To Trust an Earl’s Heart Again (Preview)

Prologue

London, 1813

Clara Everly wanted a love match, and nothing was going to change that. 

She was standing in her father’s gallery, having been looking at the new arrivals for what felt like hours. Her hazel eyes focused on a painting, and in an instant, she was lost in the world that was on display before her. It was a quaint depiction of a wedding, the bride in her perfect white gown with her blonde hair swept up with precision. Clara envied her and the way she was clearly ready to spend the rest of her life with her new husband. He was a tall, broad gentleman, and given the extravagance the artist had given it, their match seemed quite the illustrious one.

“Was I missing something about this painting?” a voice came, making her jump slightly.

She turned to see a gentleman standing behind her, bearing a striking resemblance to the man in the painting. His hair was dark and tousled, his eyes a gray-blue, which seemed to bore into her, and she found herself both unable to look away and at quite a loss for words.

“It is nothing,” she managed to say after a moment. “I admire the painter, that is all. John Barkin paints with such realism that one has no choice but to be captivated.”

“I thought the same with some of his other pieces, but this one… I cannot look at it in the same longing way that you were.”

“It was not with longing.”

He merely had to raise an eyebrow at her, and she knew that he had seen too much. Not only that, but she had never been any good at lying. She tucked a stray chestnut curl behind her ear and turned back to the painting.

“It may not be very progressive of me,” she sighed, “but as a little girl, I dreamed of my wedding day. I am seven-and-ten years of age now, and so perhaps that day may soon approach, and it is my hope that my wedding day will be as joyous as this.”

The gentleman laughed heartily at that, and Clara felt herself blush. It was unlike her to speak passionately, especially to strangers, and his reaction hurt her more than she would have liked to admit.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know that it is not the adventure that gentlemen prefer, but—”

“Oh, no, it is not that. You must not think that I am ridiculing you for what you want, as it is a very noble thing. I completely understand your desires, and I will not pretend that I do not share in them, but your perception of this painting… it is all wrong.”

“Wrong?” she echoed. “I look at artwork each and every day. They are up for our own interpretation.”

“Most of Birkin’s works are, yes, but not this one. That is why I never felt a particular connection to it.”

She looked at him quizzically, and he moved so that he was standing by her side, and they were both looking at the painting. 

“You see,” he continued, “this is a depiction of his parents’ wedding. Have you never looked at the title?”

“Animam Agere, but I do not see what that has to do with—”

“To breathe your last breath,” he explained. “I am rather fond of Latin, you see. I suppose, if you did not know that, you would see this as a great celebration; a very fortunate young couple set to spend their life together blissfully, but that is only the perception of a guest. Did you not wonder why the bride is not smiling?”

Clara looked at it more closely, realizing that she had not truly paid much attention to the faces. Indeed, the bride did not appear happy, nor sad, nor any way at all. Her expression was blank, unfeeling, like that of a corpse. 

She shuddered.

“It was an arranged marriage,” the gentleman concluded. “Their parents paid a fortune for the affair, and it was all for nothing. The marriage was miserable, and in the end the mother disappeared into the night, leaving a young Birkin with his father.”

“That is awful,” Clara gasped.

“I can understand her predicament. She must have felt that she had no other choice. That is what the artist said, at least.”

Clara blinked, looking up at him. 

“Do you know him?”

“He has held lectures at my university. A fascinating man, though his life was rather tragic. I would be more than happy to arrange a meeting sometime. If that would please you, of course.”

“I would very much like that!”

“Then I shall need your name,” he nodded. “For the purpose of writing to you, of course.”

“It is Clara Everly,” she said with a smile, “the daughter of Viscount Everly.”

At once, she watched his face fall.

“Lord Everly, the owner of this gallery?” he asked. “Have I truly been so pompous before the daughter of a viscount?”

“Perhaps a little, but I truly do not mind. It is nice to be challenged every now and again, otherwise life becomes…”

“Repetitive?”

“Precisely, Lord—do forgive me, I do not believe you told me your name.”

“It is Julian,” he said gently. “Julian Ashford.”

“Then I shall ensure that I do not tell my father of any opinionated Ashfords,” she smiled. “Might he know who you are?”

“He does indeed know me. Our fathers have been friends for years, and your father visited us often, and so I can say with certainty that I do not think he would take too kindly to his daughter corresponding with someone too opinionated.”

“Corresponding?”

