Yearning for a Lady’s Return (Preview)

Prologue

Juliana Fairfax felt the air shatter.

It came not as a cry nor a crash, but in the brittle tinkle of her glass falling from her hand. It slipped through her gloved fingers and burst like a frozen star upon the polished marble floor of the Huckleberry Assembly Rooms.

The shattering brought a dozen heads to turn, fans to pause mid-flutter, and conversations to stumble like carriages in a rut. For one breathless moment, the hum of the ball staggered under the weight of sound and silence, but then just as quickly, it resumed, too polite to linger. She laughed lightly, as a lady ought to.

“Forgive me,” she murmured to no one in particular, bending slightly as a footman swept the glittering ruin away.

But inside her corseted chest, her heart thundered as though it sought escape. For it was not the glass. It was him.

Dominic.

He had stepped into the ballroom not five seconds before her hand betrayed her, and the sight of him, oh goodness, the sight of him, had undone her composure more surely than scandal ever could. He stood near the colonnade, just beyond the arc of the chandeliers, where candlelight dared not reach him in full. Tall, dark-haired, with the lean danger of a man accustomed to horses, storms, and secrets. His gaze sought hers as though he’d known precisely when to look.

A week. One week more.

Juliana turned sharply away from the windowed end of the ballroom, where Dominic had come in from the rain-damp night, and forced her attention back to the waltz forming before her. The music was an aching, lilting creature, played too prettily by the quartet perched like delicate birds above the staircase. All around her, skirts shimmered like sea foam in motion.

The Huckleberry Ball was the last of the Season, the crowning jewel of Lady Wilhelmina Penbray’s social calendar, and it was already in full bloom. The mirrored walls danced with candlelight and jewels, silk sleeves brushed silk sleeves and flirtation hung like dew on every sentence. Still, Juliana felt a wind moving through her thoughts, cold and resolute: this was the last time.

The last time she would waltz beneath the painted cherubs on the ceiling.

The last time she would be Juliana Fairfax, the daughter of the Earl of Garland, expected to marry a baronet or viscount and wear sapphire satin at Christmas.

The last time she would be untouched by disgrace.

A few moments later, Lord Sedgeley approached her, with his cheerful dolt and his unfortunate moustache, asking for a dance. Needless to say, there was only one man she wished to be dancing with, but she reminded herself that refusing Lord Sedgeley’s offer might appear rude if not even suspicious to her mother, eyeing her from across the ballroom.

So, she allowed Lord Sedgeley to twirl her a little too eagerly and she laughed at his remarks with enough breath to make it believable. The hem of her gown whispered against the floor, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the long mirror: golden curls pinned with moonstones, cheeks flushed to fashion, lips parted just enough. She looked like a girl still dreaming.

She was not.

Juliana knew exactly what she was about to do.

At midnight, Dominic would be gone again to a shadowed corner of the countryside that was to be their hiding place. In seven days’ time, she would follow, in riding habit and secrecy, without a chaperone, without a title, without a dowry. Only love. And scandal. That was done because of his parents, not hers, as they were forcing him in the direction of another woman. Because of that, and so many other reasons, it couldn’t be anything other than elopement.

“Lady Juliana,” said Lord Sedgeley suddenly, panting beside her as they came to a halt, “may I say, you dance like a sunbeam on the river?”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, curtsying. “And you like a branch caught in the current.”

He blinked, unsure if he’d been praised or not, and Juliana offered a smile sweet enough to stall inquiry. She turned before he could speak again, lifting her fan with elegance, and began to walk toward the far side of the ballroom, toward the shadows.

But Dominic had vanished.

Do not look like a girl abandoned. That was Rule One of the Ton.

She crossed toward the refreshment table, where silver bowls of punch steamed gently in crystal elegance. The scent of citrus, cloves, and crushed strawberries curled through the air like a teasing hand. Her throat felt dry. She reached for a cup.

Before her gloved fingers could touch the ladle, a voice near her shoulder interrupted her. “My lady, a note for you.”

Juliana turned, feeling startled.

The servant was young, barely older than a stable boy, and dressed in the Penbray livery. He held a single folded slip of paper, unsealed.

“Who gave it to you?” she inquired, hesitating to accept the note.

He blinked. “Begging your pardon, my lady. It was on the tray I was supposed to carry, and it has your name on it, so immediately upon discovering your identity, I brought it over to you.”

