Two years.
It had been two long years since he had last seen her, the woman who had haunted his dreams.
She had been sixteen then, a charming waif of a girl, but on the cusp of womanhood—her blue eyes shining, golden curls swept up in an elegant twist, and lips curled in a bright smile that could warm even the darkest of hearts.
He did not know why he was so drawn to her—after all, the assembly rooms in Bath boasted numerous eligible beauties to catch his fancy—but ever since he had noticed her spiritedly dancing with his friend Stefan, laughing at some nonsense the other man had said, he wished to know more of her.
Stefan had most conveniently introduced them in between sets, and in a moment of uninhibited weakness, he had asked her to dance with him.
One dance became two, which became an evening at the Salvatore residence playing cards, which became a night at the opera, a stroll in the gardens, a turn out in an open carriage enjoying the sunshine.
His days had never been happier.
But duty, as it so often does, interfered.
Mikael, ever the aggrandizing socialite patriarch, had forbidden him from pursuing her— her meager fortune and low connections in society made her unworthy of the Mikaelson name and wealth.
And so, his father did everything in his power to separate him from her.
First, it was business. Mikael placed him in charge of their estate in Kent, and dealing with the tenant farmers and numerous village folk surrounding their property was no small task.
Still, he wrote to her often, talking of his rides through the countryside, the trifling gossip from the village.
She wrote back, telling him of her walks into the village, practicing the pianoforte, spending evenings laughing with her friends.
One day, nearly a year ago, when he had moved back to his home in London with the rest of his family, her letters had suddenly stopped.
A few weeks afterward, he discovered his father burning a stack of unopened letters in his study, an expression of cruel triumph contorting his face.
Then, it was Tatia Pierce. The daughter of a countess with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, he might have once found her beautiful—many in his circle certainly thought so, Stefan included—but she had not the same light laugh, nor the vivacious joy of her. Still, he was forced to be attentive and flatter her, offering her his arm when they were out in society, enduring her vapid disposition and capricious flirting all the while wishing he were hundreds of miles away in a little neighborhood in Devonshire.
He wondered if she had married.
The thought tormented him for more days and nights than he could count.
His father and mother both urged him to propose to Miss Pierce—but he could not, and never would, love her or respect her.
Fortunately for him, Elijah was much more suited to that task.
After their marriage, he was finally free.
But he doubted.
Would she even want to see him, after so much time apart? She must be angry with him, for staying away for so long.
He couldn't bear it if she despised him.
So he returned to Kent permanently, trying desperately to forget her and her hold on his heart.
But the very last place on earth he had expected to find her again was at his little sister's coming out ball at their residence in London. He had not seen Rebekah nor the rest of his family in months, and knew little of her circle of friends.
If only he had been warned…
He was frozen, immutable, standing in the middle of the crowded ballroom and drinking in the vision of loveliness before him.
The same winsome face and fine eyes that had entranced him so long ago was crinkled in mirth, the few curls dangling down from her bun swaying as she threw her head back, laughing at the dark-haired man in regimentals who stood in front of her, his hand encasing hers in a familiar manner.
His heart had never been more broken.
But he had to see her. Nothing on this earth would stop him from hearing her voice once more, and seeing her lovely eyes directed at him.
Stealthily, he inched his way towards her, never removing his eyes from her face.
To his great luck, the dark-haired man took his leave of her just as he reached her, leaving her very much alone for the moment.
He seized the opportunity while her back was to him.
"Might I have the first dance, Miss Forbes?"
He watched with some satisfaction as she stilled, then turned around slowly to face him.
His breath caught in his throat. He had sketched her likeness countless times, but even his sharp memory and deft fingers did her no justice.
Genuine beauty.
"Lord Mikaelson," she breathed, barely concealing her shock and curtsying gracefully as he bowed before her. "I—yes, you may." She smiled, but he could easily detect the pain she tried so very hard to mask.
He remained silent, offering her his arm to lead her to her place in the set. He could feel her light warmth even through her white silk gloves and the slight pressure of her hand on his arm.
The musicians struck up their tune, an appropriately melancholy melody. They danced gracefully towards each other; their hands met and clasped in the center, and he recalled with a burst of emotion that very first dance in Bath, when they had talked of anything and everything with such ease.
Now, so much lay between them, waiting to be said.
He chanced a glance at her from the corner of his eye. A slight frown creased her lovely brow, her face grave, yet not angry, as he had feared. He knew that look, a consequence of her natural tendency to stubbornness. She would not be the first to speak.
He took the hint, and when his courage was high, he spoke.
"Is you family in good health, Miss Forbes?"
"Yes, they are, thank you."
