Emma's throat constricted. I'm sorry. Don't be. It wasn't your fault. Charles's hands curled into fists on the table. He was a cruel man. He believed that suffering built character. That love was a luxury the aristocracy couldn't afford. He made sure I understood that every action has consequences. That my choices affected hundreds of people. And that personal happiness was irrelevant compared to duty.
That's a terrible way to live. It's the only way I know. Charles met her gaze, his eyes hollow. He died hating me. Did I tell you that? His last words were about my failures. My weaknesses. The ways I'd disappointed him. Charles. And you know what the worst part is? Even dead, he controls me. Every decision I make, I hear his voice telling me what's expected. What's right. What a true duke would do. His voice dropped to a whisper. Sometimes I think I'll never be free of him.
Emma wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that he was his own man, that he could choose differently. But she understood the weight of legacy, the way the past wrapped around you like chains. What was your mother like? she asked, changing the subject gently. Charles's expression softened slightly. Kind. Gentle. Completely crushed by him. He paused. She lives in the Dower House now. Rarely comes to London. I think the city reminds her of too many unhappy years.
Does she know about, Emma hesitated. About us? No. I haven't told anyone except Ben. And he guessed more than I told him. Charles studied her. Would you want to meet her? The question caught Emma off guard. I don't think that's wise. Probably not. But I want her to know you exist. Want someone in my family to understand why I, he stopped, his jaw working. Why you what?
Why I'll never love Beatrice the way a husband should love his wife. The words settled over Emma like a shroud. She thought about Beatrice, cold, beautiful, calculating. Thought about Charles spending the rest of his life beside a woman he didn't love, fathering children with her, growing old in a house that would never feel like home. Maybe love will come, Emma offered weakly. With time. Do you believe that? No. Neither do I.
Charles leaned back, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. But it doesn't matter what I believe. The contracts are signed. The announcement will be made in 3 weeks. And then, and then you marry her. Yes. Emma forced herself to ask the question that had been haunting her. When is the wedding? April 15th. 3 and a half months. Less than 100 days.
That soon, Emma managed. Beatrice wanted it sooner. I convinced her family that a proper wedding requires time to plan. Charles's smile was bitter. In truth, I just wanted more time before, he couldn't finish. Emma understood. More time before his life became a cage he'd never escape.
They sat in silence, surrounded by the rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pens. The reading room felt like a sanctuary, a place outside of time where they could exist together without consequence. Emma, Charles said softly. Can I ask you something? Yes. If things were different. If I wasn't a duke. If you weren't, he struggled to find the words. If we were just two ordinary people, would you, would you want, yes, Emma interrupted. Whatever you're asking, the answer is yes.
Charles's eyes closed. A shudder ran through him, visible even from across the table. When he opened his eyes again, they were wet. I wish I could give you ordinary, he whispered. I wish I could be just a man. Not a title. Not a legacy. Not the sum of everyone else's expectations. Just myself. You are yourself right now. In this moment. That's enough. Is it? It has to be.