“If you wish to.”

Clara simply nodded, knowing that she wished very much to do so.

“In that case,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it, “I shall write to you soon.”

He walked away, and when he reached the door he looked back, his gaze lingering on her for a few precious moments more. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she did not want him to disappear. Nobody ever discussed art with her in the way that he had done. They had only ever said that a painting either looked nice or did not, and then the conversation had ended there. Lord Ashford was different, however, and as passionate as she was, she wished that she was able to attend university so that she could also be given such opportunities to speak with other artists.

As expected, a letter arrived for her within the first few days. 

Dear Lady Clara Everly,

I do not know if you would like an apology from me in regard to my behavior, but I wish to give you one all the same. You should know that I am not one to speak with such certainty, nor such attitude. In truth, I was only telling you such things because of my own excitement. You see, there are not many members of the ton that share my passions. If anything, they find them rather strange, and so when I found someone that seemed interested in what I had to say, I was carried away.

In order to make things right, I would like to hear something from you. I would like you to tell me of your favorite work, and why it is your favorite. You may write pages to me, if you wish. That way, the score will be settled, and I need not feel like such a fool.

Also, in all honesty, I would like to listen to you more. 

Yours most respectfully,

Lord Ashford

It was a short letter, but Clara read it over and over. She had not wanted an apology, nor expected one, for she understood completely how it felt to finally be listened to after so long. However, she did not wish to lose an opportunity to write about her passions. She pulled some parchment and a quill out in an instant, moving her ink pot so quickly across her desk that some spilled out, staining the wood. 

As requested, she sent a lengthy response discussing a sculpture that her father had housed for years. It was of a lady; tall with womanly curves and a gentle smile that soothed her each time she saw it. It had been her preferred piece from the day it arrived, though she had never told her father that. He never would have believed her, as he would have simply seen it as her trying to be kind to her father.

He was, after all, the artist.

But it was more than that. Her father had a few of his pieces displayed, and she truly did like each and every one, but the statue was different. The statue was crafted with love—adoration even—and it was a piece that she knew that she had more knowledge of than Lord Ashford, for she knew the subject of the statue. It was her own mother. 

It had been crafted the year after her death, when Clara was but eleven years of age. It had been the worst year of Clara’s life, and she knew it had been the same for her father. They rarely spoke to one another, Clara shutting herself away in her bed chambers and her father in his study. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes, and whenever her father looked at her he remembered his wife and had to leave the room. Though she was hurt, she never blamed him.

It helped when upon his first real outing into the rest of the household, he brought her a small sculpture of the three of them. She had cried when she saw it, and her father took her in his arms and stroked her hair and promised her that he would never leave her alone again. The statue of her mother came soon after.

She sat back, having recounted all of this in her letter, and considered burning it. She had never told anyone about that year; it was too personal, too intimate to share without fearing a reaction. And yet, she folded it neatly and sent it to him.

Her heart did not settle until days later, when the response arrived.

Dear Lady Clara Everly,

I cannot believe that all of that happened to you. I must thank you for sharing it with me, as I know that it could not have been easy.

I suppose it is my turn to share some truth about myself with you. I could not possibly fathom such a loss.

Perhaps, on my next visit, you might show the statue to me? You have my word that I will not make any comments about it unless you give me your permission.

I look forward to hearing from you again.

Yours most respectfully,

Lord Ashford

Clara’s fingers trembled as she held the words in her hands. She knew the feeling that her pounding heart represented. She was falling for him, and there was no stopping it. His handwriting was beautiful, his words were beautiful, he was beautiful, and she could not stop herself from writing another reply immediately.

Their correspondence continued, wonderful letters making promises that she had every intention of keeping, and she kept each one he sent in a box beneath her bed, the loveliest of them neatly folded under her pillow. It was not what a mature lady would do, but she did not care. He would be her husband one day; she was certain of it. 

She kept that certainty long after the letters stopped coming. 

She wanted to have faith in him, and so she waited. She spent hours by the window, watching deliveries take place and pretending that it did not hurt when her household was passed by. Clara waited dutifully, keeping her hope, but she knew the truth. 

Nothing more would come, and she was alone once more.

Chapter One

Her pale pink gown smoothed into place, and her hair swept up perfectly, Clara was prepared to do battle. 

