Chapter 4

4

London, 1874

Nine years later

Silence permeated through the rooms of the sprawling townhouse after midnight, smothering even the soft ticking of the clock. Caroline paced the bedchamber, her thoughts crashing together – memories, conversations, a relationship tangled and tossed. She thought back to her and Julian’s childhood, when friendship came easy. To the early days of their marriage, when passion still burned hot.

Before all the grief that came after.

Before the open grave of the last near-decade.

And then, music – the first strains of a familiar melody plucked from the keys of a piano. Caroline froze, listening, rediscovering the shape of a song she had not heard since girlhood.

Before she realised she was moving, her feet had carried her out into the corridor, the floorboards silent beneath her bare soles. Drawn towards the sitting room by some invisible tether woven of memories and might-have-beens.

At the door, she hesitated, peering through the crack at Julian, his shoulders hunched as his fingers danced across the ivory keys. His eyes were closed, lost in some private memory. The song had layered complexity beneath its simple structure, rich and textured, speaking of things lost and found again. Caroline shut her eyes too, swept back through the years to girlhood afternoons in the grounds of Ravenhill. Back when his music was a gift just for her.

And now she listened to his music as if for the first time. As if she knew him and yet knew nothing at all, this man she married but who had become a stranger to her.

The melody crested and faded, the final notes hanging tremulously in the air between them. An ache bloomed in her chest as she opened her eyes to find him watching her in the darkness, shadows carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. His gaze was remote, the silence heavy with years of distance.

Turning away, Caroline retreated to the bedchamber. She lay between cold sheets, her thoughts too loud in the hush. Who were they to each other now? Not friends. Not lovers. Not even husband and wife, except as lines on a contract.

Only two strangers drifting alone in the wreckage left by time.

Sometime later, the door opened and closed again, stirring eddies in the silence. She held her breath as soft sounds marked his preparation for bed – the rustle of clothing, the silhouette of his frame in the darkness. He stood over her, silent. She listened to his breathing and waited for him to speak, wondering what she would say in return. Their hearts pounded together. They breathed together.

But no words came.

After a moment, he turned away, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he slid beneath the sheets. Not touching, the yawning chasm between them wider than any ocean. Too many years, too much left unsaid to bridge with one tentative hand.

So they lay side by side in silence, strangers bound by vows turned brittle with neglect.

*

Caroline woke slowly, blinking against the morning light. Without looking, she knew the other side of the massive four-poster would be empty. Cool and untouched. Julian had slipped into her bed and slithered out again before the sun could catch him there beside her.

Of course.

Downstairs, the sounds of the house stirring to life filtered through the floorboards – the muffled clink of china as the maids readied tea, the soft susurration of servants speaking. Caroline threw back the covers and rose. After washing and dressing for the day, she lingered over breakfast.

She wasn’t avoiding anything, she told herself. Certainly not him. But the moments alone settled her nerves. Fortified her.

Eventually, her procrastinating ran its course. As she passed the open study door, the silhouette of Julian’s dark head bent over his desk arrested her steps. Morning light slanted through the windows, limning him in gold. He looked like something from a portrait – shirt collar undone, black hair falling across his forehead.

“Admiring the view or contemplating murder?” He didn’t bother lifting his gaze from his writing.

A flush scalded her cheeks at being caught staring. “I reserve my murderous impulses for mornings when I awake to cold tea and burnt toast. I was just beginning to doubt whether you still had a voice at all, as you couldn’t be troubled to offer a greeting.”

At that, Julian cut his pale eyes towards her, ice blue and assessing. “And here I thought you were the one making impressions, looming in doorways. Do come in if you mean to stare at me all morning.”

Caroline felt a reluctant smile threaten. “There it is. That infamous Hastings arrogance.”

“Just giving you ample opportunity to admire.” Julian held out his hand. “Come here.” His voice was like silk. Smooth. Lethal.

Caroline’s breath snagged in her throat, nerves and anticipation tangling together. She approached cautiously, hesitant to get too close. To let her guard down. He’d already flayed her open with his music, and she’d just managed to don armour again.

He caught her fingers in his and drew her to his side. “There now. You keep looking at me as though you expect I might bite, and I regret my promise if it makes you so uneasy in your own home.”

Promise. The word was a knife sliding bloodlessly between her ribs.

“Your promise to behave as a proper husband?”

“Yes,” he said, very softly. “That promise.”

