Adelaide looked at her cousin. “Who?”

“Your husband.” Anna gestured with a finger, and Adelaide followed it.

Basset stood a handful of people away, watching the dancing as though it could possibly interest him. He looked nearly resplendent in his crisp evening wear; his dark hair was neatly arranged with no hint of the curling that came when it was less tended. Only Adelaide might know about that, and the knowledge of that was secretly thrilling.

He glanced over at her then, without any searching, which told Adelaide he had seen her already and knew her exact position in this room.

His dark eyes clashed with her blue ones and locked there. He did not move, he did not blink. He also did not smile.

Yet he was here.

She had not told him where she was going, or that she was going anywhere, had not even seen him to ask if he might want to join her. He had somehow discovered her plans for the evening and had come as well. Separate from her, but he had come.

Adelaide began to hope as she had never hoped in her life.

But hope for what?

Now she was seeing him, just as she’d wanted to, and it soothed an ache in her, then brought on a new one in its place—the desire to be close to him. To touch him. To hear his voice.

More than only this.

Anything more.

The music of the dance suddenly grew in its intensity, surrounding them both and sweeping across the moment as though they did dance together. As though the fog of Cornwall was seeping into the ballroom and encasing them in it while hiding all the rest as it had done once before.

Could he feel for her again what he once had? Whatever that had been? The gentle asking after her welfare, undoing the buttons of her dress to press his hand into her back at her request, sitting next to her on the piano bench, taking her hand out of habit and never failing to make her heart skip when he did so.

The way they had begun to live their lives together, not fighting but still bantering, not hating but still challenging, laughing more than they loathed, smiling more than they scoffed. She wanted that life again, knowing she could turn to him with any concern or need and he would listen. He would respect her. He would take care of her. She wanted to know that her naivete had not ruined the possibility of the rest of her marriage, the promise it held that shemight not yet fathom.

Would he come to love her? Would she come to love him? Was that in their future? Did it matter if it was?

Was whatever they felt for each other enough to overcome this mess they had created?