She swept past Charles, pausing just long enough to whisper something Emma couldn't hear. Whatever it was made Charles's expression soften slightly. Then they were alone. You left, Charles said. The music was loud. It was terrible. Despite everything, Emma smiled. Yes, it was. Charles moved to the balustrade, maintaining a careful distance between them. But Emma could feel the pull of him like gravity.
Did Charlotte tell you about tomorrow? He asked quietly. The garden party. Yes. You don't have to come. I know. Beatrice invited you to make a point. To establish dominance. It's a power play, nothing more. I understand that. Charles finally looked at her, his eyes shadowed. Then why do I sense you're going to attend anyway? Emma met his gaze steadily. Because running away is what I've done for 18 years, and I'm tired of running.
Something like pride flickered across his face. It will be unpleasant. I expect so. Beatrice will use every opportunity to remind everyone that I'm hers. I know. And I'll have to, I'll have to play along. Smile. Touch her hand. Pretend. His voice roughened. Pretend she's the one I want to be standing next to. Emma's heart cracked a little more. I know. Then why put yourself through it? Because you'll be there. The admission came quietly, honestly. And 6 weeks isn't very long. I won't waste a day hiding when I could be in the same room as you.
Charles closed his eyes, his hands white-knuckled on the stone. You're going to destroy me, Emma Ashford. No, she said softly. We're going to destroy each other. But at least we'll do it honestly. He laughed, a broken, painful sound. There's a certain beauty in that, I suppose. Or a certain tragedy. Perhaps they're the same thing.
The terrace door opened again. Lady Beatrice's voice drifted out, sharp and searching. Charles, are you out here? Charles straightened immediately, his expression smoothing into that careful mask. I am. Just getting air. Beatrice appeared in the doorway, her eyes found Emma immediately, narrowing with something cold and calculating. Miss Ashford, she said pleasantly. How fortunate. I was hoping to speak with you.
Emma's spine stiffened. Lady Beatrice. I trust you received the invitation to tomorrow's gathering. I did. Thank you. Wonderful. It will be quite intimate. Just family and close friends. Beatrice's smile sharpened. I do hope you'll not feel out of place. The message was clear. You don't belong. But Emma had survived 18 years of not belonging. She could survive one more afternoon. I'm sure I'll manage, Emma said evenly.
Beatrice's eyes flickered with something, surprise perhaps, or annoyance, before her smile returned. Splendid. Charles, darling, they're serving champagne. Shall we? She extended her hand. Charles took it because he had to, because duty demanded it. But as he passed Emma, his fingers brushed hers so briefly it might have been an accident. Except Emma knew it wasn't. It was a promise. Tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow.
She watched them walk away together, arm in arm, the perfect picture of aristocratic coupling, and Emma remained on the terrace, alone in the dark, counting down the hours until she could be in the same room as him again, even if being near him was exactly what would break her.
The Harrington estate sat on the outskirts of London, sprawling and ostentatious in the way of new money trying to look old. Manicured gardens stretched in geometric precision, fountains burbled at calculated intervals, and every hedge was trimmed to within an inch of its life. Emma arrived precisely on time, her cousin Margaret beside her for moral support. The afternoon was unseasonably warm for January, winter sunlight filtering through bare tree branches. Other guests milled about the grounds, dressed in their finest afternoon wear, holding delicate teacups and speaking in hushed, elegant tones.