“Yes, that is all fine, but who is it from?” she asked again, wondering if perhaps, Dominic had sent her a note, although she could not, for the life of her, think of anything that was easier to discuss in notes rather than in person.

“I… this is sometimes what gentlemen do when they wish to deliver a note to a lady…” the young man continued, sounding increasingly confused and she realized that there was probably no point in questioning him further.

She accepted the note, then watched him bow before her and melt into the crowd. She glanced around cautiously, with a sense of inexplicable confusion. No one looked at her, not even the wallflowers. The dance had begun anew, which was an English country set, all laughter and lace. The note felt suddenly heavy in her hand, as if it had been dipped in lead.

She unfolded it with care, and the paper creased like a whisper in the din.

“He is not who you believe him to be. If you wish to see the truth with your own eyes, come to the Observatory. Now. Before it is too late,” she read silently.

There was no signature. No seal. The handwriting was clean, angular, and unfamiliar.

Juliana’s pulse slowed, then quickened again in a confused rhythm. A shiver climbed her spine despite the warmth of the room. He… it could only mean Dominic. And the Observatory… a strange, winding part of the estate gardens reserved for evening stargazing, open tonight only for novelty’s sake.

She lifted her eyes and glanced about the ballroom with precision learned from a hundred nights like this one. Lady Greymore was whispering behind her fan. A red-faced squire just dropped a canapé. A diamond of the first water spun past in silk the color of crushed plums. But there was no Dominic.

He was here. He had been here. And he had promised not to draw attention. They had kept their distance on purpose, after all. He was to remain in the shadows, and she in the limelight until the moment of escape came. But this… this was not part of the plan.

Juliana folded the note once more and tucked it into the tiny, beaded reticule at her wrist. She tried to ignore the way her fingers trembled.

This is madness, she told herself. It could be nothing. A jest. A trap. A petty rival with too much time and not enough morals.

And yet—what if it wasn’t?

Her heart ached with doubt. She loved Dominic. She trusted him. But love was not blind, not when whispered truths crawled in through cracks like damp. She glanced once more across the ballroom, then turned and began to move.

She did not move toward the terrace this time, but away from the crush of dancers and chatter, down the narrow corridor that led to the garden doors. Her slippers made barely a sound on the parquet floor, and her skirts brushed against the paneling like a sigh.

The hallway was dim, lit only by sconces that flickered with golden light. She passed beneath a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor, as if the lady in the frame might call out to stop her. The door at the end of the corridor loomed ahead, flanked by a pair of towering urns filled with white lilies.

Juliana slipped out into the night.

The garden had changed since her arrival. What had been orderly in sunlight was now a wild, silver-drenched maze. The Observatory stood at the far end, perched like a secret above the hedgerows, its glass dome glinting faintly in the moonlight.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The path was gravel, soft beneath her feet, and each step felt louder than it ought to in the hush of the grounds. A nightingale sang somewhere in the trees.

The Observatory loomed above the garden path like a quiet sentinel, half-swallowed by shadows and moonlight. The dome, glinting faintly in the silver haze, reminded Juliana of a snow globe trapped in time. She paused just before the final step, listening to the stillness of the night. No footsteps, no voices.

The gravel crunched softly beneath her slippered feet as she approached the wooden door. It was ajar, just slightly, and she slipped through it as silently as she had passed through countless drawing rooms full of gossip and expectation.

Inside, the scent struck her first. It was old wood and wax, dust and pressed flowers. Then, the hush. The world outside was muted and distant. The Observatory felt suspended in air. And then, she noticed movement.

Two figures, blurred silhouettes, stood near the tall windows at the far end, backs turned to her. They were close… intimate. A soft giggle drifted through the darkness like the chime of a porcelain bell.

Juliana froze.

Another murmur followed. It was lower, teasing.

“Oh, Dominic, you are…” the lilting sweetness of the voice revealed his identity. “… wicked.”

Cassandra.

Juliana’s hand clenched the edge of a low writing table for balance, her breath catching halfway to a sob. She had heard that voice a hundred times before at teas and musicales, in drawing rooms and garden walks: Lady Cassandra Davenport, the daughter of a marquess, dazzling and ruthless in equal measure.

But there was more… a rustle of silk, then arms wrapped around a waist. Juliana could barely see through the onslaught of tears, and yet, she couldn’t tear herself away from the sight that was tearing her apart.

And then Dominic—her Dominic—leaned down.

