She saw him across the ballroom.
The Harrington musicale was crowded, warm, filled with the low roar of conversation that preceded the performance. Caroline stood near the refreshment table with Laura, half-listening to a discussion about the soprano’s recent performances in Italy, when she felt the shift in the room.
She turned. Anthony was near the entrance, with Lord Eastbell beside him, and he was looking directly at her.
The world narrowed to just him: the breadth of his shoulders in his evening coat, the way his hair fell across his forehead, and the green eyes that had seen every part of her and had chosen to turn away.
Her breath caught.
He held her gaze for three seconds…four. Long enough that she felt it like a touch. Then he looked away, said something to Lord Eastbell, and moved in the opposite direction.
“Caroline?” Laura touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” Caroline said, and her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.
She turned back to the conversation, smiled at something someone said, and did not look in his direction again.
But she felt him. She felt his presence in the room the way she might feel a storm approaching—inevitable, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
Twenty minutes later, Powell appeared at her elbow.
“Lady Caroline.” He bowed. “Would you do me the honor of taking a turn about the room?”
She should say yes. She should take his arm, smile, and play her part in the performance that would end with their engagement.
Instead, she said, “I am afraid I am not feeling well. Perhaps another time.”
Powell’s expression tightened. “Of course. I hope you recover quickly.” The words were polite. The tone was not.
He left, and Caroline stood very still, her hands clenched at her sides, and tried not to look for Anthony in the crowd.
She failed.
He was on the far side of the room, speaking with an older gentleman she did not recognize. He was not looking at her. He was not looking at anyone in particular. He looked… tired.
The performance began, and everyone quickly found their seats. Caroline sat between Esther and Lady Hayward and stared at the soprano without hearing a single note.
When it ended, she excused herself before anyone could engage her in conversation. She found a quiet corner near the ladies’ retiring room and pressed her palms against the cool wall and breathed.
This was unbearable. Seeing him and not being able to speak to him. Pretending that the past months had not happened. Pretending that she did not feel like she was being slowly dismantled, piece by piece.
“Caroline.”
She turned.
Anthony stood three feet away, his expression carefully blank.
“Your Grace,” she said, and her voice was steadier than she expected.
They looked at each other.
She wanted to say: I miss you. I think about you constantly. I do not know how to do this without you.
He said, “How are you?” It was not quite a question.
“Well,” she lied. “And you?”
“Well enough,” he replied, and they both knew that this was another lie.