Splendor: A Luxe Novel
columnist, and so if one was kind to her, one could count on that kindness being returned in print.
    Carolina flirted casually with Amos Vreewold at the entryway of the second-story rosewood-paneled drawing room, and his reputation for rather familiar compliments did not disappoint.
    When she couldn’t stand it any longer she broke from the throng and stepped toward the south-facing windows. The fragrant summer city smelled of heat and leaves and vaguely, not entirely unpleasantly, of animal. There were horses below, beside her guests’ drivers, who waited, and would wait some more, probably until the very advanced hour of the morning when the party, to everybody’s disappointment, ended. Carolina took what seemed her first breath in a long while, and then she did something she did almost every day, and some days every hour: She permitted her eyes to drift down the block, to a limestone mansion with the number 18 carved into its impressive face. That was where Leland Bouchard lived—at least, when he was in town, which had not been the case for several months.
    For a moment she’d let herself hope that he had finally returned, but now she saw the windows were just as dark and inscrutable as they had been for months. She swallowed dejectedly, and her shoulders file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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    slumped. Leland was supposed to have arrived from Europe two days before—Carolina knew because his departure from Paris had been announced in the society column. It was the whole reason she had decided to have her party that evening; it was the whole reason she had chosen this particular house on this particular block in the first place. But then stormy seas had delayed his ship, and he had not returned in time to attend the opening of her house after all.
    They had shared a few perfect days together in Florida—all swooning and dancing—but that was back in February. Once or twice she had imagined the words Marry me on his lips, although of course that would have been very quick indeed. When she last saw him, it was in New York and the winter had still been bitter, and she’d believed herself a ruined girl. Since then she had become very rich, truly rich—all her greatest fears had blown over. Now she dreamed every night of the moment when he’d finally walk through her doors and witness her in all her glory. Waiting was painful, and the only thing to assuage it was to look dolefully from her south-facing windows at his house, willing the lights to flicker on.
    “Why, Miss Broad, whatever are you staring at?”
    Carolina turned too quickly to disguise the blush on her cheeks. Penelope Schoonmaker was approaching, long and shimmering and bedecked in her old vermilion glory, which had not been on such generous display since her little “illness” of late spring. Miss Broad blinked and kissed Mrs. Schoonmaker on either cheek. Although Carolina’s presence in Penelope’s bridal party that past New Year’s Eve had announced the former as a young lady of sound importance, they were not the kind of friends who liked to show one another their vulnerabilities. The only person who knew the depth of Carolina’s feelings for Leland was her older sister, Claire, who still worked as a maid for the Hollands and who savored any small tidbit of her younger sister’s life among the fashionable people. But of course life was very busy, for an heiress anyway, and the sisters hadn’t been able to have one of their secret meetings in some weeks. Or was it months?
    “Your house is exceptionally good,” Mrs. Schoonmaker remarked after a moment. The two regarded each other like wary allies. Carolina was gratified to see that Penelope’s best diamonds dripped from her slender neck and across her alabaster décolletage, and that her oval face had been made up with prodigious care. It was obvious, to the hostess and everybody else, that she had not taken the evening casually.
    “You must
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