"I am glad to hear it. I confess I am surprised to see you here of all places. May I ask how you have come to know my sister?"
"We met a few months ago through a mutual acquaintance—Miss Elena Gilbert, a dear friend of mine from childhood." She gave a small smile. "Rebekah is a very affectionate and lively friend to me. I remember how you talked of her often, and how much you loved and esteemed must be so proud of her and her success tonight."
"I am," he concurred, circling around her as the dance required, making certain to remain as close to her as possible without overstepping the bounds of propriety. "There is one woman however whom I hold in much higher regard than my sister. One whose intelligence and beauty and affection I have desired for far too long."
"Nik…"
"Caroline."
It was the first time he had spoken her name aloud in two years. He had almost forgotten the taste of her name rolling off of his tongue—sweet, and soft, yet strong.
A fitting name for so lovely a woman.
"You left," she said quietly. He could see the sorrowful glint in her eyes, and it cut him deeply. "I wrote to you, and you stopped."
She stated matter-of-factly, but there was no mistaking the implicit question.
"I know, and I am sorry. Circumstances prevented me from continuing our correspondence."
"Miss Pierce," she nodded in understanding, the barest hint of jealously seeping into her tone. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed in accusation. "But, if I may speak plainly, she has been married to you brother for at least three months now. Could you not have written to me then?"
His shame deepened.
He had been weak. Cowardly. He had presumed she had forgotten him, and did not seek her out because of his own fear of her rejection.
At that moment, the dance ended, the crowd erupting into polite applause.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she had already turned away, melting back into the throng.
Anger quickly replaced his shame. He strode after her, keeping his eyes on the pale pink color of her gown.
At last, he caught up to her, out on the veranda, the strains of music and laughter still echoing though the crisp evening air. They were blessedly alone.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling around towards him.
"Don't turn your back on me, Caroline—"
"You turned your back on me! Did you think I had forgotten you, bestowed my affections elsewhere? Do you think me so inconstant? I have been utterly alone without you!" She held her head high, chin thrust up in defiance.
So beautiful, even in anger.
"As have I!" he burst out. "I have loved none but you ever since I met you, Caroline! But tonight I had proof that staying away from you was a wise option. I saw you tonight with that young officer. He seemed altogether too familiar with you—"
Her laughter cut him short. Confused, he stepped back from her, glowering.
"I cannot believe it—you are jealous—of Tyler?" she giggled, covering her mouth with her hands in an attempt to compose herself. He continued to frown at her. "You have nothing to fear from him. He is my cousin, Nik."
She was not spoken for.
Relief coursed through his veins. All of the years spent away for her hand not been in vain.
There was still a chance.
Even as his body relaxed at her explanation, his mind tensed for an entirely different reason.
She had called him by his name, for the first time in two years.
Nik.
Hearing his name on her lips…he felt a familiar rush of affection towards her.
"You said my name," he murmured, closing the distance between them and tilting his head to observe her, an uncontained smile spreading over his features.
She bit her lip, then looked at him, her face blazing with vulnerability. "You said you loved me." It was a whisper.
Her body was trembling, her eyes searching his face.
He lifted his hand, grazing it gently against her cheek. "I have loved you." He brought his other hand up to frame her face. "I do love you." His thumbs rubbed soft circles against her skin as he leaned closer. "And I will love you. Always."
He brought his lips down lightly on hers, sealing his vows with a kiss.
A kiss that she soon returned, a little sigh escaping her lips as she slid her hands up his chest to wind around his neck, threading her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.
He knew not how long they remained in their embrace, two souls who had loved, lost, and found one another again. But too soon for his liking did she break away from him, though her face shone with that inner light he was so drawn too, simply beaming at him.
"I believe we should return to the ball before we are missed."
He nodded, recovering himself. But there was something still left unsaid by her, and he couldn't help but feel that sting of rejection as he silently took her arm, escorting her back to the ball.
Just before they reached the ballroom, her voice floated towards him, almost inaudibly, pitted against the roar of voices that echoed from the nearby hall.
"Nik?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
A brief pause. "I love you too."
Shocked, he stopped, looking down at her. His questioning stare was met by a brilliant smile.
She loved him.
Caroline loved him.
His damaged heart swelled within him. He knew that he was unworthy—an indisputable fact—but he vowed to himself then and there that he would devote the rest of his days to her happiness, erasing the suffering he had caused her one small day at a time.
Elated, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers once more, moving his lips fervently. Pulling back slightly, he whispered softly against her lips.
"Good."
One day I'm going to write a full-blown Regency-era Jane-Austen-esque fic..but for now this will do. Hope you enjoyed it and you can follow me Tumblr at klarolinessecondbreakfast