Caroline, equally glad to retreat into the seclusion of her bedchamber, let her maid help her prepare for bed in near silence, which the tirewoman put down to exhaustion. Her only sign of animation was when she objected to the removal of the very slightly wilting flowers of her corsage. After the woman had left, Caroline carefully extracted the blooms. She then tore a piece of tissue paper that encased her best gown in her linen press, and gently wrapped the flowers and pressed them between the pages of a book of poetry, which was rather thin, and weighed it down further with two romances on loan from Hookham’s Library. She would keep those flowers, and they would always be a reminder of tonight, whatever befell. She sniffed, and climbed back into bed and covered her face with her hands. She wept. She wept from a mixture of supreme happiness, disbelief and a desperate fear that all her hopes would be blighted and her life ruined.

Lord Martley was the nicest of men, the best of men. He was not perfect, she told herself, but did not believe it, for he was perfect – perfect for her. He was happy and non-judgemental, not some man who would forever be correcting a ‘little fault’ or mistakes in her; he made her feel safe, and alive and … He was good looking, no, handsome. He stood straight and not so tall as to be lanky and his eyes were full of kindness and laughter. When she was with him the world was bright, and life was exciting.

He had as good as declared himself, been daring and yet circumspect, darling man that he was. He was going to find a way that they could be together, and she hoped, prayed, that he would but … Fate would keep them apart, or rather Mama and Lady Pirbright would do so. He would make every effort, but she could see herself being torn from his arms and forced into marriage with some unnamed but obviously old and tyrannical brute. The fact that she had not encountered anyone even vaguely matching that description did not matter. His aim seemed like some impossible quest. She took a deep breath, which was half sob. He was going to do this for her, so she too must be brave, and help him. At first she could think of no way in which she might assist, but then realised that if Mama guessed their attachment, all would be lost. She must therefore behave as if Lord Martley meant no more to her than any other gentleman. This would be exceptionally difficult, but a Test of Love. She must also, of course, let her Love know that her outward appearance of disinterest was in fact a cloak about a heart that beat only for him. Deception was not something that came easily to Caroline Felbridge, but she resolved to try her very best.