His back curved toward the girl before him, blocking her face from view, and in one smooth, damning motion, he kissed her.

Juliana’s stomach turned to stone. She did not cry out. Not aloud, at least. She turned away blindly, slipping back out the door before her knees could give way beneath her.

The cool night air struck her cheeks like a slap, and still, she kept on walking even faster now, despite the fact that the garden was spinning as she passed the sculpted hedgerows and marble statuary. Her pulse beat a sick rhythm against her ribs, and her breath came in short, stitched bursts.

She found her mother seated in the card room, fanning herself and complaining gently about the draft.

“I’m not well,” Juliana whispered as she leaned toward her, endeavoring to remain as composed as it was possible under the circumstances. “Please, Mama. I wish to leave.”

The Countess of Garland blinked in surprise. Her daughter was never ill at a ball, but then, she seemed to notice something in Juliana’s eyes that made her rise at once. A quarter of an hour later, their carriage was rattling through the gaslit streets of London, and Juliana found herself seated beside her mother and father, heading home.

By the next afternoon, Juliana Fairfax stood at the rail of the La Belle Aimée, the ship that would carry her across the Channel. Fortunately, she already had a passport, and there was a ship already preparing to depart, all of which expedited what would otherwise have been a much lengthier process.

The water stretched endlessly before her, a dull green-gray sheet rippled by wind and salt. She had managed to convince her mother to let her go and visit her Aunt Clemmie in Calais, a quiet widow who welcomed Juliana’s vague excuse of needing rest and sea air.

She had said she needed distance. Time. A change of scenery. But what she truly needed was to forget. Forget the way Dominic’s hand curved at another woman’s waist. Forget the promise in his voice when he said he would wait for her. Forget that she had once believed a man could love her with the same fierceness she felt for him.

She was standing alone now, wrapped in a pelisse far too thin for the wind, watching the shore disappear behind her. England shrank slowly but steadily, almost like a memory retreating from her grasp.

And fortunately, with it, so did the last of her illusions.

Chapter One

“The Loxby deal is settled. They’ll begin construction by Michaelmas, provided the materials arrive in time, which they should, barring another damned strike at the Portsmouth docks.”

Dominic Wexley, the Marquess of Longwood, dropped heavily into the chair at the head of the long mahogany dining table, raking a hand through his dark hair. He reached for his water goblet with the air of a man who had spent the better part of the day in rooms that smelled of ink, dust, and sweat, not horses, which he infinitely preferred.

Across from him, his father, Arthur Wexley, the Duke of Westermore, gave a short nod, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Good. Loxby’s a sharp one. Practical. Reminds me of you, actually. But you, my boy, have a better seat in the saddle.”

Dominic gave a ghost of a smile, blue-grey eyes cool with fatigue but not without warmth. “Thank you, Father.”

“And how was the meeting with the solicitor?” his father inquired further.

“Efficient. They’ve finalized the acquisition papers for the textile mill in Lancashire. It’s not glamorous, but it’s solvent and growing. And it means another buffer if harvests fail next season.” He glanced up. “We’ll need to reinvest in transportation, though. The tolls on coal cartage alone are eating into margins.”

His father gave an approving nod, as pride flickered across his lined face. “You’ve done well. Your grandfather would’ve had us throwing fêtes while the roof caved in.”

“Or buying another cursed hunting lodge,” Dominic muttered.

His sister, Lily, leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Will you take me to see the mill someday?”

“Perhaps. But I doubt you’ll find it as thrilling as Almack’s,” Dominic replied, flicking her a rare teasing smile.

She grinned. “I should like to try thrilling things that do not smell of pomade and desperation.”

“Indeed,” Dominic confirmed. “And things which do not have the personality of a warm spoon.”

This time, Lily snorted inelegantly beside her mother, then hastily covered her lips with her napkin.

“Lily,” his mother chided, with a narrowed glance.

“Oh, do let her laugh, my dear,” the duke chimed in, clearly amused. “Dominic’s not wrong. I dined next to a lady at Lord Finnley’s ball last week and she spent twenty minutes talking about her pug’s embroidered waistcoat.”

Dominic’s mother sighed, exasperated but not unloving. “You’re all impossible. A young man cannot live on ledgers and land grants alone, you need company.”

Dominic reached for a roll. “I did once believe that. But I’ve since been disabused of the notion.”