At twenty years of age, she was no stranger to the expectations of the ton, and she took great pride in how well she navigated it all. That evening’s ball would be no exception, and she could not allow it to be any other way. Her time to find a husband was running out, and she could not afford any mistakes.

Not like the one that she had allowed herself to make for three years past. 

“You seem rather tense,” her father commented as they approached the door. “I know that this is not what you expected for your life out in society, but with the right attitude—”

“I know, Father. If I put my mind to it, I shall find a husband with ease.”

She smiled playfully at him and hoped he would understand that she did not wish to discuss the matter. 

The truth was that she had spent every social season waiting to see Lord Ashford, hoping that he would appear one evening and explain his absence and apologize for disappearing. Clara feared that, if she allowed herself to be courted by another gentleman and eventually marry him, she would lose her chance with the man she truly wanted, and so she never allowed herself to try.

But Lord Ashford never came, and so she had decided to forget about him before she became a spinster, destined to sit on the shelf with the other undesirables.

The introductions and greetings and offers to dance swirled around her, and everything soon blurred into one moment until she was standing on the edge of the dancefloor with her father. Her dance card was full, and the string tying it to her wrist burned her skin. She did not want to partake in the festivities and was only doing so out of obligation. She would soon be dancing, and at least then she could accept the distraction. 

The first dance was with a stranger, a gentleman that just so happened to ask her to dance. She did not feel as though she could refuse, not when she was determined to have that season be different to the others. 

When that dance came to an end, she curtsied politely and left for the edge of the room once more, going directly to the one friend she had.

Cecilia Marchmont saw her coming, waving her over, and at last Clara smiled properly. Cecilia was her only real friend, and at least when they were together her loneliness did not hurt her as much. Though she was searching for a husband, she could not deny that she enjoyed gossiping and laughing with Cecilia far more than the company of any gentleman. 

They were both daughters of viscounts, and both without their mothers. That was, she thought, something that meant they understood one another better than the other young ladies they knew. They also shared a sharp tongue, which Clara had not known that she possessed until they had met. 

“Good evening, Cecilia.”

“You seem rather unhappy. It is not over another gentleman, I hope.”

“Of course not.”

That was another thing they had in common. When Lord Ashford disappeared, Cecilia had withstood troubles of her own, with a gentleman Clara never met but Cecilia was seemingly besotted with. She did not ask much about it, as her friend was quite clearly distraught and she did not wish to make it worse.

“That is what I like to hear,” Cecilia grinned. “There shall be no more tears from either of us, especially over something as trivial as a man. Come, we have much to discuss.”

“I cannot go too far. I am to dance with Lord Branscombe soon.”

Cecilia raised an eyebrow at her.

“Have you truly changed your mind?”

“Yes,” she said carefully, “and it is perhaps time that you do the same. We cannot do this forever, you know.”

“We most certainly can. We are without brothers, and therefore—”

“Therefore without protection,” she reminded her. “Come, we shall find you someone to dance with too.”

“I would rather be destitute. I cannot stand them, walking around with their chests out like, like peacocks!”

Clara laughed gently, leading her toward the refreshments when her friend’s head suddenly turned. Without thinking, she followed Cecilia’s gaze only to see the one thing she feared most. 

She did not know whether she wanted the rumor to be true or false, whether she wanted Lord Ashford there or elsewhere, but she had her answer at last. He was older and broader, but there was no mistaking him. He was the same gentleman that she had seen in her father’s gallery so long ago. 

But he did not even look her way. 

Instead, he walked past her as if she were not there at all. She felt her heart stop, and then pound, and then tighten in her chest. She wondered, for a moment, if she needed assistance, but then she came to and realized that Cecilia had vanished. 

“Here,” she said firmly when she returned, pressing a cool glass into her hand. “Do not ask where I got it and drink it quickly. It will burn, but it will do you a world of good.”

Clara trusted her friend more than anything, and so obliged. In an instant, she wished that she had not. Her throat did, indeed, burn, and she tried not to cough. Cecilia laughed softly, squeezing her arm. 

“You will thank me later. It shall numb you.”

“How do you know that?”

“You do not want to know.”

“I do.”

Cecilia sighed, giving her a look that Clara recognized rather well.

“I had my difficulties. My father was in a stupor and told me that it helped. Might we leave it there?”

Clara nodded. She adored her friend, but Cecilia Marchmont could be quite the formidable lady when she wanted to be. She usually reserved her temper for the gentlemen that approached her, and when she did not it shocked Clara a good deal.

