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Yet he still struggled to reconcile his own audacity. He had demanded an audience with the wife of a duke. Not just any duke, but the Duke of Halmesbury—one of the most esteemed peers in the realm. A man of consequence and unassailable dignity.

What had possessed him?

Love, he supposed. Or something that looked very like it.

He gazed after the elegant carriage as it passed, then turned his thoughts toward Caroline.

Should he attempt to visit her?

His eyes dropped to his current state—his shirt soaked with sweat from hours of toil, hands black with soot, breeches bearing evidence of his labor. Hardly a suitable sight for calling on a lady, let alone the most admirable woman he had ever met.

No. Not today.

Tomorrow.

He would rise early and take the time to look his best. He would dress with care and visit Caroline as a gentleman should. If her conversation with the duchess had gone well, perhaps she might allow him to court her.

Please, let her allow it.

He wanted that future with Caroline so much he could taste it.

Caroline paced restlessly in her rooms, her slippers whispering against the rug with each turn. She had considered, dismissed, and reconsidered a hundred times whether to show up unannounced. The house was silent; her landlady had retired to her chambers three hours prior and would, by now, be well asleep.

Still, Caroline could not find peace.

In the distance, the mantel clock in the sitting room struck twelve, its chimes echoing through the quiet like a summons. Midnight.

She paused, biting her fingernail. Was it utter madness to seek him out at this hour?

The streets would be deserted. William’s home was only a few blocks away. And she could not rest until she knew—truly knew—where matters stood between them.

Her mind made up in a sudden rush of resolve, she donned her cloak and raised the hood. If anyone happened to see her, they might not recognize her in the dim light. Though she doubted anyone would be about at such an hour.

Easing open the front door, she slipped outside and closed it softly behind her. The cold was immediate, cutting and sharp, but she ignored it. She walked briskly, skirts rustling as she turned into the narrow alley that would lead her to Market Street. To William.

She could have waited until morning, of course, but then she would be forced to speak with him at the smithy—where privacy was impossible, and she might lose her courage. No, it had to be now. It was still Christmastide. The holiday magic had not yet waned. There might yet be time for them to reach an understanding.

As she approached Mrs. Heeley’s cottage, her heart leapt into her throat, but all was dark and still. The widow must have remained in Bath. Thank heavens.

At last, she reached the blacksmith’s back door. Her breath caught. Would the lock still be broken? If it had been repaired, and William had retired, there would be no way to summon him. She would have to turn back, chilled and defeated, and spend another sleepless night in a restless torment of what-ifs.

Her gloved hand, trembling with cold and something far more fragile, reached for the handle.

William sat in his drawing room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as he nursed a cooling cup of tea. Sleep had proven elusive, and though he had planned to visit Caroline in the morning, something within him resisted the delay. The sense that time was fleeting, that the fragile magic of Christmastide might slip away before an understanding was secured, pressed down upon him like a weight.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames, attempting to make sense of his restless heart. Then came the sound. The soft creak of the back door. He straightened, alert.

Footsteps.

His heart hammered in anticipation. Then, from the dimness beyond, a voice—gentle and haunting—began to hum. He froze, wondering if he had fallen asleep and was once again caught in the grips of a magical dream. He made to rise, but then the humming started, causing him to blink and lean back.

Apparently, he had fallen asleep without realizing it and was dreaming of her once more. Was it to be like the dreams from Christmas Eve? A visitation in which she revealed some truth to him?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,