Silence stretched between them – not the easy quiet of the past, but a tense, thorny thing. Just like his music, comprised of sharp edges that she suspected he wanted her to feel.

She cleared her throat. “Are you going out today?”

Julian’s shoulders tensed beneath his shirt and then he withdrew his hand. “No. I’ve business to finish while I’m still in town.”

Dismissal. It rankled even as unwanted heat curled low in her core at his nearness, the clean scent of soap and skin. Once, she might have perched on the edge of his desk, stealing kisses until he laughed and pulled her into his lap.

Now, an ocean of loss separated them.

“Of course.” She struggled to keep her tone light. Her gaze drifted to the papers on his desk, desperate for neutral ground. “Cryptography? That’s your business?”

“A private project for an acquaintance.”

Another dismissal, sharper than the first. Caroline bit her lip, fighting the urge to goad him. To pierce his poise and provoke a response beyond indifference. Better fury than silence. Better broken glass than distance.

She couldn’t bring herself to anger him. Not when the ghost of his touch still whispered along her skin.

She leaned in to study the topmost page. “The code is more complex as it goes on?”

The faint scent of his shaving soap teased her senses. Julian’s focus caught on her hand, where she trailed a nail along the cypher’s edge. His eyes went dark, throat working on a hard swallow that made triumph surge in her veins.

Good. Do you remember how brightly we burned?

“Yes, but I can’t determine the inconsistencies at the beginning—” Julian’s words ended on a sharp inhale as her hip accidentally brushed his arm. Electric awareness sizzled in the scant space left between them.

Caroline’s face heated, but she kept her tone composed. “Have you studied International Morse?”

His eyes lifted to meet hers. “I beg your pardon?”

Her next words tumbled out in a nervous rush. “International Morse code. Have you studied it?”

“No,” he said shortly, clearly not interested in a discussion. “Only American Morse.”

“Well, the international code incorporated additions from Herr Gerke and Herr Steinheil, and German umlaut vowels are used to refine the alphabet, and someone has cleverly employed the international code within the enciphered message. So you might borrow one of the books from my library and inform yourself.”

Julian stared at her for a long moment, his guarded expression cracking into surprise. “I wasn’t aware you still practised code-breaking. I thought you might have stopped after…”

After.

After us.

She squared her shoulders, donning a mask of casual indifference. “When my duties permit. Of course, never anything as interesting or complex as your vulgar letters written in code.”

His expression tightened, and his gaze dropped back to the codes. “I suppose I gave you plenty of practice.”

“You did,” she said tightly. But Julian’s coded letters today were none of Caroline’s concern. She had appearances of her own to maintain now, pretences that did not include a man who had shed her like a snake’s old skin. “I’ve been invited to Thornfield House tonight for Lady Arundel’s birthday.”

Julian did not glance up from his work. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

Ever the proper gentleman. As if she couldn’t hear the reluctance beneath his offer.

“No. The seats have been decided. If you’ve read the gossip sheets, you’ll know my cousin, the Earl of Montgomery, married my friend Lydia Cecil recently, and I intend to congratulate them on their new marriage. I’m giving you fair warning that this will be my last social engagement attended alone until you quit this house, board your boat, and do whatever it is you intend to do to avoid me.”

It was petty, but the words grounded her somehow – an anchor in choppy waters. For the span of a heartbeat, Julian’s composure cracked, echoes of shared grief and loss flashing raw across his face. Caroline’s breath caught at the glimpse of the man she once knew, the wound that had never healed.

But Julian looked away. “Then enjoy your evening,” he said.

Dismissing her yet again.

Biting back angry words, Caroline turned on her heel. But before she could storm from the room, his voice stopped her.

“Caroline.”

Something dark and fragile strained his tone. She waited, body coiled tight.

“Remove the tulips.”

The words were a slap – a reminder of their final exchange eight years ago. Caroline turned her attention to the vase of flowers on the edge of the desk. One she kept there every day as a reminder.

“You used to bring me tulips every day,” she said. “For months. Because you knew they were my favourite.”

When the hurt had been so sharp, Caroline had wanted to tear him to shreds with her parting words.

I don’t want you bringing me flowers or telling me about the weather. I can’t bear the sight of you.

Don’t come back. Stop visiting. Just get out and leave me alone.

A pause, weighted. His knuckles were white around his pen. “Please.”

The single word severed the fragile threads of the moment. Her jaw clenched. Without another word, she grasped the vase and left, the door clicking shut behind her.