“Now,” Cecilia continued, composing herself, “are you going to look for that man all evening, or are you going to enjoy your dance with Lord Branscombe?”

“I thought that you did not want me to find a husband.”

“I do not, but you will not allow that man to watch you stand here like this. He will assume that he has won.”

Clara had to agree. She did not want Lord Ashford to reappear, ignore her, then look on as he realized she had never moved on. She had not, of course, but she did not want him to know that. She looked over at him, the young lady on his arm laughing, and her mind was settled.

“I shall enjoy my dance.”

“Ensure that you do,” Cecilia said firmly. “If you insist on marrying, then I expect you to marry well.”

“Is Lord Branscombe a good match, do you think?”

“He is undoubtedly handsome, and he would offer you security. He is from generational wealth, and his family has always been well-respected. There is nothing wrong with him, as long as he is who you want.”

He was not, but Clara had little choice in that matter. The only gentleman that she had ever wanted was acting as though she did not exist, and it was killing her. Mercifully, whatever Cecilia had given her was beginning to take effect, and she quickly found herself more inclined to enjoy her evening. 

 “The dance shall begin soon,” Cecilia said gently, guiding her to the dance floor. “Do what you must and do it well.”

Lord Branscombe found her quickly, escorting her the rest of the way. They did not say much to one another at first, and Clara wondered if it was all to be a waste of her time. Her gaze kept falling onto Lord Ashford, who did not once look in her direction. The music began, and at last Clara could think about something else. 

“It astounds me that you are not yet married,” Lord Branscombe said after a moment. 

“Thank you, my lord. I suppose that I have never found a gentleman that I felt I could love.”

“Ah, you are seeking a love match?”

“Certainly. It is what my mother and father had, and I want the same for myself. If I am to spend my life with a gentleman, I want it to be one that I admire.” 

“And what do you find admirable?”

Once more, she saw Lord Ashford.

“Kindness,” she began, “and loyalty. A family man, someone who is always present. I cannot bear the thought of having children with a man that did not wish to spend any time with them.”

“Yes, I have heard that your father is wonderful.”

“The very best, I believe. I want the same for my own children.”

“And you believe the time is right to find such a man?”

“Indeed.”

“Then let us hope that I may fill that role.”

She had not spoken to Lord Ashford in years, and yet it felt like a betrayal. She watched as he flirted with other ladies, making introductions and talking the same way that she was, but it made her ache. What made it worse was the pretty young lady that was by his side, whom she did not recognize. She could not help but question who she was, and why she was always on his heel. 

“And what might you be looking for in a wife?” she asked, bringing her attention back to the man that she was dancing with.

“In truth, I do not expect much of my wife. My estate runs smoothly as it is, and so she would live a life of leisure. I am not looking for a love match like you are, but I am fairly certain that love is something that builds over time, rather than something that appears from nowhere.”

“And have you ever been in love?”

“Certainly not. I do not make a habit of meeting with ladies very often. I shall assume that you are much the same?”

Clara dutifully replied that of course she had never been in love, but again it felt like a betrayal, not only to Lord Ashford but to herself. She did not want to pretend that she had not spent months falling for a man that disappeared, even if it was something she knew was shameful. She missed him, she longed for him, while he was standing nearby not caring at all whether she was there or not. 

When the dance came to an end, she returned to a hopeful Cecilia. 

“You looked wonderful together!” Cecilia beamed. “How was he?”

“He was perfectly respectable. He would be a reasonable match for me.”

“Then why do you look so unhappy?”

“Because he is not the man I love.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes, but she placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

“Clara, there are only so many reminders that I can give you about that man. He is undeserving of you, and you will not allow his apparent return to change that. You must give this gentleman a chance, even if you continue to think of someone else, or else you shall never find happiness.”

Clara knew that her friend was right, but it was difficult to listen when the man she wanted was so close. It was made worse by the fact that she could not stop looking at the young lady on his arm. 

“Who do you suppose that lady accompanying him is?” she asked Cecilia, looking at the ground.

“You may be able to ask him momentarily,” Cecillia said shakily, “for he is coming this way with her now.”

Chapter Two

Julian did not expect to see Lady Clara so soon.

He knew when he returned to London, aged five and twenty, that he would eventually see her again, and that was in truth one of the things drawing him back, but he did not think that it would be as unceremonious as it was. 

