“There is a stone bench in the back,” he said. “If you could wait there.”
She strode the path to the back and found the bench. She sat and waited. She could not see the house well from here. After a few moments, she saw the crown of a dark head coming toward her. Slowly, the rest of that head came into view. The dark curls. The gray eyes. The face she adored.
Charles.
She smiled and her eyes misted. She did not bother to wipe them. There was no shame in happiness.
He smiled back. She just looked at him, allowing his presence to fill in her memories. His face had grown firmer. Harder. Well, five years made a difference in a young man. He’d only been eighteen when she last saw him. She probably looked very different too. His dark hair had been dressed as fashionably unruly, and his long frock coat showed the fitted sleeves and broad lapels popular in Paris. His eyes—She remembered them full of joy and impish humor. Now their pale color looked opaque and . . . older.
“Rosamund.”
It was only when he said her name that she realized he had been standing silently in front of her for some time.
“I expect you are surprised.” She had to battle the urge to dance over to him.
“Stunned. What are you doing here?”
A slight misgiving wormed its way into her excitement. “I am visiting Paris and decided to call. It has been so long since I saw you.”
He took a few steps towards her. “A very long time. I almost did not recognize you.”
“Surely I haven’t changed so much.”
“Not very much. Still lovely.” His gaze drifted down. “You have done well for yourself.”
“I have, much to my surprise.”
Again that long gaze, as if he calculated the cost of her ensemble. She could no longer ignore that he remained very reserved. Distant. Hardly delirious with joy.
He looked down, and she realized he held her card and was looking at the address.
“Is this your home now?”
“Yes, I have a house in London.”
“Do you now.” Not a question.
“Is this your house?” she asked, looking through the garden to the high-pitched roof.
“Only some chambers. They suit me, however.”
“More than your parents’ home in London?”
“Much more than that. We get on quite well now, with them there and me here.”
“You plan to remain here? Forever?”
“Until my father passes, at least. I like Paris. Whether I will enjoy it as much when I am older—” He shrugged. “What did you do after they threw you out? I always felt guilty about that.”
“I found service in another house.”
“With no references?”
“There are always those willing to take on a girl if the pay is low enough.”
He frowned at that. Once more, he assessed her. “And here I worried that you would fall victim to men who prey on pretty servant girls.”
Something in his tone quelled her enthusiasm in a blink. A judgmental inflection suggested he had not worried at all, but now wondered. “You mean men like you, Charles?”
That took him aback. “I suppose I deserved that. But you were hardly unwilling.”
“We were in love. That makes it different.”
“Young men are always in love if the girl is pretty. You know that by now, I expect.”
Her heart thickened. It was all she could do to hide how his words devastated her. How cruel she found them.
“Are you here with your sister?” he asked.
“No. Lily is in a school.”
“You can’t be traveling alone.”
“Actually, I am.”
“I doubt that.”
She paced a bit closer to him. He had not moved much. He remained close to the end of the path, as if he needed to have the means of a quick escape. What had he worried about when he saw that card? That she had brought him a love child? That she wanted to demand payment of some kind? He certainly had not shouted with joy, if his manner now was any indication.
This was not the welcome she had expected. Not the man she thought she knew. While she stood there, watching him, seeing his caution and indifference, the dream disappeared.
It did not shatter or burst. It simply ceased to exist, and she was an old, forgotten lover who had intruded into a man’s new life.
Young men are always in love if the girl is pretty.
Dear heaven, she had been a fool to come here. And a bigger one to have thought what they shared was love. She had merely been the convenient servant girl who was pretty enough.
Her heart hurt so much that it left her breathless. She wanted to crumble and fall to her knees and weep to relieve the pain. Instead, she held her composure. Somehow, her voice was clear when she spoke.
“I am traveling independently. However, my journey has been aided by a friend who is familiar with France and Paris, so I am not left completely adrift in a foreign country.”
“A friend in Paris? Perhaps I know this friend.”
“Not an inhabitant of the city. A friend from London.” She hesitated, but wanted to let Charles know just how well she had done recently. “Mr. Kevin Radnor. He visits Paris often enough that perhaps you have met him all the same.”
“Radnor?”
She took some solace in his surprise. His shock. It did nothing to ease the pain, but it helped her pride.
“That is Hollinburgh’s family.”
“His cousin. I have had the pleasure of meeting the duke. I know the family quite well.”
He smiled broadly, and for one exquisitely painful moment looked just like the Charles she remembered. “You have done very well for yourself, Rosamund. Paris trips. Your sister in a school.” He lifted the card. “A fine address. I thought perhaps you had come to castigate me for my indiscretions with you. Now I think you made this call to thank me.”
“It is not what you think.” I made this call because I loved you and held the memories close for five