Suddenly, his mother changed the topic. “I do hope you haven’t made plans for tomorrow evening.” She paused, her eyes traversing over everyone in the dining hall, assuring them that the statement referred to them all. “The Colvins have invited us to dinner. Small affair, just four courses, I’m told.”

Dominic took a slow sip of his drink, not looking up. “Then I hope they’ve also invited someone with a passion for the East India Company’s grain tariffs. Otherwise, I shall be of very poor entertainment.”

His mother ignored his comment, as she always did when she heard something she did not particularly like. “Cassandra will be there.”

Silence echoed louder than any words could. Dominic said nothing, so his mother seized the opportunity.

“You’ve had your time, Dominic. I granted you that, didn’t I? Two years to… grieve, recover, distract yourself with foreign tours and ledgers and coal ventures. But you’re back now. And we mustn’t leave a lady of her standing in limbo forever.”

He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light flicker through it. “The two years are not over,” he reminded her, in a voice that was calm but clipped. “I still have two months.”

His mother blinked just once, momentarily caught off guard. “Don’t be pedantic, darling. You said you needed time. I gave it to you. And Cassandra has been waiting, both patiently as well as publicly. It would be an insult to let the Season end without a formal… understanding.”

He stood then slowly, with his glass still in hand. His height always added weight to a silence, and now it pressed like thunder against the walls.

“There is no understanding,” he said evenly. “We spoke of it as a possibility, Mother. A contingency you were only too eager to dress in certainty the moment I left England. I told you I would consider her. That is all.”

“She is suitable,” the duchess said, rising to meet his eye. “And fond of you. You’ve no idea how many young women would sell their very lineage to stand in her place.”

Dominic’s jaw tensed. “That, in itself, is not a compliment for any lady’s character.”

“You need a wife, Dominic,” she said softly, almost pleading now. “A duchess. One with grace, and charm, and usefulness. You can’t simply shut yourself away forever, hiding behind business and brooding.”

I trusted someone once, he thought to himself. I believed in her, in what we were.

He exhaled slowly, with bitterness coiling in the pit of his stomach. “You think Cassandra’s patience is a virtue. I think it’s calculation. A game of waiting until I am worn down enough to say yes out of duty.” He turned back to her, blue-grey eyes colder now. “I am not worn down. Not yet.”

He headed toward the door, not stopping even when his mother’s voice reached him.

“You’ll come to dinner,” he heard her say. “At the very least, for appearances. If not for your mother, then for your name.”

He had barely left the dining hall, when the unmistakable cadence of his parents’ voices reached him. Dominic had to pause, unseen in the shadows between the two columns.

“Jane,” his father began, with that particular firmness that only surfaced when patience had run its course, “you must stop pressing him. The boy is not a pawn on a chessboard, nor are we climbing some ladder to a throne that does not exist.”

“He is the duke’s heir,” his mother returned crisply. “We do not need a throne, Arthur, only influence. And Cassandra brings it. Her connections at court, her dowry, the family name—”

“I married for love,” his father cut in, and this time, Dominic noticed his voice hardening. “You forget that.”

“I have not forgotten,” came the reply. “I remember it every day. And it has served me well. But don’t mistake your contentment for proof that love is enough. We have the land and the name, yes, but what happens when that no longer protects us? When alliances begin to matter more than titles carved on old stones?”

The man gave a scoff. “Is that what you want? To marry Dominic off to a woman he doesn’t love, just to curry favor with a court that no longer holds the same sway it once did? The girl is cold, Jane. She would wear the title like a necklace and him like a pair of gloves.”

There was a sharp exhale, almost a laugh, but not kind. “You’re sentimental,” Dominic’s mother made the same conclusion she had expressed many a time before. “And you’ve spoiled him with all your talk of finding a match like ours. We were fortunate, Arthur. But such fortune is not a legacy.”

Dominic turned away before he could hear more. His fingers were tight around the back of his neck as he moved, his steps slow and deliberate down the corridor. He felt as though his chest had been cracked open, and now, old wounds were painfully exposed to air.

He had never liked listening to people talk about him as if he were not real, as if he were just a chess piece, a lineage, a future someone else needed to mold. And yet, he had learned to wear the mask well enough. Even now, no emotion showed on his face as he stepped into the parlor.

Lily followed him quietly, the gentle swish of her gown brushing the carpet as she slipped through the parlor doorway behind him. She crossed the room without speaking and curled herself again onto the chaise, tucking her stockinged feet beneath the embroidered hem of her muslin dress.

