When I grow up, I'll marry you, she told the Duke. 18 years later, they met again at the turn of the year. England, December 31st, 1856. Rosewood Hall, 11:47 p.m. The conservatory smelled of damp earth and jasmine, a fragrance so sweet it bordered on melancholy. Emma Ashford stood alone among the ferns and climbing roses, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of a marble planter. The glass walls around her were fogged with condensation, turning the ballroom beyond into a blurred painting of golden light and swirling silhouettes.
She shouldn't be here. She should be inside, smiling politely at strangers, pretending she belonged. But the weight of too many eyes, curious, judgmental, sharp, had driven her out into the cold green sanctuary of the conservatory. Here, at least she could breathe. Her gown was pale blue silk, modest by the standards of the era, with long sleeves and a high neckline trimmed in ivory lace. Her blonde hair was pinned in soft waves at the nape of her neck, a few rebellious curls escaping to frame her face. She looked like a watercolor left out in the rain.
Emma closed her eyes. The sounds of the ballroom were muffled here. Violins, laughter, the rhythmic shuffle of dancing feet. She could almost pretend she was somewhere else, somewhere far from England, somewhere the name Ashford didn't carry the stench of scandal. But then the door opened. The creak of hinges cut through the stillness like a blade. Emma's eyes snapped open, her breath catching in her throat. She turned slowly, her heart pounding against the rigid boning of her corset.
A man stood in the doorway, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black tail coat that fit him like a second skin, every line sharp and deliberate. His cravat was perfectly knotted, his gloves charcoal gray, dark hair combed back with precision, a jaw that looked carved from stone, and eyes, God, his eyes, dark as winter nights, unreadable and fixed entirely on her. For a moment, neither of them moved. Emma's pulse roared in her ears. She knew she should speak, should apologize for intruding, should curtsy and excuse herself. But her body refused to obey because something in the way he looked at her, something in the stillness of his posture, the slight parting of his lips, felt like recognition.
Impossible. She didn't know this man, did she? He took a step forward. The sound of his polished boots against the stone floor echoed softly. His gaze never left her face, scanning her features with an intensity that made her skin flush hot beneath the layers of silk and linen. Emma, the word was barely a whisper. Rough, broken, as if it had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him. Her breath stopped. No one had called her that in years, not since she'd left England, not since she'd become Miss Ashford, the forgotten daughter, the exile.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She stared at him, her mind racing, trying to place the face, the voice, the way he said her name like a prayer. And then, oh God. Then she saw it. The faint scar above his left eyebrow. The way his jaw tightened when he was holding something back, the shadow of a boy she'd once known, hidden beneath the armor of a man who'd learned not to feel. Charles. His name tasted like summer nights and broken promises, like childhood and loss and something she'd buried so deep she'd almost convinced herself it was a dream.
He didn't answer. He just stood there frozen, his hands curling into fists at his sides, the muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice, and then his eyes, those impossibly dark eyes, dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. I thought you were dead, he said quietly. The words hit her like a physical blow. Emma flinched, her hand gripping the edge of the planter for balance. I, no, I've been, I've been in France for 18 years. Yes. Silence, heavy and suffocating. The jasmine suddenly smelled too sweet, cloying, like flowers left too long in a sealed room.
Charles took another step closer, then another. The space between them shrank until she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the exhaustion carved into his face like something he wore instead of sleep. You disappeared, he said, his voice low and dangerous. One day you were there, the next. Nothing. No letters. No word. I searched for you for years, Emma, and you were just, what? Hiding in France? I wasn't hiding, she whispered, though the lie tasted bitter. My family was disgraced. I know. His tone was clipped, controlled, but she heard the fracture beneath it. Your father's debts, the scandal. I know all of it.
Then you understand why I couldn't stay. No. He shook his head, his gaze burning into hers. I don't. Emma's throat tightened. She wanted to look away, to run, to do anything but stand here under the weight of his stare. But she couldn't move because 18 years ago she'd made him a promise, a foolish, impossible, childish promise. When I grow up, I'll marry you. And now, standing in this conservatory on the last night of the year, she realized he hadn't forgotten. Neither had she.