The long driveway hadn't changed at all. As the carriage rolled toward the towering exterior of Nicholas's parents' country home, the last two years dissolved under its austere presence. The dutiful second son was returning home from time spent abroad, and everything would be exactly as before. Why did the thought irritate him?

The entire household was arrayed to greet him. Nicholas's parents hadn't changed, either, but he hadn't expected them to. Their rigid postures greeted him with timeless familiarity. Lord and Lady Wakefield had dedicated their entire lives to presenting the stolid, dignified air of respectable English nobility. Returning home to find them changed ... now, that would have been truly unsettling.

Nicholas waited for the footman to open the door. Haste was for the unmannered and the imprudent.

He stepped down from the carriage, stopping in front of his parents to deliver a formal bow to each in turn. "Lord Wakefield, Lady Wakefield."

"It is lovely to see you again, Nicholas." It was the equivalent of an emotional outburst, coming from his mother.

He was careful not to let his smile cross into unseemly joy. "And you as well, Mother."

Formalities observed, there wasn't much else to say. Nicholas followed his parents up the steps, through the grand double doors, and into the foyer. Smithson took his hat and gloves with an echoing sameness. No, nothing had changed at all.

Nothing except Nicholas.

At the foot of the grand staircase, his mother stopped. "Tea will be served in the south drawing room, after you are settled."

Nicholas nodded. "Of course. I won't be long."

He didn't take the stairs two at a time. That would have raised eyebrows.

A wash basin was waiting in his room. He used it as an excuse to strip off his morning coat and waistcoat. The starchy cravat landed on top of them on the four-poster bed as he rolled his shirt sleeves up. It was only after he pushed the window up in the casement, letting in the cool Berkshire breeze, and sprawled out in the armchair beside it, that he truly could breathe.

Home. It was supposed to fill one with a sense of comfort and nostalgia, wasn't it? Instead, the cold formality of this house filled Nicholas with a longing to be somewhere else. If anyone asked — not that anyone would — Nicholas could claim he was missing the winding streets of Paris or breathtaking frescos of Rome.

In reality, his longing had only ever led him to one place: the estate hidden behind the tree line that separated Wakefield lands from their nearest neighbor.

France and Italy had been fine distractions, but still, always, his thoughts returned to the Bishop family home, and to one Bishop in particular. Amelia might have remained in England, but her specter had walked every step of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées at his side. Even a construct of his imagination was better than being without her — even if it was equally incapable of returning his affections.

"Lord Nicholas?"

"Come in, Bertram."

The arrival of his valet, and the accompanying footmen with their luggage, marked the end of his musings. Once Bertram had the first trunk opened, Nick pulled two packages off the top of the neatly folded clothes. The first was a stack of letters.

During school, Nick had developed a habit of writing to Amelia every day. He'd tried to when he was away this time, but the romance of Paris had seeped into his words and he hadn't had the courage to send them to her. He tucked them away in a drawer of the desk that sat in the corner of his room. Better to wait until he could be sure they would be well received. And he would be sure. Being away from Amelia for so long ...

He went back to the window, staring at the tree line. In Paris, he'd discovered what was important to him. More than his parents' approval, more than the fear that Amelia wouldn't feel the same for him, he needed to declare himself and find out once and for all if she felt the same.

The second package might help his cause. Nicholas picked up the slim book with its unassuming blue cover. It was a first edition collection of sonnets on love that defied distance and time. The little shop he'd found it in would have made Amelia dizzy with excitement if she had been there.

"Shall I lay out a new shirt, sir?"

"Better make it a full change, Bertie."

Looking his best for his visit to the Bishop household would help quell the nervousness that had taken up residence under his skin at the thought of seeing Amelia again.

Although, he'd have to spend some time with his parents first. They were expecting him for tea and he was once again ensconced in Wakefield Manor, monument of familial responsibility. The freedom he'd found during his absence had made him see things differently. For a time, he wasn't just a second son, subject to the whims of his parents and elder sibling. For a time, he'd been able to live the way he wanted (within reason) without anyone frowning their disapproval over the breakfast table. It had been glorious.

Now he'd been summoned back. After the first year passed with no such request, Nicholas had begun to doubt it would ever come. Perhaps they'd forgotten about him. Perhaps they'd been as relieved to have him go as he was to be gone. While the second thought had come with an unexpected sting, it had quickly dissipated under the joyful possibility that his bohemian holiday might be permanent.

The letter had not explained why he was being asked to return. For all Nicholas knew, they could be commissioning him to the army or commending him to the clergy, though he strongly doubted it. No Wakefield — even a second son Wakefield — need do something as vulgar as taking on a profession.

"Ready, Lord Nicholas?"

"Not in the slightest, but I have every faith I will look impeccable for whatever awaits me." Nicholas slid the book into the inside pocket of his jacket and went down.

He took the grand staircase back to the ground floor and made his way to the south drawing room. It overlooked the large manicured lawn that dominated the southern end of the grounds, which ended at the tree line. The Bishop estate was completely hidden from view — a deliberate work of the last nineteen years, tirelessly undertaken by the grounds crew under the direction of Lady Wakefield.

When his mother saw the direction of his glance, her mouth tightened. His father observed very little except the pages of the periodical his face was hidden behind.

"Markets treating you well, Lord Wakefield?" Nicholas sat down in the wingback chair that matched his father's.

"Fine, fine."

They lapsed into silence, broken only by the clinking of teacups and his mother's politely innocuous commentary. Eventually, though, they had no choice but to come to the point.

"Your father's not well."

At first, he thought he misheard. Nicholas's parents had both always been in the peak of health. A Wakefield would never be so inconsiderate as to be burdensome. "Excuse me?"

His father appeared to agree. Lord Wakefield set down his paper and frowned at his wife. "Lavinia."

"No, Arthur. You agreed to bring him home. It's time to tell him."

Lord Wakefield sighed. "It's nothing, really. I'm not infirm. I just —"

"He forgets things," Lady Wakefield said bluntly. "And he has trouble making decisions."

Nicholas froze, still holding his teacup....