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“Then I shall leave you to it.” She briefly rested a hand on Lady Andover’s shoulder, a quick, affectionate squeeze, before moving toward their hostess.

Julian appreciated that she offered no explanation for her friend remaining seated, and no teasing. He had no need of one. Lady Andover seemed comfortable where she was, and he enjoyed her company more than he could remember enjoying anyone’s in months.

Unfortunately, a gentleman near the pianoforte looked in their direction, his face flushed with wine and good humor. “Lady Andover, you must join us,” he called, beckoning. “We cannot permit you to remain idle.”

Her smile disappeared. Julian felt an immediate, hot, protective irritation at the summons. Before he could decide whether to intervene, she answered in a low but steady voice. “Thank you, but I should prefer to watch.”

The gentleman seemed ready to argue, then noticed Julian beside her. His gaze turned cool and steady, and he changed his mind. He turned back toward the dancers with a muttered remark. Lady Andover lowered her gaze to her lap. Her fingers moved over her hand, and a faint flush crept up her throat.

Julian waited a moment before speaking, giving her time to gather herself. “I rather like watching. It is more entertaining than most people allow,” he said lightly.

She looked up, her eyes wary. “You need not agree merely because I declined.”

“I am not being kind. I've wagered with myself on how many times that gentleman will hit the furniture. Watching is the only way to win.”

Her glance moved toward the dancers. A moment later, the gentleman in question made another ambitious turn, narrowly avoiding a vase, and a few guests gasped. Lady Andover pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking faintly. “Three,” she murmured.

“Then I suppose I may yet win.” Julian smiled, delighted. He found himself increasingly willing to spend the evening encouraging her quiet amusement, coaxing it out as one might coax a shy bird. He would have happily stayed by her side all evening, but he felt it would overwhelm her. “I shall leave you to whatever wagers you have made with yourself.” He stood, bowed, and then crossed the room to give her space. They would have other conversations during their stay.

By midnight, Julian had discovered that Lady Wetherby’s idea of a small gathering included sufficient conversation to exhaust a far larger house. The dancing had ended. The card players had become absorbed in disputes over points. Julian had spoken with nearly everyone present, nodding, smiling, and answering, yet he recalled the conversation he’d had with the fewest words.

Lady Andover had left the drawing room several minutes earlier. He had noticed her departure because he had been hoping to speak with her again, his gaze straying to the sofa more often than he cared to admit. She had excused herself quietly, paused to say something to Lady Sylvan, then slipped toward the door, her shawl clasped close.

He assumed she had retired, and a small, unreasonable disappointment settled in his chest. Then, upon stepping outside for a little air, he saw her beside the garden gate. Lanterns lit the broad path leading away from the terrace, their soft, golden glow against the dark. Beyond their light, darkness softened the gardens, with pale flowers visible along the low wall. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of damp earth and roses. Lady Andover stood near one of the stone pillars, a shawl drawn about her shoulders, her face turned toward the roses climbing beside the gate. In the lantern light, she looked tranquil and a little distant, like a figure in a painting.

Julian stopped at the terrace steps, his hand on the cool stone balustrade. He had come outside to enjoy the quiet. She might have done the same, and he had no wish to turn her retreat into another obligation. Still, he wanted to speak to her. The wanting was simple and steady, and he did not question it. “Lady Andover?”

She turned quickly. One hand rose toward the edge of her shawl, clutching it close, before she recognized him, and her shoulders eased. “Lord Rosedale.”

“I hope I have not startled you.”

“Only a little.” She glanced toward the house, a faint, rueful smile touching her lips. “I thought everyone was still inside.”

“Most of them are. I have abandoned a conversation concerning a disputed trick.”

“Was it your trick?” she asked.

“No. That made the dispute considerably less interesting,” he said, with mock gravity.

Her mouth curved, and he descended the steps, his shoes crunching softly on the gravel. “Would you prefer to remain alone?” he asked, stopping at a respectful distance.

She looked at him for a moment, searching his face. He stayed far enough away that she need not step aside or make room, and he kept his hands loose at his sides.

“No,” she said softly at last. “I do not mind.”

He approached the gate and stopped beside the opposite pillar. The space between them was generous, but he could see her expression clearly in the lantern light, the gentle line of her cheek and the shadow of her lashes. “You have found a pleasant place,” he said.

“I noticed it when we arrived.” Her gaze returned to the roses, tracing the pale blooms. “I thought I might come out tomorrow, but it seemed quiet tonight.”

“Until I interrupted,” he said.

“You have not been particularly noisy,” she said, with a hint of teasing.

“I shall do my best to stay that way…”

Her smile came more readily now, and he felt it like a small, quiet victory. He wondered whether the room had been too crowded for her, or whether she simply preferred quiet conversation. The garden offered both quiet and time. He found himself grateful for it, and for the faint rustle of leaves overhead.

“Did you enjoy the dancing?” he asked.