The musical that evening was exactly as Emma expected. Tedious. Overwrought. And packed with London's elite. The Pembridge House glittered with candlelight, every surface polished to perfection. Women in jewels and silk clustered in groups, whispering behind fans. Men gathered near the refreshment tables, discussing politics and horses and other masculine concerns. Emma arrived with her cousin, Lady Margaret, who'd been delighted, if slightly scandalized, by the invitation.
You've caused quite a stir, you know, Margaret whispered as they entered. Everyone wants to know who you are, where you came from, what your intentions are regarding the Duke. I have no intentions, Emma said quietly. Perhaps you should develop some before Lady Beatrice develops intentions regarding you. Emma's stomach knotted. She scanned the room, looking for and found him. Charles stood near the piano dressed in impeccable evening wear, dark coat, ivory waistcoat, cravat tied with mathematical precision. He looked every inch the Duke now, composed, controlled, untouchable.
But when their eyes met across the crowded room, Emma saw the truth beneath the facade. He looked exhausted, haunted, like a man barely holding himself together. Lady Beatrice stood beside him, her hand possessive on his arm. She was stunning in midnight blue silk, diamonds glittering at her throat. She leaned close to Charles, saying something that made him nod politely, but his eyes never left Emma's.
The performance began. Some soprano singing an aria Emma didn't recognize. She found a seat near the back, half hidden behind a column. From here she could observe without being too conspicuous. Charles sat in the front row, Beatrice beside him. Throughout the performance, Beatrice touched him. Small, casual gestures. A hand on his sleeve. Fingers brushing his shoulder. Proprietary touches that declared ownership. Charles endured them with the patience of a man accustomed to being handled. Emma's chest ached. This was his future. This woman with her diamond-hard beauty and calculated touches. This performance of affection without feeling.
The aria ended. Applause filled the room. Emma used the distraction to slip out onto the terrace. A different terrace. A different night. But the same cold darkness. She'd been there less than a minute when she heard footsteps behind her. You're making a habit of this, Charlotte Pembridge said, appearing beside her. Escaping to terraces. Emma managed to smile. Fresh air helps. Does it? I find it usually just gives one more time to think. And thinking is often the enemy of peace.
Charlotte studied her with those sharp green eyes. He can't stop looking at you, you know. Who? Don't play coy, Miss Ashford. The Duke. Every time Lady Beatrice speaks to him, his eyes drift to wherever you are. It's quite distracting, actually. I don't think he heard a single note of that aria. Emma's hands gripped the stone balustrade. He’s engaged. Technically. But technically isn't the same as irrevocably. Charlotte moved to stand beside her, both of them staring out at the dark gardens. My father knows the Duke well. He says Charles has been miserable for years. Beautiful, yes. Responsible, certainly. But miserable.
And then last night at our New Year's ball, something changed. For the first time in years, my father said Charles looked like he had something to lose. That's not, I'm not, you don't have to explain anything to me, Charlotte said gently. I'm not here to judge. I'm here because I think you might need a friend. And possibly a warning. Emma's stomach dropped. What kind of warning? Lady Beatrice is hosting a garden party tomorrow afternoon at the Harrington estate. It's meant to be an informal introduction of Charles to her extended family. A preview of married life, so to speak.
I see. You're invited. She made sure of it. Emma turned to stare at Charlotte. Why would she invite me? Because she wants to humiliate you. Charlotte's voice was matter-of-fact. She wants everyone to see that Charles belongs to her, that you're nothing more than a momentary curiosity, a childhood friend with delusions of relevance. Then I won't go. That's one option. The safe option. Charlotte tilted her head. Or you could go. You could show her that you're not afraid. That you have just as much right to be there as anyone.
I'm not brave enough for that. Aren't you? You came back to England after 18 years. You walked into a ballroom full of people who judged you before you opened your mouth. You stood on a terrace with a duke and didn't apologize for existing. Charlotte smiled. You're braver than you think, Emma Ashford. Before Emma could respond, the terrace door opened. Charles stepped through. He stopped when he saw Charlotte, his jaw tightening. Lady Charlotte. Your grace. Charlotte curtsied, amused. I was just keeping Miss Ashford company. But I see you have that well in hand now. I'll leave you to it.