She guided him to the sofa, sat beside him. Neither spoke for a long moment. Just breathed. Just existed in the same space without pretense. I'm sorry, Charles said finally, his voice rough. For falling apart. For, don't apologize. Emma's hand found his face, thumb brushing away the last traces of tears. Don't ever apologize for being honest with me.
He leaned into her touch, eyes closing. I've spent so long holding everything in. Pretending I was fine. Strong. Unbreakable. His voice cracked. I forgot what it felt like to just feel. Then feel now. With me. No more walls. Charles opened his eyes. In them, Emma saw exhaustion and hope warring for dominance.
Ben showed you the documents. He did. And, and he said, if the fraud can be proven, the debts become manageable. You wouldn't need Beatrice's dowry. It's not guaranteed. The investigation could take months. We'd have to go through courts. Challenge powerful men who won't want their cheating exposed. Charles's jaw tightened. And even if we win, there will be consequences. Social consequences. Political consequences.
I know. Do you? He turned to face her fully, his expression intense. Emma, if I break this engagement, the Harrington family will destroy me. They have connections everywhere. Parliament. The courts. Society. They'll spread rumors. Question my honor. Make sure every door in London closes in my face. Then we'll go somewhere else.
Where? The countryside. I'd be abandoning London society completely. Would that be so terrible? The question seemed to surprise him. Charles stared at her, something flickering in his expression. I, I don't know. I've never considered it. Of course you haven't. Because you've spent your entire life doing what's expected. What your father demanded. What society requires.
Emma took his hand, lacing their fingers together. But Charles, what do you want? Not what's dutiful or honorable or proper. What do you actually want? He looked at their joined hands, at the contrast of her pale skin against his, at the simple perfect rightness of it. You, he whispered. I want you. I want to wake up beside you. I want to hear your voice first thing in the morning. I want to argue with you about books and watch you work on translations and grow old knowing that every day you chose to stay.
His voice grew rough. I want the life we should have had if the world hadn't torn us apart. Emma's chest ached. Then take it. It's not that simple. Why not? Because wanting something doesn't make it right. Doesn't make it responsible. And sacrificing your entire life to duty does. Emma's voice sharpened.
Charles, listen to yourself. You're so convinced that happiness is selfish that you've forgotten it's possible. You've made suffering into a virtue. That's not fair. Isn't it? Your father spent his whole life miserable. He made everyone around him miserable. And now he's dead. And you're perpetuating his legacy by choosing the same path. Emma squeezed his hand. When does it end? When do you get to choose yourself?
Charles pulled away, standing abruptly. He paced to the window, his reflection ghostly in the dark glass. You make it sound so simple, he said tightly. As if love conquers all. As if wanting something badly enough makes it right. I'm not saying it's simple. I'm saying it's worth fighting for. And what happens when the fight costs more than we can pay? When my tenants suffer because I chose my happiness over their security? When my mother loses her home because I broke a contract?