Emma knew what he was asking. Knew it was dangerous. Knew they were standing in a garden full of people who could appear at any moment. But she also knew that moments of truth were rare and precious. Yes, she whispered. Charles's hand cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. Emma's eyes fluttered closed, every nerve focused on that single point of contact.
I love you, he whispered. I need you to know that. Whatever happens, whatever you think, when this is over, I love you. I've loved you since I was 12 years old, and you promised to marry me, and I'll love you until I die. Tears slipped down Emma's cheeks. Charles caught them with his thumb, wiping them away with infinite care. I love you, too, she breathed. I always have.
For one perfect, impossible moment they stood there, his hand on her face, her tears falling freely, the truth finally spoken aloud. Then footsteps sounded on the path. Charles dropped his hand and stepped back, the distance between them suddenly vast. Lady Beatrice appeared, her expression sharp with suspicion. There you are, Charles. I've been looking everywhere. Miss Ashford. Her eyes narrowed at Emma's tear-stained face. Is everything quite all right?
Fine, Emma managed. Just allergies in January. Beatrice's smile was cold. How unfortunate. Perhaps you should go inside. Rest. You look positively exhausted. Leave. Go away. Stop existing. Perhaps you're right, Emma said quietly. She looked at Charles one last time, memorizing his face. Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Beatrice. Your grace.
She walked away before either of them could respond, found Margaret, made her excuses, left the Harrington estate with her dignity intact and her heart in pieces, and tried not to think about the fact that she'd just said I love you to a man she could never have.
Three days passed. Three days during which Emma didn't see Charles, didn't hear from him, existed in a state of suspended animation, waiting for something she couldn't name. She spent the hours translating manuscripts in her cousin's library, the work mechanical and numbing, Latin declensions, Greek conjugations, ancient words that meant nothing and everything. But her mind wasn't on the work. It was in that garden, replaying the moment over and over. His hand on her face. His voice breaking. I love you.
The words had burrowed under her skin, taken root somewhere deep. She couldn't shake them, couldn't forget the way he'd looked at her, like she was everything he wanted and nothing he could have. On the fourth day, a letter arrived. Emma recognized the handwriting immediately. Bold, precise strokes that spoke of control and careful education. No signature. No return address. Just three lines.
The British Museum, reading room, 2:00. Come alone, please. Emma's hands trembled as she folded the letter. Margaret was out making calls. The house was quiet. No one would notice if she slipped away. She shouldn't go. Knew it was dangerous. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing that would fuel the gossip already circulating about them. But the word please, written in his hand, raw and desperate, undid her. She went.
The British Museum was vast and echoing, filled with artifacts from civilizations long dead. Emma navigated the corridors with practiced ease, having spent countless hours here during her first weeks back in London. The reading room was circular and magnificent, shelves rising to an impossible height, a domed ceiling painted with clouds and sky, tables arranged in concentric circles. Scholars bent over books and papers. The air thick with the smell of leather and old paper.