He had planned to write to her, to explain his absence and apologize profusely and arrange a way to see her. Instead, he had never been able to find the words and was forced to watch her dance with another man. 

“What is it?” Eliza asked, looking up at him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“You are tense, Cousin. I know that it has been a long time since you were last here, but you were never like this before.”

Julian sighed. It was true that he had never been afraid to command attention, but that had been before his sudden absence. He knew that the ton had their opinions and theories as to where he had been, but he did not know what they were. Given how sudden it had been, they could have assumed anything of him. 

Including Lady Clara. 

He had wanted to take Eliza to meet her, to explain that he was sponsoring his cousin during the season, but before he could do so he noticed her friend. Lady Cecilia was not the sort of lady he had ever spent time with, and he knew that she was a strange character. He watched as she switched drinks, pouring out a lemonade in favor of something far stronger, and then handed it to Lady Clara. 

Julian had never imagined Lady Clara touching anything stronger than tea, yet she took the glass and drank with surprising resolve—certainly more than he would have expected from her. He decided not to make any introductions, as it would not bode well for him if his cousin had such bad social habits instilled in her. Instead, he showed her around the room, making introductions with people that he hardly remembered at all. 

When he looked at the dance floor, he saw Lady Clara there. She was smiling, laughing at something her partner was saying. She was sharper than before, poised and even more beautiful than she had been when they met. Julian remembered that first spark between them, the way her smile made him feel unlike anything else ever had. 

He longed to return to that time, before he destroyed everything, but he could not. Instead, she was with another man, someone finely dressed that he could only assume was her husband. That would have made sense, as married ladies were able to do less ladylike things such as escaping for a drink. 

That was what he told himself, at least. 

“That is her, is it not?” Eliza said suddenly. “The one with the chestnut hair?”

“I- I do not know what you mean.”

“Julian, you left London abruptly and spent the following years in some strange state of misery. We have returned, and you are at once looking at her. She has to have been important to you, yes?” 

He sighed, not knowing what to say to her. 

“Are you truly going to pretend she is not there? I have watched you look nervously since you agreed to sponsor me, so you know as well as I do that she continues to have an effect on you. Now, are you going to make an introduction, or am I going to wait for the dance to come to an end and make one myself?”

At that moment, the music ended. Eliza gave him a look, one eyebrow raised, and then she turned on her heel, walking toward Lady Clara. Julian’s heart pounded, and he followed after her. He had not planned to see her, not yet, and he needed time to think about what he would say to her. 

His cousin, however, was not going to allow him to do that. 

“Good evening, my lord.”

He blinked. They were standing in front of Lady Clara and Lady Cecilia, and they were both looking at him expectantly. 

“Good evening,” he said brightly, hoping that by using his charms he might avoid talking about anything important. “It is lovely here, is it not? I would like to introduce you to Lady Eliza Ashford.”

“Yes, how lovely,” Lady Cecilia scowled.

Julian knew, at once, what they assumed. 

“She is my cousin. I am sponsoring her this year.”

In an instant, he saw relief in Lady Clara’s eyes. He hoped he knew why that was, even if it was for nothing. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Eliza said gently. “I have heard so much about you, Lady Clara.”

“And nothing about me?” Lady Cecilia asked, to which Eliza chuckled. 

“I have heard most wonderful things about you, though my dear cousin would rather I had not.”

The ladies seemed to accept her in an instant. He, on the other hand, was not nearly as welcome. Fortunately, Eliza had also seemingly noticed this and was eager to help him. 

“Lady Cecilia,” she said brightly, “might you accompany me to the refreshments? I have so much to ask you.”

The friend looked uncertain, but she nodded and took her away. Julian simply hoped that there would be no further drink changes.

“It is… a lovely night,” he repeated.

“Why are you here?” Lady Clara asked sharply.

“I am here to sponsor my cousin. That is all.”

“And why did you leave?” 

Julian did not know how to answer her, instead thinking of something he could ask her in return.

“Where is he?” 

“Who?”

“Your husband. I thought I saw him before?”

She looked at him with a furrowed brow, as if he were mocking her. He tried not to look at her in confusion, but that was all he could seem to do. 

“You were dancing with him.”

At last, she seemed to understand. She laughed softly, shaking her head and glancing around until she saw the gentleman from before. 

