Emma scanned the room, found him. Charles sat at a table near the back, partially hidden by a column. He wore simple clothes, no tail coat, no cravat, just a dark shirt and waistcoat. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it repeatedly. He looked younger like this, less like a duke and more like the boy she'd known.
He glanced up as she approached. Relief flooded his face. You came, he said quietly. You asked me to. I wasn't sure you would. After the garden party. After, he stopped, his jaw tightening. Emma sat across from him, the table a barrier and a bridge between them. After we said things that can't be unsaid. Yes.
She looked at him, really looked. The shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. The tension in his shoulders spoke of a man at war with himself. Why did you ask me here? she asked softly. Charles glanced around, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear. Because I needed to see you. To talk to you. Without Beatrice hovering. Without a dozen pairs of eyes watching. Without pretending I feel nothing.
Charles, let me finish. Please. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. The last 3 days have been hell. Smiling at Beatrice. Planning a wedding I don't want. Pretending everything is fine while I, he stopped, swallowing hard. While I think about you constantly. While I relive that moment in the garden. While I torture myself imagining what my life could have been if circumstances were different.
Emma's chest tightened. This isn't fair to either of us. I know. But I had to see you. Even if it's just for an hour. Even if we're surrounded by strangers and can't touch. I just, I needed to be near you. The desperation in his voice broke something in Emma. She wanted to reach across the table, to take his hand, to offer comfort, but they were in public, already conspicuous.
Tell me about France, Charles said suddenly. Tell me what your life was like. I want to know everything I missed. Emma blinked, surprised by the request. Why? Because I've spent 18 years imagining. And I need to know the truth. Need to understand who you became when I wasn't there to see it.
So she told him about the small cottage outside Lyon where she'd lived with her grandmother, about learning to speak French without an accent, to think in languages that weren't her own, about the manuscripts she'd translated, philosophical treatises, botanical texts, poetry so old the ink had faded to ghosts. She told him about the loneliness, the way she'd felt suspended between two worlds, belonging to neither. The nights she'd stood at her window looking toward England, wondering if he'd forgotten her.
Charles listened with absolute attention, his eyes never leaving her face. Occasionally, he'd ask a question, quiet, thoughtful, revealing how carefully he was listening. Were you happy? he asked finally. Emma considered the question. I was peaceful. Content, perhaps. But happy? She shook her head. No, I don't think I've been truly happy since I was 7 years old. Neither have I.
The admission hung between them, honest and devastating. What about you? Emma asked. What happened after I left? Charles's expression darkened. My father intensified his training. He was furious when your family disappeared. Said it proved that sentimentality was weakness. That caring about people outside one's station led to nothing but disappointment. He laughed bitterly. He used you as an example for years. The foolish boy who'd attached himself to a girl from a disgraced family. The lesson about keeping one's heart properly guarded.