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“Did you know I would be here?” she asked, keeping her voice level. Her fingers tightened around her glass, then relaxed.

“No,” he said, and she watched his face for any sign of a lie, finding none. “Rosedale mentioned a few friends. He did not give me their names.”

“Mine were more informative,” she said, a dry edge in her tone. “Though not until I arrived.”

“Should I be concerned?” he asked, a faint, boyish worry creasing his brow. Seeing it undid something she had meant to keep fastened.

“Apparently, you are intelligent, agreeable, and possessed of an excellent sense of humor,” she said, with deliberate coolness, lifting her chin as though reciting a list of charges.

“I shall try to live up to the account.” He bowed his head slightly, and a lock of dark blond hair fell across his brow.

“You may find it exhausting.” She looked away to the fire. Because looking at him was becoming dangerous.

His smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. She felt it like a hand laid warm against her back. “You have not made it easy.”

“You have been here scarcely five minutes,” she said, but her voice was softer than she intended.

“I was remembering,” he said softly.

The words landed low in her chest. Charlotte turned the stem of her glass between her fingers, watching the candlelight slide along the rim, and let the small, steady motion hold her together. “That seems an unnecessary occupation.”

“Perhaps. It has occupied me nevertheless,” he said quietly.

She looked at him then. His amusement had softened into something more serious, and its weight pressed against her ribs. An old ache she had thought long healed, now stirring beneath the skin. For a moment she could not find a single clever thing to say. There were questions she could ask. Where he had lived, whom he had married, whether he had been happy. She knew he had a wife once. She had learned it through some ordinary conversation years ago. It had been dropped lightly between the cake and the tea. She had received it with an indifference. She had been pleased to have discovered she could manage and smiled before reaching for her cup.

She preferred not to question her indifference. She might discover she was only pretending. “I trust you are settling into your responsibilities,” she said.

“As well as I can,” he told her.

“It is a considerable change.” He had never wanted the responsibility that came with the title. Had been glad to be the spare and not the heir. He must hate this change.

He nodded. “Yes.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, then added, “I would have preferred to come by them differently—or not at all...”

“Of course,” she said softly.

For a moment, their conversation lost its careful edges. She had known his brother, though never well. Alexander had adored him in the impatient fashion of a younger son who resented advice and sought it whenever difficulties arose. She remembered him laughing at some joke across a long dinner table, his head thrown back.

“I am sorry,” she said again, more quietly, and meant it.

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

Her name caught her unprepared, soft in his mouth, as it had been when he was twenty-three and certain of everything. She glanced toward the card table, where Benedict was drawing forward another chair, its legs scraping the floor. She could join them. A game would offer occupation, conversation, and a sensible distance from the past.

Alexander followed her glance. “Would you prefer to play?”

“Are you offering me an escape?” she asked.

“If you want one,” he said, gently.

Charlotte looked back at him, narrowing her eyes. “That is unusually considerate.”

He accepted the rebuke without attempting to laugh it away, though a faint flush rose along his jaw. “I have had time to recognize a few of my faults.”

She arched a brow. “Only a few?”

“A discouraging number.” His lips twitched. “I thought it best not to begin with all of them.”

Despite herself, she smiled, a small, reluctant curve she could not quite hold back. His attention settled on her mouth, briefly enough to be discreet, long enough for her to notice. Warmth stirred beneath her irritation, a slow, bright ember she had long thought cold. That was inconvenient. She set her glass upon a nearby table, the crystal tapping against the polished wood.