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S ometimes what we truly want has been in our grasp all along.

Celia couldn’t rid herself of that thought. It clung to her, like the summer heat refusing to break. How had she not seen it before? Or rather, had she simply refused to see it?

Barnaby had always been there—steady, familiar, a presence she could rely on without question.

He had been her confidant, her partner in mischief, the one who knew her moods before she even spoke a word.

But never, not once, had she dared to wonder why they were so comfortable and effortless with each other.

And yet, last night, as well as during her conversation with the marquess, she was forced to face the truth—that she had never been indifferent to him.

That perhaps she had spent years convincing herself that what they shared was nothing more than friendship, when in reality, it had always been something deeper, something waiting to be acknowledged.

But now, what were they supposed to do? What was she supposed to do? Because everything had changed, and they could not return to how they were before. Which brought her to the thought she couldn’t bear to consider—did he regret it?

She had been avoiding him all day, but now that she was looking for him, it appeared he was avoiding her, too.

The possibility sent a sharp slice through her chest. Ah, the irony of it. Because the one thing more terrifying than facing the truth... was facing it alone.

She loved Barnaby Westbrook.

She had always loved him.

Beads of sweat gathered on the palm of her hand.

She was about to confess.

And she still didn’t know how exactly to word it. Barnaby, my friend, I love you. I love you, Barnaby. I didn’t realize it for years and years, but suddenly I love you.

Urgh.

Celia sighed.

She finally found him in his study, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up again, cravat disregarded on the desk, an arm slung over his face as he leaned back into his chair. He lifted his arm when she entered, seeming to freeze as his eyes fell on her.

She inhaled deeply.

“Barnaby.”

“Celia.”

She stared at him, mind racing for what to say, heart hammering against her ribs. Perhaps she should have waited. Should she just leave? No. Utterly out of the question.

“I saw you with the marquess earlier.”

His observation startled her. “Oh, yes. He came by for a brief exchange.”

“A brief exchange,” he murmured. “I see.”

Well, Celia didn’t. She couldn’t make sense of his tone. He didn’t sound anything like the old Barnaby. But she had to forge on. She had a purpose. First, “Have you been avoiding me?”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “Yes. The same as you. Seems we’re quite the pair.”

Ah Lord, this wasn’t good, was it?

And rather hypocritical of her to ask, she supposed.

Come on, Celia! You’ve been friends for years. Conversation is easiest thing between you.

She shifted on her feet before stepping fully into the room. The study smelled like him—ink, parchment, a hint of something warm and familiar. She pressed her damp palms against her skirts, inhaling deeply. “Barnaby, I—”

He suddenly rose to his feet, cutting her off, “There’s no need for us to discuss what happened at the lake.”

Every bone in her body froze. “No... no need?”

He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “I’d rather not rehash that mistake.”

Her heart seized. Mistake?

“Mistake,” Celia repeated dumbly.

He nodded. “Of course, I’ll take responsibility, should you wish it. Otherwise, let us consider the matter forgotten. I’ve already put it from my mind.”

The world shifted beneath her feet.

Take responsibility should you wish it... I’ve already put it from my mind.

Celia flinched, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he was determined not to. Words failed her.

“I think we can both agree we succumbed to a moment of madness.” He stopped, jaw tightening. “We weren’t thinking.”

“Weren’t thinking...” Celia echoed blankly, her whole body going cold.

His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. “Exactly. For our friendship’s sake, let’s forget about this whole damn weekend.”

*

What the hell had he done?

What the hell had he said?

How many hours had passed since she left his study?

No. That wasn’t important now. How the hell was he ever going to take it all back?

Barnaby pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, his breath coming unevenly.

The words had barely left his mouth before he knew— knew —they were the wrong ones.

And he wanted to take it all back. The moment the door shut after Celia, deep regret settled into his soul.

His heart had bled at the sight of her retreat, because he had realized something profound in that moment.

He loved her.

He didn’t want to remain just friends. He wanted to be with her. Every single day of his life.

She doesn’t want that.

Right.

She’d told him to forget the kiss on the masquerade ball. It was only natural that she would wish to forget the mistake at the lake. Only, he couldn’t see it a mistake in his heart.

Damnation.

This was going to drive him crazy.

He had spent years existing in the comfort that their friendship was all it was meant to be, never daring to look closer, never daring to acknowledge the possibility that had always been there, waiting, biding its time. And now, in the heat of foolishness, he had ruined everything.

Should he have demanded they marry?

At the very least she’d be at his side every day, hopefully, instead of this distance that he already loathed growing between them.

“Barnaby!” His mother marched into his study like a matron on a war path, and he barely had time to school his brows before her sharp eyes locked onto him. “What have you done?”

What had he done? Nothing. Well, nothing obvious. “I do not take your meaning, Mother.”

His mother arched a brow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course.” It could be anything.

“Then why has Cecelia left?”

Barnaby turned into a block of ice. Celia left? That couldn’t be right, could it?

His mother was studying him as if he were a caught child who could stand to learn a lesson. “You’ve made a mess of things, haven’t you?”

“Why should you assume I made a mess of things?”

“Are you really going to take that tone with me? Of course you are the one who has made a mess of things. Celia is a sensible girl. You’ve been friends for years. If you hadn’t said or done something to offend her, she’d never have left.”

He hadn’t done anything she didn’t want, hadn’t skipped over anything she did want. Had he?

Did you ask her?

Damnation.

She would have told him, wouldn’t she?

Ever since the night of the masquerade ball, his world had begun to unravel, thread by maddening thread. Never in his life had he been left with so many confounding questions that he had no hope of answering. Not without her.

And she had left.

Barnaby exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

His mother sighed. “Whatever you did, Barnaby, make it right. Before you regret it forever.”

Regret it forever.

Those three words sent another sharp dagger-like stab through his chest. Yes, if he didn’t do something—if he didn’t fix this—she might never come back.

By God, no. What would he do then?

He needed to find Celia and confess his heart.

“When did she leave?”

“An hour ago, I believe.” His mother glanced out the window to the darkened clouds. “A storm is brewing, but I no matter what I said, she refused to stay.”

Then, he would just have to bring her back.

And pray he hadn’t lost her for good.

Barnaby dashed from the room.