Dominic stood at the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel as he stared into the fire. His blue-grey eyes looked carved from cold slate.

“I heard them too,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“You know she only presses harder when she thinks you’re pulling away.”

“She presses because she can’t help herself,” Dominic sighed, feeling overwhelmed. He had just returned from a long trip abroad a mere week ago, and he already felt ambushed by his mother’s plans. “She’s always been better at orchestrating futures than understanding hearts.”

Lily exhaled and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “She wants something she never had… power. And she thinks the only way to get it now is through us.” She paused. “But I don’t care if I marry a prince or a pig farmer. And I don’t think you should either.”

He turned from the fire, finally meeting her eyes. “You have more courage than I do.”

“No,” she said simply. “I’ve just never had my heart broken.”

The words hung in the air, gentle as a feather and just as heavy. Dominic looked away. He sat down in the chair opposite her, his body folding in slow, deliberate movements. He leaned back, shoulders tense beneath the cut of his dark coat, and closed his eyes.

He hadn’t spoken Juliana’s name aloud in almost two years. But her memory didn’t need a name to survive. It lingered in the echo of laughter under summer leaves, the warmth of a stolen glance across a ballroom, the press of her gloved hand in his. And then, as always, harsh reality would remind him of the inevitable truth she divulged in her letter: she had boarded a ship for France but worst of all, she had never loved him. After all, that was what she said in the note she had left him.

“I was a fool,” he said, finally, staring into the fire once more. “I thought I’d found something rare. Something real. And she—” He stopped himself. “She left.”

Lily frowned, although not unkindly. “Perhaps there was more to it.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he shrugged. “Whatever it was, she let it die. And love, Lily… love is not worth the price of being made a fool.”

She watched him for a moment, then stood and crossed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Then don’t marry Cassandra. That would be a far greater kind of foolishness.”

He didn’t respond. The fire snapped in the grate. Outside, the wind shifted through the hedges like a whispered warning. Dominic sat still as stone, surrounded by all the trappings of a comfortable life: fine wood, warm rooms, obedient duty. And he felt, not for the first time, like a man trapped beneath glass.

He had once believed love was the future. Now, he only saw it as the past. And he had no desire to go back.

Chapter Two

Juliana’s fingers paused on the clasp of the velvet jewelry roll, her breath catching for a moment as the scent of Parisian lavender drifted up from her valise. She blinked, then exhaled slowly, forcing her hands to move again, gently unfurling the familiar fabric over the dressing table.

Silver glinted at the brooch her mother had given her on her seventeenth birthday, the coral drop earrings that had once belonged to her grandmother, and the tiny gold locket she had not worn since the night she fled England.

Her throat tightened.

Behind her, Aunt Clemmie’s voice rose from the adjoining sitting room, following a rustle of papers which seemed to punctuate every observation like a fan snapping shut.

“… the Ashburys are hosting a musicale on Wednesday night, but I’ve warned your sister not to sing unless they specifically request it. And the Rutherfords… such dreadful taste in footmen, but one must attend their garden party, if only to be seen. Oh! And the Selwyns have invited us to Almack’s, quite exclusive this time. Mr. Stanhope himself sealed the envelope.”

Juliana picked up the locket, turning it over in her palm. It still bore a faint scratch across the back. It was caused by an old accident, from the days when she never took it off. She set it down, carefully, and closed the roll.

“You’re very quiet, darling,” her aunt’s voice brought her back to the present moment. “Are you listening to any of this? It’s Juliette’s Season, yes, but you cannot simply fade into the wallpaper.”

Juliana rose and crossed the room. “I am listening,” she said gently. “Only distracted.”

“Hmm.” Her aunt looked up from the pile of cream-colored cards and ribbons strewn across her writing desk like spilled sugar. “Paris has made you more serious. Or perhaps it’s the air of Garland Abbey I smell still clinging to your hem. You’ve not spent two days in London and already you look like you miss the hedgerows.”

Juliana smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I do miss them. The air felt cleaner. Less crowded.”

Her aunt gave a huff. “Clean air is rarely fashionable, my dear. And you’ll find no hedgerows at Almack’s.”

Juliana said nothing. In truth, it wasn’t the hedgerows she missed. It was the girl she had once been in them.

London had changed nothing and everything. The houses still rose pale and prim along the squares. The scent of coal smoke and rosewater still tangled in the breeze like perfume at war with soot. But she was different. She hardened where once she had been soft. She was shaped by betrayal, by silence, by the quiet ache of knowing she had chosen love, and it had chosen to vanish without a word.

