She didn’t tell him no.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You came,” Anthony said.
Caroline stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her cloak still fastened at her throat, and for one brief, suspended moment, she considered turning around and leaving. Going back to Grayston House and pretending she had come to her senses somewhere between there and here would have been prudent. At home, she could pretend that his command last night,“come to me tomorrow,”had not echoed in her mind all day like a drumbeat she could not silence.
Then she stepped inside and closed the door behind her and felt the decision settle over her like a weight; a choice she had already made long before she climbed into the carriage tonight.
She had spent the better part of the day telling herself she would not come, tried reconsidering in the daylight, when the memory of his demand had lost its immediate heat, and come to thedecision that whatever curiosity or defiance had driven her to agree had been exhausted by the list’s completion.
She had told herself this with the particular conviction of a woman who needed to believe it in order to maintain some vestige of self-respect.
And yet she had found herself getting dressed anyway. Had stood in front of her wardrobe far too long, considering and discarding gowns until she had settled on this one—deep green silk that made her eyes look more green than brown, that fit her properly without being scandalous.
Caroline could stomach a great many things, but she could not lie to herself: she had chosen this gown knowing where she was going and what she was coming here to do. She’d slipped out of Grayston House while Esther was occupied with correspondence and Lewis was in his study, and climbed into the carriage. From there, she sat in the darkness, telling herself she could still turn back.
She had not turned back. She had not even seriously considered it if she was being honest with herself.
Thatshould have told her something.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” she asked.
“I thought you might reconsider.” He remained where he was, near the fireplace, a glass of claret in hand that looked as thoughit had been poured some time ago and forgotten. “After last night.”
Her eyes moved past him to the table, which had been laid for two in the same manner as the first night she had come here. White cloth, two tapers already lit, covered dishes waiting. The fire burned with the particular settled warmth of one that had been tended for hours.
He had arranged it all himself, she realized with a sudden, sharp clarity. Had dismissed the staff early. Had set the table with his own hands, had lit the candles, had stood here waiting for her.
The thought made her chest tighten. He had recreated something that had meant nothing the first time and now meant considerably more than either of them had any business allowing it to.
The first time, she had been a curiosity. A challenge. A respectable young lady with an inappropriate list who needed his help.
What was she now?
She did not know. And that uncertainty made her pulse climb.
“You told me to come,” she said. Her voice was steady, but she could hear the edge beneath it. “So, I came.”
He set the glass down on the mantle with deliberate care. “Take off your cloak.”
She did, unfastening it with fingers that moved just a fraction slower than usual because she was acutely aware of his eyes on her. When the cloak fell away, she stood before him in the gown she had chosen specifically for this evening, and the weight of that choice pressed against her chest.
The thought settled in her stomach like a stone. She had dressed for this. Had stood in her room and made a deliberate choice, knowing what it meant.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the table. “We’ll eat first.”
She looked at the table, then back at him, and something flickered through her mind that she could not entirely articulate. “Like last time.”
“Like last time,” he agreed.
Except it was nothing like last time, and they both knew it.
Now, they sat across from each other, the candles between them. He uncovered the dishes and poured the wine and conducted the entire business with the same unhurried precision he had employed the first night. Roasted pheasant, buttered vegetables, bread still warm. Good, simple food that required no particular effort to appreciate.
Caroline ate, but her attention was not on the meal. She was watching him, reading him the way she had learned to do over the months they had spent in each other’s company; looking for the cracks in the carefully maintained facade he wore like armor.
Searchingfor the man beneath the Duke, beneath the rake, beneath all the layers of performance he wrapped himself in.