Emma's throat constricted. Charles, I love you. I need to say it again. I love you, Emma Ashford. I loved you when we were children. I loved you through 18 years of absence. And I'll love you for every day I have left on this earth, even if I never get to tell you again. Don't say that. Don't make this a goodbye.
It's not. Not yet. We still have 3 weeks. 3 weeks that will end with you standing at an altar beside someone else. I know, his voice cracked. I know. And it's killing me. But Emma, I'd rather have three weeks of this, of us, of truth, than a lifetime of wondering what it would have felt like to kiss you.
Emma closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the rawness of his confession. You're going to break my heart. I know. And you're going to break mine. And we're both going to survive it because we don't have a choice. That's not comforting. It's not meant to be. It's just true.
He kissed her forehead gently, the gesture achingly tender. Come on. I'll walk you home before the park fills with people. They left the bridge hand in hand, walking through the awakening park like ghosts. The paths began to fill. Servants walking dogs. Merchants heading to market. Early riders exercising horses.
Charles dropped her hand as they neared the gates, the distance between them growing with each step. By the time they reached the street, they were strangers again, two people who happened to be walking in the same direction. Nothing more.
But Emma could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers. Could still taste him. Could still feel the way his hands had cradled her face like she was something precious. I'll send word, Charles said quietly as they paused at the corner near her cousin's house. About when we can meet again. All right. Be careful, Emma. Beatrice is suspicious. She's been asking questions. Watching me. I will.
He looked at her one last time, a look so full of longing it hurt. Then he turned and walked away, his coat billowing behind him. Emma watched until he disappeared around a corner. Then she slipped into her cousin's house, her lips still tingling, her heart in pieces.
Two days passed before the next letter arrived. Two days during which Emma existed in a fog, replaying that kiss over and over. The feel of his hands. The taste of his lips. The way he'd held her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
When the letter came, it was delivered by a street urchin, a boy of perhaps 10, who pressed it into Emma's hand and disappeared before she could ask questions. The handwriting was different this time. Not Charles's bold strokes, but someone else's. Feminine. Elegant.