Emma woke to gray light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment she didn't remember where she was, didn't recognize the high ceiling, the rose-patterned wallpaper, the heavy furniture that spoke of old money and older tastes. Then it came flooding back. The ball, the conservatory, Charles, 6 weeks. She sat up slowly, her body aching from the rigid corseting and the late hour she'd kept. Her cousin's townhouse was quiet, the household still asleep. The clock on the mantle read 7.
Emma rose and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain. London stretched before her, gray and cold under a winter sky. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys. Carriages rattled over cobblestones. The city was waking, indifferent to the small dramas playing out in ballrooms and conservatories. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, trying to organize the chaos in her mind. What had she agreed to? 6 weeks of honesty with a man she barely knew anymore. 6 weeks of stolen moments and impossible feelings. 6 weeks that would end with him marrying someone else while she, while she what? Returned to France? Found some quiet corner of the world where she could pretend none of this had happened?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Miss Emma, her cousin's maid, a young woman named Sarah, peeked in. You're awake early. Shall I bring breakfast? Just tea, please. I'm not very hungry. Sarah's eyes were bright with barely contained curiosity. There's already talk below stairs, miss, about last night. About you? And, she stopped herself, biting her lip. About me and the Duke of Winterborne, Emma finished quietly. Yes, miss. They're saying, well, they're saying all sorts of things. I imagine they are.
Sarah hesitated. For what it's worth, miss, I think it's romantic. A childhood promise reunited after all these years. It's like something from a novel. Novels have happy endings, Sarah. Life rarely does. The maid's face fell. No, miss, I suppose not. After Sarah left, Emma dressed herself, a simple day gown of dove gray wool, modest and unremarkable. She pinned her blonde hair into a neat chignon, studying her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, pale, like someone who hadn't slept properly in 18 years.
She was halfway through her tea when another knock came. Miss Emma. Sarah again, slightly breathless. You have a caller. Emma's heart lurched. At this hour? He said it was urgent. He, Emma set down her teacup with trembling hands. Show him to the drawing room. I'll be down in a moment. She took her time descending the stairs, using the minutes to steady herself. It couldn't be Charles. He wouldn't call so early, so publicly. It would be scandalous, even by his standards.
But when she entered the drawing room, Charles was exactly who she found. He stood by the window, still in evening clothes, wrinkled now, his cravat loosened, his hair disheveled as if he'd run his hands through it repeatedly. He looked like a man who hadn't slept, who'd walked the streets all night wrestling with demons. Charles, Emma breathed. What are you doing here? He turned at the sound of her voice. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollow with exhaustion. I couldn't stay away. People will see your carriage outside. I walked. You walked? Emma stared at him. From Mayfair to Bloomsbury in evening dress at dawn. I needed to clear my head.
He moved toward her, his steps unsteady. And then I found myself here outside your cousin's house like my feet knew where I needed to be, even when my mind didn't. Emma's chest tightened. Charles, you can't. We agreed to be discreet. I know. I know what we agreed. But Emma, his voice cracked. Last night after I left you on that terrace, I went back inside. I danced with Beatrice. I smiled and nodded and played the part of the dutiful fiancé. And the entire time, all I could think about was you standing in the cold, wearing my coat, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Emma's hands twisted in her skirt. Charles, let me finish. Please. He ran a hand through his hair, destroying what remained of its order. I went home, tried to sleep. Couldn't. All I saw when I closed my eyes was your face. All I heard was your voice saying you wouldn't forget. And I realized, he stopped, his throat working. I realized that 6 weeks isn't enough. It will never be enough. Because how do you say goodbye to someone who feels like coming home?
Tears burned behind Emma's eyes. You're tired. You're not thinking clearly. I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years. He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the night on him. Cold air and exhaustion and something desperate. Tell me you don't feel it. Tell me I'm alone in this and I'll walk away. I'll honor the agreement. I'll marry Beatrice and never bother you again. Charles, please. Tell me, Emma.