“Do you mean him?” she asked, pointing in his direction to which Julian nodded. “That is Lord Branscombe. Our families are friends with one another, and he is a very kind man, but we are not married.”

It was a relief to hear, but Julian felt conflicted all the same. If she were married, it would have hurt him greatly, but he would have at least had a reason to push his feelings aside. She would have been unobtainable, and there would have been no changing that. Instead, he had to cast his feelings aside without any real reason, which would be almost too difficult to bear. 

In any case, she had seemingly forgotten her question, and when Eliza and Lady Cecilia returned they changed the topic of their discussion altogether. Instead, talk turned to Eliza, and her expectations for her first season out in society. 

Uncertain as to whether or not his presence was wounding Lady Clara, he remained with them for a short while before leaving to find a friend of his. He was happy to leave his cousin with the two ladies, as although they had done something unbecoming, he knew Lady Clara. He knew that she would take care of Eliza. 

He found his friend quickly. Lord Nathaniel Grayson was a man of good build, and he knew precisely why ladies had flocked to him years before. When he married, it was expected that he would not be half as popular, but hardly anything changed. When Julian found him, ladies nearby staring at him, he could not help but comment on it.

“They are aware that you have a wife, yes?” he asked. 

“And a son. Yes, I rather think they would have their time better spent by finding a gentleman that is not spoken for, but you know how they can be.”

“What does Amelia think of them?”

“Well, it is not as though she cares very much. After what I did to marry her to begin with, I am quite convinced that she will never doubt my intentions.” 

Julian chuckled. Grayson had been expected to marry a very wealthy and very suitable young lady, but he had not wanted any part in it. Instead, he had found a lady that he was truly in love with, and he had married her within the month. It had made waves in the ton, but he had never cared. Julian had always admired him for that, because that had been the one thing he could not do. 

“Have you spoken to her yet?” Grayson asked.

“Amelia? No, I have not seen her as yet.”

“Of course you have not, for she is not here. She is home with our child. I am only here for business purposes. I meant her.” 

He knew that Grayson was gesturing toward Lady Clara. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I have thought about our reunion for years now, but when she was in front of me I did not know what to say to her. I feel like such a fool.”

“That is because you are one. If you want to make amends, you should do so sooner rather than later, else she might think that you were never interested in her.”

“She would not think that. She would know that I liked her, would she not?”

“I do not know, for I have never had such a thing happen to me. What say you?” 

Julian thought for a moment, and he did not know what to say. He knew that his return would be difficult, but he had not expected to have such difficulty speaking. He had never struggled to express himself, and he hated that it was happening when he needed to do it more than ever. 

“You have nothing to lose,” Grayson said kindly. “Tell her what happened. She is a good lady. She will understand.”

“Have you seen her at events the last few years?”

“I might have, or I might not have. I shall gladly reveal all once you give me a reason to tell you.”

Julian nodded, a sudden confidence coming to him. His friend was right; he had to tell Lady Clara what had happened and ask for her forgiveness. It was possible that she had no interest in knowing him anymore, and he could not blame her for that, but he had to know for certain. 

As he made his way there, he noticed that Eliza was dancing. She was pleased to be with the gentleman, and Julian recognized him at once as the man Lady Clara had been dancing with. She had told him that he was a good man, and so Julian was not alarmed by it. What he wanted, more than anything, was to speak to Lady Clara, and he would do so as long as her friend allowed him to.

He was behind them, and just about to rejoin their conversation. 

Then he heard them talking. 

“Why has he chosen now to return?” Lady Clara groaned. “Of all times, he is here now. I do not need any of this.”

“He is only here to chaperone his cousin. Clara, gentlemen do not change. They do what pleases them and they do not care who they hurt in doing so. He did not care for you when he disappeared, and he does not care for you now. He is only doing what will make his time here easier. Making you upset and me angry will not accomplish that.”

“I know, although I must admit that a part of me cannot help but think-”

“I am telling you this because you are my greatest friend. You are not thinking at all. He has hurt you before and he will hurt you again. Do not allow him to do that.”

“I will not. Have more faith in me, Cecilia. I have told you that I will find a husband this season, and his arrival has not changed my mind. I will do what I must, whether he is here or not.”

Julian wanted to interrupt them, to tell Lady Cecilia that he had no intention of doing such a thing, but he could see how Lady Clara was standing. She looked defeated, as though she had been happier without him. He did not want to make her feel that way after everything she had been through.

And so he walked away.