In the silence, Octavia moved closer to where Laurence sat. “You look worried. The lady must be a very close friend.” She paused, then added carefully, “I didn’t realize, or I wouldn’t have suggested Hugo dance with her.”
“It’s not a problem,” Laurence said absently, his thoughts still far away.
“She’s not from here, is she?” Octavia continued. “She might have a gentleman she’s engaged to back in her hometown. London, perhaps?”
Laurence’s head snapped up. “What?”
Octavia’s eyes widened slightly at his sharp tone. “I only meant—I was simply thinking that she and her sister are clearly from London originally. Quality, well-bred ladies. It would make sense if she had formed an attachment there before circumstances brought her here.”
The thought of Joan belonging to someone else—of her returning to London to marry some faceless gentleman—made Laurence’s chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to rage.
“I apologize,” Octavia said quickly. “I spoke out of turn. I simply care about you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”
She moved closer still, until she stood directly in front of him. “I worry about you, Laurence. You’ve been so alone for so long.”
She reached out toward his face, her fingers trembling slightly.
Laurence caught her wrist before she could touch him. “Be decent, Octavia.”
“What if I told you,” she whispered, “that I fancy you?”
Laurence released her wrist and stood, dislodging Archimedes, who yowled in protest. “You’re Hugo’s sister. My friend’s sister. That would be odd.”
“There are already rumors we’re engaged,” Octavia pressed. “Everyone thinks we’ll marry eventually. I mean after you,” she paused to pick her words. “After you got hurt fighting for me. Nothing would be odd about it.”
“I don’t see you that way,” Laurence said firmly. “I will never see you that way. Don’t bring this up again.”
Octavia’s eyes filled with tears. She stood frozen for a moment, then turned and fled from the room, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
She collided with Hugo in the doorway. He caught her shoulders, concern immediate on his face as he saw her tears.
“Octavia? What?—”
But she wrenched away from him and ran down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Hugo sighed heavily and stepped back into the drawing room, closing the door behind him. “She confessed to you, didn’t she?”
“I’m sorry,” Laurence said. “I didn’t realize—I never meant to lead her on?—”
“You didn’t.” Hugo waved a hand dismissively. “Octavia has harbored feelings for you since the incident. I’ve tried to discourage her, told her you didn’t return her regard, but she’s stubborn.” He took a long drink of his brandy. “I’m actually glad you finally addressed it directly. Better she hear it from you than continue nurturing false hope.”
He paused, then added with a slight smile, “Though I must ask—do you have to make every woman you reject cry? It’s becoming something of a pattern.”
Laurence didn’t smile.
Why doesn’t Joan chase me? he wondered with sudden, fierce curiosity. Every other woman I’ve encountered has either pursued me for my title or fled from my scars. But Joan simply… exists in my life.
He had felt her tremble in his arms last night. He heard her breath catch when he pulled her close.
I like her, Laurence realized with sudden, startling clarity. When did this happen? When did she stop being merely a convenient assistant and become… essential?
“Laurence?” Hugo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re doing that thing again. That brooding, intense stare that makes people nervous.”
“I’m going to see her.”
“The lady with the cold?”
“Yes.”
