeth liked having something practical to do. She considered the height of the vases Lady Wetherby had shown them, bent to inspect each bloom, and carefully separated a damaged flower from the others. The knot in her chest eased, and she felt less foolish.

Then Charlotte asked, as lightly as if she were discussing the weather, “Did you enjoy your dance last night?”

Elizabeth nearly dropped the basket, her heart lurching. “You saw us?”

“Only as I passed the doorway,” she said.

She lowered her gaze to the flowers, her face burning. A pale petal had caught upon the wicker handle, trembling in the breeze. “I did enjoy it,” she said softly.

“I thought you might,” Charlotte told her.

Elizabeth looked at her friend, anxious. “Did everyone see?”

“I cannot speak for everyone,” Charlotte said. “No one mentioned it to me.”

The answer should have reassured her. Instead, she found herself thinking about how quickly she had assumed being noticed must spoil something pleasant. She braced herself against it, like someone expecting a blow that never came.

Charlotte clipped another stem and laid it in the basket, the snip of the scissors sharp in the quiet. “You have done nothing extraordinary, Elizabeth. You danced with a gentleman at a house party.”

“I know,” she said. But that did nothing to ease her anxiety. She hated drawing attention to herself.

“Though I confess I was pleased to see you enjoying yourself,” Charlotte said softly.

Elizabeth touched the pale petal, freeing it from the wicker. She held it between her fingertips for a moment. “So was I.”

The admission made Charlotte smile. It was filled with warmth. They moved farther along the border, where the flowers grew more thickly. A cluster of pink and cream and deep, velvety red. Elizabeth held a branch aside while her friend reached beneath it. The leaves brushed her wrist, cool and wet.

She had not intended to speak of tonight. It was private, something Julian had asked only of her, and the secret sat in her chest. Yet Charlotte knew her well enough to notice when her thoughts wandered. Keeping silent began to feel less like discretion and more like an effort to hide from her own decision. “He has asked me to walk with him again,” she said, so quietly the words were nearly lost in the rustle of leaves.

Charlotte straightened, and her brows lifted. “How pleasant.”

“Tonight,” she added. Her friend glanced at her, then set the scissors down. “After the others have retired,” Elizabeth continued, tightening her fingers on the wicker.

Charlotte’s expression grew thoughtful, but she did not look shocked. Elizabeth had not expected her to. Charlotte was not easily shocked. Her calm expression eased Elizabeth’s nerves. “Do you wish to go?”