Dominic.

She swallowed the name before it could rise fully in her mind. The very thought of him scraped against something tender, something not yet healed.

She crossed to the tall window and looked down into the square, where a black phaeton rolled past. She listened to the sound of its wheels ticking steadily like a clock counting out her courage.

Two years. She had thought it would be enough. She thought that the distance, the silence, the distraction of another country would dissolve the memory of him like sugar in tea.

It hadn’t.

And now here she was again, in his city, the same one she’d once dreamed of sharing with him.

“Juliana,” her aunt said, more softly now. “You know we cannot hide you forever. There will be questions. About your absence. About… the past.”

“I know,” she said, without turning.

“You’ve changed,” her aunt added. “Not in a bad way. But people will notice.”

Juliana let out a long breath. “Let them. I no longer care to be the girl they remember.”

Outside, the clouds were shifting and thickening into the slate grey of a coming spring storm. Behind her, the invitation rustled once more, and then the sound stopped altogether. Her aunt rose from her writing table and smoothed her skirt with a distracted air as she glanced toward Juliana.

“You’ll come down for tea, won’t you? I’ve told Cook to bring out those little lemon biscuits you liked from last time. Though I daresay you ate nothing in Paris but lace and air.”

Juliana turned from the window, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You exaggerate. Occasionally we added champagne.”

Her aunt gave a dry laugh. “Well, don’t let me find you fainting at your own reflection. I shall expect you downstairs in half an hour.”

She swept toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and do remember to smile, my dear. The heart of the Season is no place for ghosts.”

And with that, she was gone.

The room fell briefly still, the hush of fine house silence wrapping around Juliana like a familiar shawl. She moved to her dressing table again, brushing a few stray curls from her face, her gaze falling once more to the locket. She considered opening it, but just then, the door burst open in a flurry of pale pink muslin and joyful laughter.

“Juliana!”

Juliette bounded in like a spring breeze, with her cheeks flushed and her honey-blonde curls trailing in an excited halo around her shoulders. Behind her, Jacqueline followed at a slightly more sedate pace, her arms full of fabric swatches and ribbons.

“There you are!” Juliette cried, throwing herself onto the edge of the bed. “You disappeared entirely after luncheon. Auntie said you were arranging your things, but I suspect brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” Juliana said with an amused pout. “I reflect.”

“No, you sulk prettily,” Jacqueline added with a grin, setting the ribbons down on the bed beside her sister. “Like a tragic poem. You know, the kind that always ends with a duel and a rainstorm.”

“I am neither tragic nor poetic,” Juliana said with a light laugh, feeling some of the tightness in her chest ease as she moved to join them on the bed. “And if there is to be a rainstorm, I hope at least one of you has the good sense to pack a bonnet.”

Juliette tossed a pillow at her playfully. “Laugh all you like, but I shall be the toast of the Season, and you’ll be sorry when I’m too busy receiving sonnets and dancing with baronets to sit here and entertain you.”

“You’ll have to learn to dance in a straight line first,” Jacqueline teased.

Juliana laughed, leaning back on her elbows as she watched her sisters with an ache of fondness and something bittersweet tugging at her heart. They had grown taller, both of them. Juliette was radiant with the unselfconscious beauty of youth, and Jacqueline stood poised at that turning point between girlhood and something sharper.

But their closeness had not changed. The three of them had shared everything once, from the sun-drenched summers at Garland Abbey filled with scraped knees and secret gardens, to whispered stories under quilts by candlelight. And even now, with the weight of grown-up choices pressing around her, Juliana felt a tether hold firm between them.

“I wish you could be excited too,” Juliette said suddenly, her voice softer now, and somehow more tentative. “About being back.”

Juliana hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. “I’m excited for you,” she said honestly. “And I’m glad to be with you both again. That’s all I need for now.”

Juliette looked at her a moment longer, then smiled and gave her hand a squeeze.

“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “But if you change your mind and want to be the belle of the ball, I promise not to upstage you… too terribly.”

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. “You’ve already written your future husband’s name in the margins of your dance card and we’ve yet to attend a single ball.”

The laughter that followed was warm, easy, and familiar. It was the pleasant echo of the girls they had once been. Juliana closed her eyes briefly, letting the sound wrap around her like a balm.

For now, that was enough.

