“I don’t want to call you Miss Grey,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “With the manor full of your relatives, there will be numerous Miss Greys traipsing about. I’d hate to have to keep explaining which one I mean.”
“It’s fine with me if you call me Caroline.”
“Thank you, but I don’t like Caroline either. It’s too much name for you.”
She snorted with amusement. “It’s the only one I have.”
“You’re such a tiny sprite of a woman, so it doesn’t suit you. I believe I shall shorten it to Caro. Caro would be much better.”
She sighed and chuckled. “Little Caro. . .”
“Why is it funny?”
“I haven’t been thought of as Caro in a very long time. An old friend used to use Caro, and I’ve missed it.”
On their deserted island, she’d been Caro to Libby and Joanna. She’d been Caro to Captain Ralston too. The whole trip to England, she’d been Caro, but once she’d been ensconced in her grandfather’s grim, sad home, she’d been referred to correctly.
Little Caro had vanished, and quiet, bewildered Caroline had emerged instead.
They reached the end of the trees, and the house loomed in the curved driveway. It wasn’t the grandest mansion in the land, but nonetheless, it was quite imposing. Three stories high and constructed of a tan-colored stone, there were dozens of windows and a set of fancy stairs leading to the front doors.
The property had been in the family for two centuries, and under her grandfather, it had fallen into an embarrassing state of disrepair. Her Uncle Samson had swiftly rectified her grandfather’s neglect. The roof had been replaced, the window trim repainted, the chimneys modernized.
He’d permitted her to hire more servants too, so there were many more people to help maintain the enhanced condition.
She was inordinately proud of it. It was a bucolic abode, sitting in a grassy meadow with woods and hills beyond. It was the sort of pastoral scene a painter might have captured: Rural England on a Summer Day. . .
“It’s not nearly as impressive as I was expecting,” he suddenly said, then he winced. “That was a horrid comment, wasn’t it? Please pardon my awful manners.”
“You’re pardoned, but why is it less impressive than you anticipated?”
“With how Gregory waxes on, I figured it would be second only to Buckingham Palace.”
“You have to forgive him. He likes to brag.”
“Yes, he does.”
She peeked over at him, and he was standing with his feet apart, his legs straight, his hands clasped behind his back. It was how sailors stood as they balanced against the roll of the waves.
“By any chance, Mr. Ralston,” she said, “were you ever in the navy?”
“I served for over a decade. How can you tell?”
“Your posture gave you away.”
“I guess a man never really stops being a sailor.”
“Are you retired?”
“You could describe it that way.”
He didn’t add any details, leaving her with the distinct opinion that he wasn’t keen to discuss his separation from the navy.
She tiptoed out onto a limb and inquired, “I’m acquainted with a navy captain from when I was a girl. Miles Ralston? Might you be related to him?”
He pulled his gaze from the manor and stared at her for an eternity. She could practically see the thoughts flitting around as he decided how to answer.
Finally, he said, “I’ve never heard of him.”
She suspected he was lying, but why would he deny knowing Captain Ralston? She wanted to scoff with disgust. It was the sole time she’d ever uttered Captain Ralston’s name aloud, and it hadn’t proved satisfying in the least.
“Your wedding is almost here,” he said, deftly switching subjects.
“One week from today.”
“Has Gregory arrived?”
“Last night.”
“How long have the two of you been engaged? I remember him telling me it’s been a few years.”
She wasn’t about to admit that she’d agreed when she was seventeen, that she’d been waiting for Gregory to get on with it, and he’d only proceeded after significant nagging from his father. He hadn’t been very eager to become a husband. Or maybe he wasn’t eager to become her husband, which was too humiliating to consider.
“We’ve been betrothed for awhile,” she blithely replied. “We’re both busy, and there was never a reason to hurry.”
“You’re about to tie the knot. Are you excited?”
“What a strange question. Yes, I’m excited.”
“Well then. . . good. I’m happy for you.”
“Gregory and I are cousins. It’s the best ending we could have devised.”
She had no idea why she’d offered the justification, but under his heightened scrutiny, she felt a desperate need to clarify the situation. She’d consented to the betrothal when she’d been too young to wonder if she should refuse. With her having no dowry, she’d assumed she would never marry, that she’d dodder around at Grey’s Corner forever as an unwanted spinster.
Her uncle had saved her from that fate, and she’d been glad of it, but she was more mature now and more accustomed to speaking up for herself. She could have told her uncle she’d changed her mind, but she hadn’t changed it. Not really.
She was about to be a wife. It was the normal path for every woman. She’d be fine. Wouldn’t she?
The worst wave of dread swept over her, and her anxiety spiraled. She took several deep breaths, struggling to calm herself.
He studied her even more intently. “I’ve distressed you.”
“No, you haven’t. I’m just. . . ah. . . tired. We have a full house, and I’m overwhelmed by chores.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.”
“You’ve been valiantly marching toward this destiny, but you don’t have to go through with it. Not if you don’t want to.”
For the briefest instant, there was the most outlandish perception in the air, as if Time had stopped ticking so she could ponder his suggestion.
Not go through with it. . .
The words sounded so thrilling, and a potent surge of relief flooded her. She nearly twirled in ecstatic circles, but as rapidly as she was riveted by the sensation,