***

Some time later, after she had been granted a moment to herself, Juliana was sitting at her writing table. The sleeves of her dove-grey morning gown rolled slightly at the wrist, revealing elegant hands poised with a quill.

Now, with Juliette’s debut only weeks away, there was little time for leisure. The house was full of flurry and promise: boxes of gowns arriving from Madame Fournier, dance cards being embossed with care, and lists of eligible gentlemen perused with all the seriousness of a statesman choosing his allies.

But before attending to the modiste’s visit that afternoon, Juliana felt it her duty as well as her pleasure to write to her mother.

My dearest Mama,

We are all quite well here. The preparations for Juliette’s season proceed at a rather breathtaking pace. Aunt Clemmie has been indispensable, though naturally exasperated by Juliette’s insistence that everything be ‘charmingly simple.’ Between us, I do not think Juliette has the faintest idea of what that means.

We have secured invitations to both Lady Ferndale’s ball and the Carroways’ musicale, and Aunt Clemmie has promised to make the necessary introductions at Almack’s. I confess I feel a quiet pride seeing Juliette step into society. It seems not so long ago that she was shadowing me through the orchard in her pinafore, demanding stories of queens and highwaymen.

Jacqueline, for her part, takes great delight in all the bustle… too much delight, perhaps. She has begun sketching the gowns and declaring which colors would best suit her own complexion, though I remind her she has several years yet before her turn comes. She is a spirited child, Mama, so like you in her cleverness and fire. I find myself hoping she never loses it.

Do not worry for me. I am quite content, though I admit, the house feels quieter without your laugh in the hallways and father’s gentle hand at the reins. Still, I am doing all you would expect of me, and more where I can. You taught us duty, yes, but you also taught us joy and that is no small legacy.

Please do write soon and let me know how matters progress across the water. I pray the negotiations go smoothly, and that the expansion in Virginia brings no undue difficulty. I think of you often, especially as the rhododendrons bloom. You are missed more than I can say.

Your ever affectionate daughter,

Juliana

As she signed her name, Juliana paused a moment, letting the ink dry. She folded the letter with practiced elegance, sealing it with wax stamped by the family crest. With it went a pressed sprig of rosemary and a few petals from the first bloom of the garden’s white roses.

She rang for a footman and handed him the letter, then sat back in her chair, gazing out at the horizon. Change was in the air. She felt it like the shift in season, soft and stirring. Soon they would be in London, and Juliette would dance into a world Juliana herself had once tiptoed through, with her heart fluttering.

Her thoughts, like so many times of late, drifted to London, only not the elegant image of it she had just conveyed to her mother, but the real London. The one where drawing rooms buzzed with whispers and intentions, where the sound of carriage wheels over cobblestones could make one’s heart leap or drop like a stone, and where one foolish, thoughtless letter could change everything.

Dominic.

She exhaled, annoyed at herself even as the name echoed through her mind. It had been two years. Two seasons since she had left. Two seasons since that night, since she had seen them together. Cassandra’s pale fingers on his sleeve, his dark head inclined so near hers, a laugh, soft and low.

She had been foolish to think… to hope. And yet she had. She had believed that he looked at her differently, that perhaps all those quiet conversations, the walks in the park, the shared books and glances and silences had meant more, that she had meant more.

But after that night, and the sick, burning mix of shame and heartbreak that had followed, she had done what any proud, wounded creature would do.

She had written him.

The words came back to her now as vividly as if they still lay ink-wet on the paper: “Please do not mistake my silence for longing. It is only mercy that restrains me from speaking the truth aloud. I never loved you, Dominic. I only imagined I did. You may now consider yourself entirely free of any misunderstanding. —J”

She left the following day. Her aunt had understood, perhaps more than she’d let on, and made the necessary excuses. And she had not seen Dominic since.

She told herself she was over it. No… over him. What else could she be? Time had passed. He had not written. The wound had closed, even if the scar still ached in quiet moments like this one.

Still… he might be in Town for the season. Of course he might. For Lily, surely, for he adored his younger sister. And Juliana was fond of Lily, too. A pang of guilt struck her as she thought of the girl. Lily had written her twice. The memory of those sweet, confused notes filled with affection and worry surfaced momentarily, but Juliana had not replied.

At the very least, I owe her an explanation, she thought to herself.

Whatever lay waiting in London, she would meet it as she always did; with grace, with strength, and with her head held high. Even if her heart remained not quite so indifferent as she liked to pretend.